#another man's jeans by ashe!!! song of the century!!!

[leviabeat]

The story of Volbeat’s Outlaw Gentlemen & Shady Ladies album

By Dave Everley | Metal Hammer | June 2013

Full Article ⬇️

Born from the ashes of death metal band Dominus, Volbeat’s mix of metal and rock’n’roll caught the attention of the world – and Metallica frontman James Hetfield in particular. As the Danes geared up to release their fifth album, Outlaw Gentlemen & Shady Ladies, in 2013, mainman Michael Poulsen told Hammer about the personal loss that drove the band.

Michael Poulsen has a tattoo on the back of his hand that reads ‘Little E’. It’s one of countless pieces of ink on a body that’s no stranger to the tattooist’s needle, and like all the other designs that adorn every square inch of visible flesh below the Volbeat frontman’s neckline, there’s a story behind it.

“We were on tour with Metallica, and one day James Hetfield comes in our dressing room looking for me,” he says. “He said, ‘Where’s Little E?’ Our drummer, Jon, went, ‘Who’s Little E?’ And James said, ‘Little E. Little Elvis, man’.”

Up until this point, Michael had been engrossed in a film on his laptop, headphones on, oblivious to the fact that the Metallica frontman was hunting for him. The next thing he knew, Hetfield was looming over him, brandishing a gift for the singer of his new favourite band.

“He’d bought a painting of Elvis and written on the back, ‘To Little E, here’s Big E, with love and respect, James Hetfield.’ That was a really cool gift. So when I came home, I got ‘Little E’ tattooed here. Why not? That’s what tattoos are about: stories. I want something to remember.”

That he says this with no small degree of pride shouldn’t come as a surprise. His band have spent 12 years carving out a place for themselves as the missing link between Elvis Presley and Metallica, channeling the outlaw spirits of both of those iconic acts into a gas-guzzling noise that distills metal, rockabilly, country and western and shit-kicking rock’n’roll.

The hard work has paid off. Their record label are expecting the album to go straight to No.1 in Denmark, while a series of electrifying live shows and festival appearances have sent their profile skyrocketing in Britain and America. The patronage of the world’s biggest metal band hasn’t done them any harm, either.

“It was inspiring to see how Metallica worked,” says Michael. “I had Metallica posters in room as a kid, even before I had my first guitar. And then, years later, you’re on the road with them. I had to ask myself, ‘Is this real?’”

You can read plenty about Volbeat in the title of their fifth album, Outlaw Gentlemen & Shady Ladies. It’s a phrase that evokes another time altogether, an era when elegant lawbreakers were the rock stars of the day. It’s a celebration of the bad men (and women) of the Old West and the old-school metal bands who influenced the young Michael Poulsen to form his first band, Dominus, back in the early 90s.

Today, sitting in his management’s office on one of Copenhagen’s main drags, the frontman looks every inch the rebel: greased back black hair, black T-shirt, black jeans, black shoes. His speaking voice is low and quiet, a world away from the wolverine howl of his singing voice.

“I’d just isolate myself in my living room, in total darkness,” he says of the writing process for the new album. “I’d watch a lot of Italian spaghetti westerns – Once Upon A Time In The West, those kind of films. Sometimes it’s just about the right feeling – the scenery, the lines, the dusty look. I have my own soundtrack when I see those kind of pictures.”

These cinematic influences paid off. Volbeat’s new album is as vivid and colourful as the tattoos on their singer’s arms. A parade of characters march through its songs, some real, some fictional, some supernatural. The galloping Pearl Hart is the tale of a real-life 19th century stagecoach robber; The Nameless One sets Tarot cards, time travel and a sinister, cane-carrying antagonist to an steel-plated backdrop; Doc Holiday celebrates one of the more marginal characters of the Wild West, lacing its old school metal groove with some nifty banjos.

The most personal track on the album, Dead But Rising, takes a very real figure as its starting point and turns it into something more spiritual. Jørn Poulsen, Michael’s father, was an amateur boxer and a fan of Elvis Presley, and he passed a love of both onto his son. When he died four years ago, his son promised to make a pilgrimage to Elvis’s home, Graceland, in his memory.

“I was driving to Mississippi, where Elvis was born, when the navigation in the rental car just went out,” says Michael. “Then I noticed an eagle that had been following the car for a while. I said, ‘What is it with that eagle? Is my father trying to tell me something?’ I got emotional about it and I decided to follow the eagle. And that’s what Dead But Rising is all about – it’s about me, today, trying to reach out for that eagle. I said, ‘When I come home, I’m gonna get that eagle tattooed on my hand as a memory.”

He nods to another pair of tattoos on his hands: one is an eagle, the other is his dad’s name. “My dad had this eagle tattooed across his chest,” he says with quiet pride.

Like everything on the album, there’s a clarity and muscle to the track. This is in part down to new recruit Rob Caggiano, who co-produced the album with longtime Volbeat associate Jacob Hansen. Until very recently, Caggiano was a member of Anthrax. Then, in January, it was announced that he was quitting the thrash titans. His reasons were vague, though he admitted that “Anthrax was never a creative outlet for me.” A month later, he announced that he would be parlaying his production gig with Volbeat into a full time job as guitarist.

Today, Rob's cautious when it comes to the subject of his old band versus his new one. “There’s been a bit of a misconception,” he says. “When I put out the press release about leaving Anthrax, it wasn’t really about me wanting to stop touring. I thought it’d take a little time to figure out my next move as a guitar player, and that the producing thing would be the perfect way to bridge that gap. A lot of people read into that the wrong way.”

Is Volbeat a permanent thing?

“Yes,” he says, no hesitation.

It’s ironic that a man who left an outfit he claims he felt “stifled” in Anthrax ended up joining Volbeat. Without actually saying it, Michael Poulsen makes it clear that he’s the boss of this band. “I write all the material,” he says firmly at one point, while bassist Anders Kjølholm and drummer Jon Larsen are noticeable by their absence today. But then every band needs its leader, and Poulsen is Volbeat’s James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich rolled into one.

You have to admire his ambition and his will to succeed. Denmark is hardly a hotbed of metal: aside from Lars Ulrich, the only other artists of note to emerge from this small, damp but utterly charming country were Mercyful Fate and their sometime leader King Diamond. Indeed the latter even crops up on one track, the characteristically theatrical Room 24, a song based on an experience Michael had when he awoke in a hotel room in the middle of the night to find himself unable to move and feeling like someone – or something – was sitting on his chest, the latter presence voiced by the King himself.

“Michael is a fan of Mercyful Fate – he even has a Mercyful Fate tattoo,” says King, speaking from his home in Dallas. “I met him a couple of years ago, and we became very good friends very quickly. He approached me to sing on the track, and said, ‘It would be super cool if you were interested.’ I don’t really do that for anyone any more, my voice is very difficult to handle for other people. Michael’s very Danish, like I am – does things his way.”

