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femininenachos · 8 months ago

Note

Hello lovely. I’ve been thinking about vacation au. Please tell me Clarke runs into Lexa swimming in some crystal clear Grecian water and wells has to close her mouth for her.

(Not quite, but close!)

Previously: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

By mid-morning the narrow streets near the harbour are already swarming with island hoppers fresh off the ferry. More line the quayside, waiting to board the day cruise that takes in the larger, more populous archipelago further down the coast. So-called ‘jewels of the Aegean’, they’re feted for being playgrounds of the rich and famous, boasting a slew of luxury resort hotels, designer boutiques and staggeringly expensive seafront restaurants.

For all its charm and scenic vistas, at least Polis has one foot in the real world. Here, craggy-faced fishermen and dock hands in scruffy overalls are hard at work unloading the morning’s catch, doing their best to ignore the clusters of tourists floating around, or at least tolerating their presence with stoic indifference.

And—it’s possible Clarke might be biased—Polis has Lexa, currently leading the charge like a woman on a mission. Clarke sticks close, her hand in Lexa’s sure grip, hurrying to match her loping strides as they make a beeline for the marina. Along the way they pass an assortment of small motorboats in all shapes and sizes, from dinghies and jet skis to skiffs and cabin cruisers and everything in between, until a gleaming white single-masted sailboat comes into view at last.

Clarke stops dead in her tracks on the cobblestones, fingers slipping from Lexa’s.

Her jaw drops.

“Is this yours?”

Lexa glances over and laughs at Clarke’s expression. “I make good tips, but not that much.”

She points to the modest vessel moored next to it, an open-top vintage deck boat with a walnut veneer interior and burnt orange leather upholstery that’s bleached from exposure to the sun and the salty sea air. ‘Spirit of Polis’ is written in blue cursive script on the hull.

“I mean, this one’s great too,” Clarke is quick to respond. She styles it out. “Not so flashy. Compact. Classic. Nice, uh, sleek lines.”

Lexa peers over the top of her sunglasses, lips subtly twisting to the side. “It belongs to my uncle, so you don’t have to worry about offending me or the boat.”

She puts down the cooler containing their provisions of cold drinks and extends a hand to help Clarke aboard. A little unsteady on her feet at first, Clarke holds on tightly for support while she finds her balance, shifting her weight to counteract the bobbing motion of the boat as water sloshes against the sides. Once she’s confident she isn’t going to fall flat on her face or, worse, into the harbour, she takes a few cautious steps to reach the small seating area at the rear. She shrugs off her tote bag to stow under the bench and situates herself, the sun-scorched leather burning hot against the backs of her thighs.

From this safe perch (and prime ogling spot), she watches Lexa collect the thick rope that tethers the boat, tossing it onto the deck before she gracefully hops across with the cooler and gets behind the controls. Full of poise at the helm, like it’s second nature to assume command, the signature pout in place as Lexa lifts her chin like she’s surveying her nautical domain.

It goes without saying that the whole preppy, boat-captain vibe is one hundred percent working in her favour.

Shades on. Hair spilling down her back in glossy chestnut waves, the ends getting whipped around by the wind. Appealing in her pale pink button-down worn over a snug white tank. Shirt open and catching the light breeze, the sleeves rolled up to reveal a hint of muscle definition and the ink that encircles her bicep. Tight little navy blue shorts hug her hips and ass in ways that are about to cause a major international incident at sea, because Clarke is far from looking respectfully.

“Ready?”

When her eyes snap up, she spies the half-smile on Lexa’s side profile, as though she detects the unholy thirst emanating from mere feet away.

Clarke gives a slow, absentminded nod, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as her eyes make another involuntary sweep down Lexa’s form.

“Clarke.”

She gets a hold of herself, breathing in deeply, and with it the spell is broken.