The presence of King Diamond tells you as much about where Michael Poulsen is coming from as all the quiffs and Elvis tattoos. For all their retro stylings, they’ve got a metal heart – the frontman started his musical career as a teenager in the death metal band Dominus, who released four albums during the 90s, the third of which was titled Vol.Beat (a portmanteau of the words ‘Volume’ and ‘Beat’). Michael still cites Slayer as a major inspiration, alongside Mercyful Fate and, of course, their unofficial mentors in Metallica.

“When I was growing up, my dad and mum played a lot of old records – Fats Domino, Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry,” says Michael. “I love that stuff – it’s a drug somehow. My own record collection growing up was metal. But I listen to a lot of different styles of music. If something moves you, I don’t care what it is.”

Elvis Presley, and James Hetfield, would be proud.

Originally published in Metal Hammer issue 244

[bruhlsbees]

i'm going in tonight || modern!alex kerner x fem!reader

summary: you end up at the club while your friend is on a date and find yourself company with alex - one thing leads to another and the two of you end up in a stall in the bathroom.

pairing: modern!alex kerner x fem!reader

warnings: public sex, club bathroom sex, nsfw, 18+, minors dni

word count: 2787

a/n: based on starboi3 and doja cat's song 'dick' (idk y'all this song got me freaky and thinkin of modern!alex) - probably bad smut writing i'm still new at this shit

The heavy bass of the band playing on stage vibrated the club’s main sitting room - drinks left on the bar spilling as the weak plastic cups bounced and tipped, spilling along the counter and onto laps. Those who lost their poor drinks to the obnoxious bass erupted in yelps that led to laughing, dollars slapping on the counter for refills as the bartender frantically filled cups up.

To say you were bored was an understatement, you were completely displeased with the idea of sitting in the club on a Saturday night with a lame band playing, all because your friend wanted to meet with a guy and didn’t want to go alone. There were promises of a friend being there for you to talk with, but you weren’t thrilled with that. It had been over an hour and there were no signs of this ‘friend’.

Watching your friend from the barstool, laughing and grinding up on the guy she met up with, you could only roll your eyes and toss your head back, downing your drink before swiveling the stool around, holding up a couple bills for your next drink. The one thing you could admit you were enjoying was the discounted drinks - whether they were bad or not.

When the brown drink slid in front of you, you yelled a thanks to the bartender, hoping he would hear you over the music before taking a swig, wincing at the burn before setting the cup back down, leaning over to dig into your back pocket for the carton of cigarettes you brought along with you. Cracking open the carton, you pulled one out and set the carton in front of you before lighting the smoke, taking a long inhale before tilting your head back, exhaling the smoke up above you.

You knew it was going to be a long night, you wouldn’t doubt it if your friend kept you all night with her until the very end when she would tell you at the last minute that she would be going home with him...it wouldn’t have been the first time. Although sometimes you couldn’t blame her, it wasn’t like she was doing this all on purpose - you’d rather be bored and with her in case something happens than at home and the worst unfolds.

Nonetheless, you could only hope that the night would end soon.

While you silently prayed, it seemed like none were answered. One drink became two and soon you found yourself four drinks in, buzzed and groaning over the loud music. You had smoked more cigarettes than you would have liked, but at least you were having a semi-good time.

You were shocked though that no creep had bothered you all night. It wasn’t common to be in the 21st century and not have someone try and hit on you at least once at a club. Perhaps it was your demeanour you could thank for that. Or maybe you were being creeped on, and you just hadn’t noticed because you were too busy in your own thoughts.

The figure at the end of the bar shifted, catching your attention out of the corner of your eye as they made their way closer towards you, sliding onto the stool besides you. Letting out an annoyed sigh, you blew out the last bit of your smoke before crushing it in the ashtray, turning to look at who was attempting to get friendly with you, ready to tell the douche to shove off and go find someone else to bother.

You were pleasantly surprised, however, to see a rather nice looking guy, around your age, now sitting beside you, a crooked smile on his face. He was wearing a striped blue shirt with a jean jacket, you noted how his hair was messy - as if he had been running his hands through his hair. He was cute, that much was obvious.

“Hi!” He yelled over the music, his darker eyes twinkling as they caught the light of the set on stage. “I was wondering if I could bum a smoke off you?” He asked, motioning towards the carton in front of you.

Catching yourself staring too long, you quickly fumbled at the carton in front of you, flipping the lid open before pulling one out and handing it to him, smiling as he yelled out a ‘thank you’.

You watched as he pulled out his own lighter, lighting the smoke before turning his attention to the main floor, shaking his head as a laugh escaped his lips. You felt him lean over closer to you, motioning towards the floor, “You get dragged with your friend too?” He asked in your ear, the scent of tobacco and liquor filling your nose.

Nodding, you laughed and pointed towards your friend who was still dancing with her date, “Yeah! She’s the one in the pink dress dancing with the tall bloke,” You shook your head and leaned back against the counter, picking up your drink and taking a sip, your eyes not leaving your friend. “I was told that he had a friend...although I have yet to meet this said ‘friend’. I’m wondering if he was smart and stayed home!”

At first you didn’t notice the smile that crept on the strange man’s face. You had turned your back to your friend again to pull out your own cigarette, stopping with the unlit smoke between your lips as the man turned towards you.

“Not the smartest. He was told that there would be a ‘friend’ as well, but haven’t got the chance to meet her yet.” While the comment had no other meaning behind it, the tone insinuated that the stranger did in fact know that you were ‘the friend’ and it had taken him almost the entire damn night to realize.

You knew that if he were anyone else you probably would have gotten up and left, been annoyed that your friend’s date’s friend finally made an appearance. But Jesus, the man was wearing an outfit that screamed ‘hi, i’ll have your parents fall in love with me on the first introduction’ and he had the stupidest crooked grin that made you melt in your seat.

So there you were, laughing at the confession as it finally hit you. “You? You’re the friend?” You shook your head as you lightly shoved his arm, grinning as he laughed back, “You’ve been sitting in that corner all night! Why didn’t you come over and say hi?”

He shrugged his shoulders and finished off his smoke, crushing the butt into the ashtray before rubbing his fingers together to get the ash off his skin, “Maybe I got cold feet?”

You couldn’t hold back your eyes from rolling, shaking your head before you looked back at him, “Give me a break. You? Cold feet? I don’t buy that.”

And then he blushed. The man actually blushed. You had to admit, the innocence that washed over him sent butterflies into your stomach, not expecting the mystery man to get all flustered. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was the smokes, but either way, something flipped a switch in you.

After a moment of debating, hearing the band end their song and kick in with another, you finally got the guts to ask. Clearing your throat, you motioned towards the exit, heading out of the main room, “You wanna get out of here?”

You wouldn’t of been upset, or surprised, if the stranger turned you down - after all, he was just that, a stranger...but he must have been in the same hazy state of mind as you, because the next thing you remember is leading the way out of the busy room and out into the hall, tugging him by the front of his shirt into the restroom.

It didn’t take long for your lips to be on his, sloppy open-mouthed kisses as you stumbled through the bathroom and into the bigger stall at the end. The stranger frantically tried to lock the door behind the both of you, not wanting to pull away from the kiss, but you could hear the grunts of frustration come from him and took matters into your own hand.

Running your hand down his arm, you felt his hand and the lock, clicking it shut before pulling away for a moment, catching your breath as you stared into his eyes - his pupils equally blown as your own, “Was it that hard?” You teased, lips plumped from the kiss.

You let out a squeak as he suddenly grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you up, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to the opened baby changing station, laying you on the half-sturdy table, pulling back long enough to feel your hands pushing his shirt up enough to find his belt.

“Alex.” He said suddenly, watching as you sat up enough to tug his belt off and unzip his jeans. You looked up and frowned in confusion, “Pardon?”

He could only laugh, feeling his jeans sink down his thighs, groaning at the feel of your hands wrapping around his hardening dick, pulling it out of his boxers. With a shaky breath, his head lulled back for a moment before the sudden tug brought his attention back.

“Alex! My name, my name is Alex.” He stuttered out, his chest heaving as you continued to stroke his cock, a smile on your face.

Repeating his name, your free hand found his cheek, running your fingers along his jaw before along his lips, blushing faintly at the feeling of him kissing your fingers that he could catch between his lips. When you gave him your own name, he repeated it back, much as you did, before moving his hands from your thighs up and under your dress, running his fingers along the bottom of your underwear, moaning at the feeling of the soaked fabric.

Biting down on your lip, you closed your eyes and squeezed his dick when his fingers sank into you, gasping as he curled them deep inside of you before slowly pumping his fingers in and out of you.

“O-Oh! Alex…” You felt your body fall forward against his, your toes curling as your heels sank into his back, pulling him closer to you until he stumbled practically on you, catching himself before his weight brought the entire table you were sitting on down.

You couldn’t help but laugh, watching as he pulled his head up and smiled at you. You smiled back, leaning forward to give him a quick kiss before feeling his fingers slide out of you, gripping the side of the table next to your head while his other hand grabbed his dick, lining himself up at your entrance before pushing himself deeply in, the two of you moaning in unison.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to adjust, because only seconds later he was rocking into you, the table shaking as the bass from the band vibrated against the walls, a humming echo filling the bathroom with your moans and the slapping of skin.

When he was in you, he tugged your underwear to the side to bottom out in you, letting the fabric rest against the side of his dick as he continued to rut inside of you, his movements becoming erratic as he felt himself quickly reach his climax.

You couldn’t blame him for not lasting as long as you would have wished. Given the circumstance the two of you were in, you knew you couldn’t have a passionate night of love making because someone would eventually come in to go to the bathroom. You took what you could get and in that moment, it was a quickie in the handicapped stall of the bathroom.

“I-I don’t know how much longer I can last.” He panted, his lips against your neck, kissing and sucking at the delicate flesh - leaving marks that you knew would be seen the next day.

Shaking your head, you gripped his shoulders, clenching around him to the point he was a moaning mess in the crook of your neck, “It’s fine, Alex! Really!” And you meant it, you weren’t mad at all.

Alex nodded his head, accepting your answer to be truthful before he pulled back, gripping your legs to hike them up higher until he was pounding into you, sweat dripping from his forehead as his clammy hands stuck to your thighs. The temperature from the venue was not in your favor that evening as the two of you practically stuck together from the sweat.

After four more deep pumps into you, Alex grunted hard and let out a long exhale, finishing off in you as his legs shook, leaning against the table to keep him from falling. Surprisingly you weren’t far behind him. You thought that the quickie wouldn’t get you off and you’d have to relieve yourself later that night - but you were wrong. You were seeing stars and laid still once it was all over to catch your breath.

When Alex finally caught his breath, he slowly pulled out of you, groaning softly before tucking himself back into his boxers and pulling his jeans up, doing his zipper and belt and pulling his shirt back down. You, on the other hand, wiped the sweat from your forehead, sitting up and adjusting your soiled underwear, making a mental note that you’d have to take a shower when you go home.

As the two of you finished getting semi-ready again, you noticed Alex smiling at you, causing you to blush and smile back. “I don’t...I’ve never done that before...hookup like this. I promise whatever came over me is not normal.”

Watching you tuck your hair nervously behind your ear, Alex could only smile and shake his head, “No, no don’t worry. I enjoyed it - would have either way.”

He bent down and kissed your cheek, leaning back and pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and motioned to you, “Maybe...maybe I could get your number?”

Looking at his phone, then up at him, you grinned cheekily and nodded, taking his phone from his hand before typing your number in, sending yourself a text before handing his phone back to him. You pulled your phone out from your own pocket and smiled at the text of a simple kissing emoji before adding his number into your phone, sending him the same emoji back.

You adored the sound of his innocent laugh, shaking his head before he stuffed his phone back into his pocket, taking your hands and helping you off the table, adjusting your dress for you and looking at you contently, “I...I enjoyed myself, maybe we could meet again sometime?”

“Yes, yes, I would like that.” You were about to go in for another kiss when you felt your phone buzz, jolting you before you dug into your pocket, pulling out your phone to see that your friend had texted you.

‘Hey! Couldn’t find you - just wanted to let you know I’m going back home with him...don’t wait up! Xoxo’

Shaking your head, you motioned your phone towards Alex as you let out a weak laugh, “She strikes again...going home with the boy.” You explained, keeping your hands rested in the pockets of your dress.

Alex must have gotten the same text, before when he looked at his phone, he rolled his eyes and put his phone away, “And he strikes again...going home with the girl.” He mimicked, leaning against the bathroom wall.

Part of you wanted to be mad, for being dragged out tonight, but you knew that if you hadn’t been, you probably wouldn’t have met Alex - and you wouldn’t have had the infamous bathroom quickie.

You didn’t want the night to end, as you were enjoying Alex’s company. Nudging his arm, you motioned towards the door, “I’m not too far from here. If you want to come over...you can crash at my place. No pressure though.” You assured, waiting for his answer.

His frowned turned up and into the cheeky innocent smile that you had seen all night, the butterflies returning to your stomach. With a nod, he grabbed your hand and led the way out of the bathroom before switching roles and letting you lead them out of the venue and outside, into the night and down the street towards your home.

When you got to your place, the two of you found yourself in a similar position as before, this time in the comfort of your own bed, and went on until the sun came up before falling asleep in one another’s arms.

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

Agrotera

     Based off this post . I also started a companion piece to it about Apollo doing music therapy with the girls and his redemption arc for all his problematic rapey actions in the past, so I can post that too if you’re interested. 

     Artemis doesn’t quite remember when Apollo traded his golden bow for something smaller, sleeker, easier to conceal and faster to fire, but she’ll never get used to the gleam of the pistol at his hip, and she’ll never relinquish her prized silver bow. She worked too hard to perfect her skill with it over the long millenia, brought down too many enemies with it, and cried out in a hunter’s triumph when her arrows struck true. She still uses the hand-draw technique like the archers of old, eschews the use of a quiver because they’re clumsy and slow her down when she’s in pursuit. Easier to hold her arrows in the hand that holds the bowstring.