“Mm? Oh, yeah,” she says, feeling a resurgent wiggle of anticipation about this mystery adventure they’re about to embark on together. All Lexa was willing to divulge when they met is that it’s Polis’s best-kept secret, a spot known only to locals, unreachable except by boat, and so far unspoiled by tourists. Clarke had feigned offense on the last point, but soon dropped the act when Lexa tilted in for a kiss that went on and on and made her stomach clench. Each time Clarke started to retreat, Lexa would chase her mouth and draw her back in for more.

Her lips are still tingling.

(Both sets.)

“At least give me a hint about where we’re going?”

The enigmatic smirk that plays around Lexa’s mouth widens a fraction. “I thought you liked surprises.”

“Oh, I do. But I’m also stubborn as hell and won’t take no for an answer, so jot that down.”

It earns a laugh, one Clarke is fast becoming enamoured with, and she can’t control the warm tingle that goes through her when she hears it or the rush of elation she gets from bringing a rare grin to Lexa’s face.

“Good to know,” Lexa says as she reaches for the ignition key. Her next words are almost lost to the splutter and chug of the engine before it roars to life. “I like a challenge.”

~*~

Within an hour, they reach a small, secluded cove surrounded by sheer limestone cliffs, the ancient rock sculpted by wind and waves, where sparse scatterings of tall, rugged pines sprout precariously from narrow ledges in defiance of the elements.

It appears like a mirage, shimmering into view: a bay of dreamy, pristine, white-gold sands and crystal clear turquoise waters, serene and inviting, and there isn’t a soul in sight. The closest thing they had to company was the pod of dolphins they spotted off the starboard (Clarke learned) side about twenty minutes ago. She’d gasped and clutched Lexa’s arm, bouncing on her heels in sheer delight. But it was the look they shared, brimming with joy and something unaccountably softer and fonder, that made it all the more magical, the moment already locked into Clarke’s memory.

“What do you think?” Lexa asks.

Lost for words, Clarke shakes her head in silent awe.

She turns to Lexa, and the smile Lexa directs at her, eyes bright and glowing in the sunlight, leaves her just as speechless. When Clarke finds her voice at last, it comes out thick, clogged with emotion; touched and amazed by the incredible beauty of what she sees—the place, and the woman who brought her here. So moved that she’s dangerously close to shedding a tear, her vision glazing over.

She blinks the moisture away.

“It’s…” She draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. Lifts her eyebrows. “Wow.”

She doesn’t second guess the impulse to wrap an arm around Lexa’s waist, to plant a soft, grateful kiss on her jaw.

“Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Full lips twitch at the corners. “My pleasure.”

With one hand resting on the wheel, Lexa drapes her free arm around Clarke’s shoulders. They remain like that, Clarke hugging Lexa’s side and taking in the spectacular scenery as Lexa guides the boat in at a steady rate of knots.

“I can’t believe this place has stayed under the radar. You’d think tour operators would be running excursions out here every hour until sunset.”

“Clarke.” Lexa grows serious all of a sudden, and that only makes Clarke want to kiss her again. Coax another smile. “You must promise not to tell anyone. It’s how we preserve it for future generations.”

Clarke schools her features, pretending to match Lexa’s gravity.

“Well… it’ll cost you. My silence doesn’t come cheap.”

The slight frown Lexa wears smooths out as soon as she catches on. A quizzical eyebrow flexes in a way that’s rudely attractive.

“Name your price, but don’t forget I work in hospitality.”

“I’m not interested in your money, Lexa. What I want” - Clarke trails her hand over Lexa’s hip and the perfect curve of her backside to give it a slow, purposeful squeeze, relishing Lexa’s intake of breath and the darkening of her gaze as she glances at Clarke’s lips - “is you.”

She meant to say “your body” but she doesn’t correct the verbal slip. Because, yeah, she does want to bend Lexa into all kinds of shapes like a pretzel, but she also has a deep desire to learn more about Lexa as a person, to find out what makes her tick, beyond what she likes to do in bed.

Lexa takes it in stride regardless, easing back into the confidence she has in spades.