    Archery is an art that’s been lost over time to cheap trick-shots and Hollywood inaccuracies. But she’s a goddess and a huntress, and the tense snap of a bowstring sounds like poetry as she sends an arrow singing through the air. Maybe Apollo’s right and she has a dramatic flair, but she thinks that’s pretty rich coming from the guy who shot plague-arrows into half the Greek army during the final year of the Trojan War. If she ignores the fact that she once ripped a man to shreds with his own hounds, she can believe that Apollo is, in fact, the more dramatic twin.

    The drama queen in question leans against the wrought-iron rail of their third-story apartment’s balcony, pistol gleaming at his hip as he takes another drag from his cigarette. “You can’t save them all, Art,” he tells her on an exhale, and she wrinkles her nose and waves the smoke away. She isn’t worried about the health risks, sometimes even wishes she could die, but the smell is another matter entirely.

    “I could if you helped me,” she tells him, an edge of steel in her voice, and he sighs and rolls his jaw.

    “Fine. The next time you hunt.”

    She’s spent centuries with Apollo and knows when he’s only giving in because he’s tired of arguing, but she’ll take the win because she can’t stand to lose. “You have to take your bow.”

    Apollo looks at her with one perfect eyebrow raised. She nods. “I was going to take it anyway,” he snaps. She doesn’t bother to hide her grin. He stubs his cigarette out against the railing and shoves past her through the sliding glass door, muttering as he stalks down the hallway to his room. They have rooms more as a matter of principle, since neither of them need to sleep. Both of them choose to, sometimes. It breaks up some of the tedium of immortality.

    Artemis takes her twin’s spot at the railing, looks pensively at the sun rising above the city skyline. It seems distant today, the pinks and oranges less vibrant than normal. Apollo does this sometimes to show his annoyance, and still has the nerve to accuse her of being dramatic? He practically invented the concept.

…

    Artemis has always been most comfortable in the dark, but it’s been decades--or has it been centuries?--since the goddess of night skies and deep woods danced in moonlight filtering through leaves. City streets are her haunt now, hunting monsters of a different kind in the glow of street lamps and neon signs that dull the once-magnificent night sky into something mundane.

   She misses the time when mortals thought there was magic in the night and in the forest, when they used to pour unwatered wine and sing hymns to her, full of awe and fear. She was powerful once, adored. She isn’t either of those things anymore, but somehow she feels stronger than ever. More purposeful.

    She’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over her chest, faintly gleaming silver bow and a pile of pale ash arrows resting on the floor at her feet. “Apollo,” she calls, half-annoyed. “We’re hunting for prey, not lovers.”

    “I can’t find my bow.” His voice carries, muffled, from inside the apartment.

    “It’s in the hall closet, hanging on the wall. Right next to the door.”

    “I’m looking in the hall closet!”

    “Apollo. Your bow is bright gold. It glows, for Christ’s sake,” Artemis mutters. She paces down the hall, about to show Apollo exactly where his bow is, when he emerges from the closet with a triumphant shout.

    “I’ll tell Zeus you said that. Hey, can I borrow some arrows?”

    “Oh my God,” Artemis groans, wondering if he just loves to torture her. “How are you even alive?”

    “Probably because I’m immortal. So, arrows?”

    “Fine. They’re more for show, anyway.” She stoops to scoop up her bow and a handful of arrows, leaving about half for Apollo.

    “For show?” He questions, letting his eyes rove over his twin. She’s dressed all in black: black skinny jeans that hug her athletic legs and a black tank top beneath an unzipped black leather jacket. Her revealed skin is pale and gleams faintly silver, thick black eyeliner ringing her eyes, her lips the color of fresh blood. She reminds him of a panther in the breathless moment before a pounce.

    “Also, you can’t wear that. All black everything.” Artemis glares scornfully at his yellow t-shirt.

    “I don’t own anything black,” Apollo tells her matter-of-factly, smiling at her shocked face. “I’m a sun god, Art, not some weird emo moon goddess.”

    “I wouldn’t say that around Selene.”

    “Selene loves me.”

    “Selene tolerates you,” Artemis informs him, ignoring the offended noise he makes. She decides to let Apollo’s questionable wardrobe choices slide this time. She supposes he looks intimidating enough to accompany her, with his artfully messy hair, bright blue eyes, and the faint golden glow of his skin. At the very least he looks not quite human, and that’s probably the best she’ll get from him. Maybe they can do a good cop, bad cop routine or something. They’ve been doing that for centuries anyway, they’ve pretty much perfected it. She whistles once, a short, sharp burst, and her black-and-tan hound rockets off the couch. She reaches an affectionate hand down to scratch his long velvet ears.

    “Do we have to take him? He’s not, you know, inconspicuous.”

    “Aristo has been with me on every hunt since Pan gave him to me!” Artemis scoffs, more offended than ever. The old satyr gave her six dogs and seven bitches back when the world was still new. She still has the entire pack, but Aristo is the only one who comes into the city with her.

    “Where are the rest?” Apollo asks absently as he locks the door behind him.

    “With Hecate.”

    The twin gods head out into the city, walking down the sidewalk like any ordinary mortals might, and turn toward the college campus. Frat houses are usually a good hunting spot. Artemis pauses to smile up at the moon. Selene has it shining its very brightest for her tonight, a hunter’s moon perfectly round and low in the sky. Aristo trots happily at her side, Apollo has been quiet for probably three whole minutes, and she dares to hope, briefly, that she won’t need to hunt tonight.

    Apollo grins as they turn down a street, following a stream of girls in tight dresses hobbling in too-tall heels, and Artemis smacks his arm hard enough to earn a disgruntled yelp. “You’re disgusting.”

    “I look at guys the same way,” he reminds her with a shrug.

    “That doesn’t make it better,” she snaps, beginning to regret bringing him along, but the thought is interrupted by Aristo whining low and urgent in his throat. He bays, giving voice to his full-throated hunting song, and she follows the hound as he tears across the frat house lawn, partygoers stumbling out of his way. Artemis runs after him like she’s just an ordinary girl chasing her escaped dog.

    Apollo curses behind her as he starts running. Aristo waits for them at the front door of the house, still singing, and his claws leave deep gouges in the dark wood as he paws insistently at the door. Artemis shoves it open and follows him immediately up the stairs. He reaches the landing and skids around a corner, baying as he stops in front of a closed door.

    It’s locked but Artemis kicks it open with a crack of hinges sudden as a lightning strike. What good is a door against a god? She sees the boy first, the harsh moonlight streaming through the open window turning his eyes to black pits and deepening the shadows under his cheekbones. He reminds her for an instant of the type of monster she hunted in days long gone. He’s frozen in place as the door bangs against the wall, so stunned he doesn’t even notice the seventy pound dog hurtling toward him until Aristo hits him like a howling torpedo. His arms windmill as he topples out of sight.

    Artemis walks around the bed, lazy and graceful, following the sound of yelling and growling, of sharp gnashing teeth waiting for her command to sink into frail mortal flesh. She finds Aristo pinning the thrashing boy to the carpeted floor with his front paws on his shoulders. “Call off your dog! Please! Get him off me!” The voice is high and hysterical with mortal fear, and Artemis smiles down at him indulgently.

    “I am Artemis Agrotera, and I will deal with you another time.” She calls Aristo off with a sharp whistle. The boy scrambles to his feet, crashing back to the floor as his shoulder collides with Apollo’s thighs. Apollo reaches down and draws him up by the arm, smiling with a menace that can’t quite match his twin’s.

    “We’ll be seeing you,” he promises silkily, gives the arm a gentle squeeze, and stands aside to let the trembling criminal pass. Artemis sinks down on the edge of the rumpled bed, wipes tears from the girl’s cheeks with her thumb, and drapes her black jacket over the bare, shaking shoulders. The girl sobs and pulls the jacket tighter. Artemis makes a shushing noise in her throat and stands, scooping her up bridal-style like she weighs nothing at all.

    The girl hides her face against the goddess’s chest as they leave the house. Fear and guilt war in her, eating her alive with teeth that slice like knives because she knows what will happen. The police will ask her how much she drank and what she was wearing and if she was flirting with him, if she’d given him any indication that maybe she wanted this. The thought turns her stomach, but they’re outside in the cool night air and the moon is so bright it seems to shine just for her.

    Artemis looks down at the girl in her arms, and her heart breaks into a thousand pieces for the first time that night. “I’m taking you to someone who can help.” The walk back to the apartment building is about ten minutes, but the silence and the shaking girl make it seem like eternities. When they arrive, Artemis fumbles her car keys from the pocket of her black skinny jeans and hits the unlock button. “Do you want to sit in the front with me, or in the back with the dog?”

    The girl’s wide brown eyes flit between Artemis’s perfect moon-pale face and Aristo’s floppy ears and kind brown eyes. “The dog, please.”

    “His name is Aristo.” Artemis says, setting the girl on her feet and opening the back door for her. Aristo leaps in, tail wagging, and the mortal girl slides into the seat beside him. “He loves hugs.”

    “Aristo,” the girl murmurs, burying her face in his neck with a shaky breath.  “My name is Laurel.” Artemis’s stomach clenches. Apollo looks like he might be ill as he climbs into the passenger seat. He knows where the first laurel tree still grows, nearly as old as the surrounding hills.

    Artemis starts the car and within minutes they’re speeding out of the city, turning off the highway onto winding back roads, and she rolls all the windows down to feel the wind in her hair and focuses on that to still the angry shaking of her hands. “Hey Art, does Hecate know we’re coming?” Apollo asks as they turn up the long dirt driveway, past a sign that says Crossroads Farm in fading purple paint.

    “She always knows.”

    Sure enough, the front porch light is on and lights are shining through the front windows. “We’re here,” Artemis announces for Laurel’s benefit as she parks.

    “Where are we?” Laurel’s voice fills with fear. Artemis’s heart shatters into a thousand pieces, for what must be the thousandth time tonight.

    “Crossroads Farm,” Artemis tells her, voice gentler than Apollo’s ever heard it. “You’ll be safe, I promise.”

    “Who are you?” Laurel looks at them with wide, suspicious eyes and hugs hard enough around Aristo’s neck that he whines.

    “Artemis, and this is my brother, Apollo.” Artemis waves her hand vaguely in the direction of her brother’s faintly shining face and ridiculous yellow t-shirt. They aren’t so ancient that their names are completely unfamiliar, because Artemis can see recognition stirring in Laurel’s fearful brown eyes.

    “Like the ancient Greeks?”

    Apollo nods. “Something like that. Come on, you’ll like Hecate.”

    Before Artemis can stop him, he reaches toward Laurel’s hand to guide her up the steps. The mortal recoils from him, and Apollo looks so heartbroken Artemis almost pities him. She reminds herself he doesn’t know any better yet--he’s never spent time with a girl like Laurel before. He doesn’t understand the panic in her veins, the constant nagging fear she’ll carry with her for the rest of her life. He’s never heard a girl wake screaming from a nightmare she can’t stop reliving every time she closes her eyes.

    “Shouldn’t we go to the police station?” Laurel asks, but she follows Artemis up the front porch steps anyway. Apollo walks a respectful distance behind her, half-dejected and half-protective, but completely silent. When Artemis opens the door, Hecate is already sitting at the scrubbed pine table with four steaming mugs of tea, the picture of serenity.

    Hecate was called Iphigenia once, and she was the first mortal Artemis rescued; led to a gleaming sacrificial knife by a man who was supposed to protect her. She understands, in a way Artemis will never be able to, the fear and the guilt and the panic that feels like it can stop your lungs from filling. “Hi,” Hecate says simply, gesturing at the mugs. Laurel takes the empty seat beside her, and Artemis pointedly sits in the chair beside Laurel. Apollo huffs as he takes the seat furthest from her. “It’s herbal tea,” Hecate says, answering the girl’s unspoken question. “It will help you sleep without dreams.”

    Laurel nods, wraps her hands around the warm ceramic mug and inhales deeply. “It smells good.” She hesitates, her eyes dancing over the three deities. “Are--are you really Greek gods?”

    Artemis is proud of Apollo, for once, for the way he doesn’t let his face fall. She knows there’s nothing like a tragedy to unravel a mortal’s world; she’s seen it more times than she cares to remember and yet she can’t forget any of them. If something like this can happen--stories that happen on the evening news, to other people--then stories older than street lamps and cars can happen, too.

    “Yes.” Artemis has found, through trial and error, through centuries, that simplicity works best.

    “Artemis is the protector of young girls,” Apollo says, like that explains everything. “She’s been doing this--geez, for how long, Art?” He’s trying too hard to act casual, but Artemis can see he’s shaken. It takes some getting used to; this is only his first time and she has literal millenia of practice. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself to be patient.

    “Since mortals stopped protecting their own daughters. When police began asking a girl what she was wearing, instead of asking a boy why he felt he had the right to take her sense of safety away.”

    “Right. That long.”

    “I was the first she saved,” Hecate volunteers conversationally. “Back when Troy still stood tall on its hill.”

    “That clears things up,” Apollo mutters, rolling his eyes conspiratorially at Laurel. She rewards him with a tiny smile, and Artemis is half-surprised he doesn’t jump up and dance. He only grins, and she knows he’ll take whatever victory he can get even if it doesn’t feel like enough. A smile from Laurel won’t erase his past mistakes.

    “It should clear things up, you were there,” Artemis reminds him. “You built the walls of Troy with your own hands.”

    “Yeah, look how well that worked out.” Apollo pouts into his tea, unable to let go of that centuries-old sting. “Fucking Eris and her fucking apple.”

    Artemis raises an eyebrow. “That was literally ages ago. We have other problems now.” Apollo follows her gaze as it rests on Laurel, sipping her tea and watching them with open fascination.

    “How is this even my life?” Laurel wonders aloud.

    Apollo shrugs, apparently having recovered from his earlier unease. “You’re just lucky, I guess.” The joke falls flat, he hisses in a breath and scrambles to fix his mistake. “Sorry, Jesus, I’m so sorry.” Tea sloshes over the side of his mug as he sets it down carelessly and reaches across the table for Laurel’s hand. She withdraws it and stares flatly into the contents of her mug.

    Apollo’s face is crestfallen as he looks to Artemis for guidance, and she’s amazed that a god can be so painfully dumb. “Smooth,” she barks, patience momentarily snapped. Aristo rests his head on Laurel’s lap, much more comforting than Apollo could ever be, and she strokes him silently.

    “Laurel,” Apollo begins, but she cuts him off with a shake of the head.

    “It’s fine. Can-can I stay here tonight?” Her eyes are wide and wary as she turns to Hecate.

    “Of course. I’ll show you to your room.” The gentle goddess stands, leading the exhausted mortal down the hallway to the left of the kitchen, through the living room, and toward the bedrooms in the back. They’ve done this too many times since Hecate bought this place a couple decades ago; there’s a dozen bedrooms here reserved for the girls Artemis brings. Sometimes they only stay for one night, sometimes for a week, sometimes they’ll leave and show up again unannounced months later, dark circles under their eyes and a constant tension in their shoulders.

    Hecate never turns them away, only cooks them meals with the vegetables from her garden and gives them tea to help them sleep. They spend their days outside, reading in the sunlight or roaming with Artemis and her dogs, wearing loose chitons and carrying bows. There’s two other girls here besides Laurel; Kate, the girl Artemis helped last night, and Andrea, who showed up here a week ago and cried in Hecate’s arms again.

    “Artemis,” Hecate calls down the hall, interrupting her thoughts, “can Aristo sleep with Laurel tonight?”

    Artemis hates to relinquish her hunting partner, but he looks up at her with soft eyes, and she knows he would rather spend the night cuddling with Laurel than chasing her attacker. “Make sure Pelea has the scent,” she tells the dog. He wags his tail once in agreement and pushes through the doggy door to find Pelea. “He’ll be there soon,” Artemis calls back.

    She and Apollo sit in silence, Apollo fidgeting with his empty mug as Artemis waits for her dogs. They’re only gone for a few minutes, Aristo trotting in with Pelea on his heels. He bumps his snout against his mistress’s hand as he trots by. Pelea rests her head on Artemis’s lap, tail wagging as Artemis scratches her ears.

    A few minutes later Hecate glides into the kitchen on silent feet and sighs as she sits at the head of the table. “She’s settled in with Aristo. When are you guys going?” Artemis ducks her head to look out the window, squints up at the huge, bright hunter’s moon, and looks over at her brother.

    “Ready for part two?”

    “What’s part two?” His voice is apprehensive, and Artemis thinks it’s hilarious. She likes that she can still surprise him even after millenia.

    She smiles wolfishly as she stands and stretches, slow and lazy. “The hunt.”

    “Oh. I was wondering why you went by Agrotera earlier.” It’s an epithet he hadn’t heard her use in at least a few centuries, but it was one of the earliest used to describe her. Artemis Agrotera. Artemis of the Hunt.

    She rolls her eyes so hard, she can practically see the back of her own skull. “Don’t tell me you still go by Phoebus.”

    He shakes his head, looking away. “I stopped using my epithets a long time ago.”

    Artemis steps forward and grips his chin, forcing him to face her. She hates the shame she sees there, but she knows it’s been a long time coming. “Apollo Akesios,” she says softly, firmly. “Averter of evil.” Sometimes even gods need to be reminded who they are.

    “I don’t deserve that one. Maybe I never did.” His voice is low and full of sadness, but Artemis isn’t about to let him get away with wallowing. Self-loathing isn’t becoming for the god of the sun.

    “Then earn it now. I don’t have time for your pity-party, Apollo, I have hunting to do. You can either hang out here and mope over Laurel--and we both know it isn’t really about her, anyway--or you can help me catch the asshole who did this.” She releases his chin; he rubs his jaw ruefully. Her grip had slowly tightened the more worked up she became.

    “Fine, Art, geez. But tomorrow I’m going to Greece.”

    “Tell Daphne if she ever wants to be human again, she has a place here,” Hecate interjects from the table. Apollo waves a hand in acknowledgement, trying to ignore the way his stomach drops at the name. He’s barely finished composing himself by the time Artemis is halfway out the door, and he starts after her with a muttered curse. They slide into her silver car, and he doesn’t have time to buckle his seatbelt before she’s peeling down the driveway.

    “You can help me with this anytime you want, you know,” Artemis tells him, voice raised to be heard over the wind roaring through the windows. She’s tired of seeing her brother so lost, so far removed from the god he once was. They all are, except maybe Hades, because there will always be death. But hunting like this, protecting young girls like she used to, it reminds Artemis of who she is. She wants this feeling for her brother, too, because she loves him dearer than all the world of mortals.

    “I’m not much of a hunter, Art.”

    “No, but you invented medicine. You’re a healer. These girls, they need someone. Hecate does what she can, but sometimes it isn’t enough. Sometimes it takes more than herbal tea and an essential oil diffuser. For some of them, positive energy and sunlight doesn’t cut it. Hecate’s a minor goddess, but you? God of the sun, remember? Inventor of medicine and music and poetry. And Selene, she makes the moon shine brighter for them so they’re never caught out in the dark, but you can teach them to carry sunlight in their hearts again. You don’t have to hunt with me, after tonight. But when you get back from Greece,” she shrugs, “there’s a purpose for you, if you want it.”

    Apollo doesn’t have to answer, because Pelea barks suddenly from the backseat. Artemis barely checks her blind spot as she pulls over, parking so quickly she scrapes her tire against the curb. She jumps out of the car and opens the back door for Pelea. Apollo unfolds himself from his seat and jogs alongside Artemis, following the hound.

    “When did you train your dogs to do this?” He wonders idly, not expecting an answer.

    “A couple hundred years ago, maybe? Around the time Ivar the Boneless invaded Ireland.”

    “That was over a thousand years ago, Art.” He looks at her, bemused, knowing she doesn’t care about the specifics. It’s important to him, though. They’ve never kept secrets from each other, and this stings more than he wants to admit. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

    “You and Hermes sort of disappeared for a century or so, I didn’t want to bother you.” Apollo tries to remember this specific disappearance, thinks maybe it was when he and Hermes hung out with Calypso on her island for a while. It’s nice to leave the world sometimes. Pelea trots easily in front of them, scenting the cool breeze, and the moon is huge and high in the sky. It’s barely past the middle of the night.

    “Where’s she taking us?” Apollo grumbles. Artemis, ever the patient hunter, smiles serenely at him and doesn’t grace him with an answer. Pelea’s tail wags in slow arcs. Artemis knows they’re getting closer but she enjoys the pursuit. She hopes the boy is laying in his bed, unable to sleep, feeling in his cowardly bones that vengeance is coming to him. She wants to hope he feels guilty but knows he probably doesn’t, so the most she ever hopes for is fear.

    Pelea bays, just once, the sound that used to be the death-song of so many stags, and Artemis hopes the boy shivers at the sound. She sees him in the distance, a shadow against the horizon, a dark shape moving between houses. Pelea takes off after him eagerly, Artemis and Apollo hot on her heels. Pelea veers around to cut off his escape as the twins reach him.

    Artemis reaches out, a pale arrow clasped in her hand, and rubs the shining silver point down the length of his spine. “I told you I would find you,” she croons, sing-song as a baying hound.

    He stops dead in his tracks so suddenly that Apollo nearly crashes into him. Artemis strokes the arrow down the boy’s back again. She rubs her hand almost seductively along the back of his neck, leans closer, and whispers in his ear, “Turn around and face me.” She releases her hold, lets the arrowhead drag along his shoulder and chest as he obeys her. She tickles him lightly with the tip, just above the place where his heart beats so hard she can see the pulse throbbing in his neck. “Do you remember my name?”

    He nods frantically, too terrified to speak. A sharp smell reaches her nose, she glances down to the spreading stain on the front of his jeans and clucks disapprovingly. “What was my name, again?” She drags the arrow up to the wildly thudding pulse at the juncture of his chin and neck.

    “Art--Artemis A--Agro….” he trails off, she increases the pressure until he starts bawling. “Agrotera,” he chokes. She nods, pleased, and eases back just a bit.

    “I’m not going to kill you,” she purrs, arrow still pressed against his throat. “This time. A quick death is too merciful for men like you.” She sighs, as if she regrets that. “In Sparta, where they worshipped me centuries ago, they gave all their women small knives. That way, if a man ever tried to force himself upon her, she could slash him across the face and the entire world would know what he did. That was a good time for women, when they didn’t need me to protect them.” She stares him down with eerie, unblinking silver eyes. “Do you know her name? The girl you attacked?”

    He shakes his head, and Artemis gently traces the tip of the arrowhead along his jawline. “Her name is Laurel. She’s twenty years old and has a little brother, and she’s studying biology in college. She wants to be a cancer researcher, and travel the world, and she always loved the night until you made her afraid of it.” Artemis pauses, gives him a soft smile. “So now I want you to be afraid of it, too. I think they had it right in Sparta, all that time ago.”

    Quick as thought, she darts the arrow up and slices along his cheekbone. The slash is clean, surgically precise, and will heal in a narrow, smooth pink scar. It’s high enough up that a beard will never hide it. “That custom is long dead, more’s the pity.” She shrugs, twirls the arrow so that it flashes in the moonlight, and tastes the dark blood on the silver arrowhead with the tip of her tongue. “Coward’s blood, I knew it. No descendent of Sparta.” She brings the arrow up again and runs it down the slope of his nose. “No one will know why there’s a slash on your face except you. Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember what you did. That is my first gift to you.”

    She smiles, as if he’s just won the grand prize on a game show. There’s something feral in her eyes, a wildness mortals thought dead long ago. The boy is shaking uncontrollably. A first gift implies a second, and he doesn’t want anything except for this to be a dream. “So my first gift was knowledge, and my second is a promise.” She looks at him like she’s waiting for him to thank her.

    When he’s silent, she shrugs and continues. She inspects the arrow as she speaks, not looking at him. He doesn’t deserve the attention of her gaze. “I promise that I will be watching you until the day you die. I promise that if you ever do this again, if you ever raise your hand to a woman, I will be the last thing you see.”

    She reaches down, scratches Pelea’s ears affectionately. “This is Pelea. The dog I had with me earlier was Aristo. They’ve been alive longer than this country.” She gestures vaguely with the arrow; he instinctively raises his arms to protect his face. Artemis tries to hide the savage pleasure this brings her, but can’t quite keep the triumph from her ice-cold eyes. “They were given to me by Pan, the god of shepherds and wild places. Did you know he invented panic?” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “I perfected it, though.” The moonlight gleams off her perfect white teeth as she smiles.

    “Once they have your scent, they can find you anywhere in the world. There is nowhere you can hide, nowhere my hounds cannot find you.” Her voice is mild, almost pleasant, and it makes the boy sob with a terror that’s older than instinct. Centuries ago, humans feared the gods; that fear is buried just beneath the surface of their conscious minds. It’s nearly effortless for Artemis to awaken it. “Do you understand me, mortal?”      

    He nods rapidly.

    Artemis smiles and steps back. “Good. You may go now.”

    She turns on her heel, crisp as a soldier on parade, and walks gracefully toward the car with Pelea roaming ahead to sniff a tree trunk. Apollo glances at the boy, takes in the abject terror and awe on his face as he watches Artemis walk away, and gives the boy a smile that could be mistaken for friendly before he follows his sister. The walk is quiet, with only the swishing of their feet through dew-damp grass and Pelea’s deep whuffs as she scents the air. Artemis opens the back door and the hound leaps in happily.

    The twins climb into their seats and buckle their seatbelts, and Artemis drives them out of the city back toward Hecate’s farm. “Can’t you take me back to the apartment?” Apollo whines, not sure if he can face those girls when he can still remember Daphne morphing into a laurel tree to escape his touch.

    “I like to be there when they wake up. Someday, you will, too.”

    “After Greece, maybe.”

    “You’ve waited too long to apologize.”

    “I waited too long to learn my mistakes,” Apollo corrects.

    She smiles over at him, full of pride. “I knew you would, though. I hoped it would be centuries ago, but better late than never.” She shrugs, like a few centuries isn’t a big deal when you can never die. “If I’d known hunting was what would make you realize, I would have taken you with me a long time ago.”

    “Art, that was…. He looked at you like they all used to look at us. You were terrifying. I haven’t seen you like that in thousands of years. Agrotera, indeed.”

    She smiles, pleased. “Mortals haven’t changed much, really.” She turns up the long dirt driveway of Crossroads Farm. Hecate left the porch light on for them, but the windows are dark this time. Artemis puts the car in park and kills the engine before she turns in her seat and fixes her bright silver eyes on him. “So will you be here in the morning?”

    She’s really asking if he wants to see Laurel again, and Apollo knows it. And he does want to, but he can’t. Not yet. First he needs to see a different laurel, a tree nearly as old as the hills and twice as wise.

    He shakes his head. “I’ll be in Greece at first light. Tell Laurel,” he blows out a breath between pursed lips. “Tell her I’ll be back by dinner.”

    “I’ll tell her, if she asks,” Artemis promises, knowing she probably won’t. She hopes Apollo doesn’t pick up on that, but his face falls before he can stop it. She’s spent millenia reading his emotions, and her heart breaks into a thousand pieces for what must be the millionth time that night. She draws her twin into a hug. “Good luck, Apollo Akesios.”

    He wraps his arms around her. “I promise I won’t disappear for a century this time. This is my place now, just like yours.” He ends the hug and straightens, brows pinched together in the middle. “Should we end the lease on the apartment?”

    “No. That’s my base of operations in the city. I just let you crash there because you were a broke street musician.”

    Apollo huffs, offended. “Not anymore, though. I’ll see you tomorrow, Art.” He sighs and rolls his jaw. Artemis nods and opens the car door. When she reaches the porch and turns back to the car, the passenger seat is empty. She opens the door and steps into the kitchen. She hangs her gleaming silver bow on the hook by front door and tiptoes down the hallway.

    She peeks into three bedrooms, at the girls finally able to sleep peacefully, snoring hounds curled up at their feet. It’s not adoration like she once had, but it’s still a home, and these healing girls are just as much a family as her band of huntresses ever were. For what must be the first time that night, she thinks her heart might be whole.

[wikitopx]

The world’s northernmost Francophone city is just minutes from the border with Belgium.

Dunkirk life is always oriented towards the sea, whether through fishing and historical fishing or trading. The port is still in operation today and also takes passengers through the canal to Dover. But for you and me the sea also brings the fun at the beach or exhilarating walks in dune landscapes. The name Dunkirk is also synonymous with the withdrawal of Allied troops from France in 1940, and there is a famous museum in the top right where the activity is coordinated. In the city of don cage miss, the UNESCO listed port buildings and museums with historic ships. Discover the best things to do in Dunkirk.

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1. Musée Portuaire

Dunkirk's 19th-century cigarette warehouse, one of the few war-torn historic buildings and provides a suggestive home for a museum that will tell you a long and fascinating story about the port.

Among the many exhibitors are those who devoted to the city of whaling and cod in the 19th century, requiring six-month expeditions to the waters around Iceland.

2. Beffroi de Dunkerque

All the belfries of Flanders are protected as on the UNESCO site, and Dunkirk’s is no exception. It was built in the 15th century to replace an old watchtower and was originally the campanile of Saint-Eloi church, which is next door.

The church was destroyed during a French attack on the city in the 1500s and only this tower remains. It’s almost 60 meters tall and you can go to the top for a fabulous panorama of the city.

That's a viewpoint you have to earn because even after taking the five-story elevator, you still have to climb 60 steps. You can see the carillon of 48 bells here and the mechanics controlling them.

They ring the bell every 15 minutes and at the hour they play a piece of La Cantate à Jean Bart, a song that has a special meaning to Dunkirk.

3. Plage de Malo-Les-Bains

East of the harbor begins the huge sandy beach of Dunkirk, one of the largest in the north and right on summer days. The Malo-Les-Bains behind it has been another town but has been a part of Dunkirk since the 1960s.

Next to the promenade is a chain of ice cream shops and restaurants where you can order mussels and chips and watch the beach disappear into the horizon. If you have little ones with you, treat them to a pedal-kart ride along the waterfront.

You can get a four-seater, each with pedals, and make it a family thing. These vehicles are a trademark of the resorts on the Flemish coast.

4. Dunkirk 1940 Museum

Bastion 32 was a coastal defense constructed in 1874 after the Franco-Prussian war to strengthen France’s border. And so the Allied forces coordinated Operation Motivation from this structure in May and June 1940 when more than 330,000 soldiers were evacuated from France.

The galleries tell you everything you need to know about how the operation was planned and implemented, and some of the events took place in a dramatic chapter of World War II.

There was a 15-minute gunshot during the evacuation, the mainstream militaries, like weapons and uniforms, and scale models.

5. Parc Zoologique de Fort Mardyck

Not the biggest zoo, but big enough to be able to introduce children to all sorts of animals without boring them. There are 40 species here and among them are brown bears, lynxes, seals, macaws, beavers, dwarf goats, and Griffon vultures.

One resident you may not know much about is the collared peccary, a South, and Central American mammal, distantly related to pigs, and able to withstand a bite from the most venomous snakes.

6. LAAC

Opposite to Dunkirk 1940, in the surrounding green garden, is this modern art museum housed in a striking building with white ceramic tiles.

There are more than 1,500 works to watch, dating from the 1940s to the 1980s, with a highlight of pop art (represented by Andy Warhol) and works by CoBrA artists from the 40s and 50s.

One member of this short-lived movement is Karel Appel, whose youthful, bright sculptures are displayed inside and outside. LAAC’s Cabinet d’Arts is also a pleasure, with drawers to pull out containing some 200 prints and drawings.

7. Tour du Leughenaer

  The oldest monument in Dunkirk is an octagonal tower, 30 meters tall next to the fishing craft on Quai des Américains. In the 1700s the brick tower was adapted into a viewing platform for the harbor, and then in the early-19th century a lantern was added and the tower became a lighthouse.

The old Dutch name means liar, and it got this nickname because some ships ran aground while being guided by its beacons. The theory grew that this was done intentionally so that the town could plunder them!

8. Dunkirk Carnival

  Dunkirk rib bonkers festivals have a reputation far beyond Dunkirk. The party is from mid-January to the end of March, but the time to be here is three days before Ash Wednesday. These are the “Trois Joyeuses” when 40,000 revelers take to the streets in crazy costumes (normally unflattering drag for men).

On Sunday, the visscherbende band, the parade through Dunkirk wearing yellow raincoats, played songs for everyone to join and dance. They represent fishermen who have embarked on trips to Iceland to catch herring.

And to commemorate this the mayor throws almost half a ton’s worth of smoked herrings (wrapped, thankfully) onto the gathered crowd from the crowd on a Sunday afternoon.

9. La Dune Marchand

Right up against the border with Belgium is an 83-hectare nature reserve protecting one of a number of dune systems on the coast of Flanders. In an ever-changing environment, there are more than 400 plant species, including marram grass, buckthorn, and dune grass.

In the spring you may recognize the song of the nightingales in the park, while in autumn migratory birds will make their nests in the long grass, shrubs, and woodland. Beaches, Plage à Bray-Dunes is amazing at low tide when the sand seems to last forever.

Come to the wind in the wind in the winter or the immortal fun with the family on sunny summer days.

10. Gravelines

In the 17th century, the town of Gravelines was located on the border between France and Flanders, then it was under Spanish control. After being captured and then liberated it became heavily fortified, and most of this architecture is still visible.

Inevitable, the man who called for increased defense in the town was the venerable Vauban engineer, who turned the Gravelines into a castle, set up fortresses and dug a network of moats that continued to take shape. of a star today.

The interesting thing about the Gravelines is walking the ramparts and checking out the arsenal, now a museum for painting and engraving. The town’s belfry is one of the 23 on UNESCO’s list.

More ideals for you: Top 10 things to do in Salerno, Italy

From : https://wikitopx.com/travel/top-10-things-to-do-in-dunkirk-706703.html