Something about the slope of her smile signals she’s about to gain the upper hand.

She shrugs.

“Okay, deal.”

The enduring gleam in Lexa’s eyes before she turns her attention back to the sea gives Clarke palpitations. Her pulse thunders in her ears, drowning out the engine noise and the crash of the boat breaking the waves.

~*~

They drop anchor a short distance from the shore, an easy swim from the dazzling white sands. Not yet ready to take a dip, preferring to bake in the heat for a while first, Clarke spreads a large beach towel on the deck for sunbathing. She senses Lexa’s attention on her as she shimmies out of her shorts and shucks her loose tee to reveal the red halter neck two-piece that Octavia helped pick out after breakfast.

(“Hellooo, mama,” Octavia had drawled after Clarke emerged from the en suite and gave a reluctant twirl. She’d let out a low whistle as she ran her eyes up and down. “Almost wish I was tagging along just to watch Sexy Lexy’s head spin 360-degrees before it explodes. The twins ain’t playing.”)

At the time, Clarke had rolled her eyes and fought a blush but she’s glad she went with O’s suggestion.

Aware of her present captive audience, she proceeds to get comfortable on her back. One knee bent, an arm tucked behind her head as a pillow, showing off her best assets like a 1950s calendar pinup girl. Even behind the dark tinted lenses of her sunglasses, she sees Lexa’s eyes hungrily trace the shape of her body. Clarke basks in it, a smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, secure in the knowledge that she’s not just a snack, she’s the whole damn meal, and Lexa looks like she wants to devour every last crumb.

But Clarke’s smugness is short-lived, because in the next moment she’s the one left gawking when Lexa wordlessly strips down to the skimpiest pair of bikini bottoms and not a stitch else, brow quirking up as she peers over her shoulder then dives off the deck, slicing through the water with barely a splash.

Clarke quickly levers up onto her elbows to watch Lexa surface seconds later, hair slicked back and plastered to her skull, a sly little tilt to her lips as she treads water.

“Come on in. The temperature is perfect,” she calls out, looking every inch the siren that lures thirsty sapphic sailors to their deaths.

Clarke tries to cling on to the last vestiges of composure she has remaining.

“Gonna work on my tan for a little bit.”

The pout returns and she laughs, “Soon!”

Grabbing the tube of sunscreen from her nearby tote, she squeezes a large dollop into her palm. While Lexa does slow laps around the boat, Clarke liberally reapplies the lotion, slathering it on until all the exposed skin within reach is covered.

Before long, she hears Lexa climb the ladder onto the swim platform, accompanied by the rush of water cascading off her body as she rises out of the sea.

The soft slap of wet footfalls draws nearer.

“Lex?” Clarke twists around. “Could you do my—”

She stalls mid-sentence, only cognizant of her fingers closing hard around the tube in her hand when a spurt of lotion shoots out, splattering across her thigh and the towel.

She doesn’t even flinch.

All Clarke can do is gape and stare, watching rivulets of water run down the slope of Lexa’s bare chest. Eyes drawn inexorably to taut nipples and golden skin that glistens under the sun, to the long, lean lines of Lexa and the scrap of luminous orange fabric that sits low on her hips.

Clarke’s belly tightens, arousal flaring hot between her legs.

(A voice in her head that sounds disturbingly like Wells tells her to close her mouth.)

She has to remind herself to breathe.

Is thankful for the oversized shades that partially mask her expression, because she isn’t in control of what her face is doing right now. But if Lexa’s lip-bitten smile is any indication, it’s a lost cause anyway.

Casually wringing the water out of her hair as she approaches, Lexa glances at the milky white streak on Clarke’s inner thigh.

“Not the first time I’ve made a girl squirt.”

Clarke mutters a sarcastic “ha ha”, rubs the lotion into her skin, then wipes her hands on the edge of the towel before she reclines again. She fakes nonchalance when Lexa sinks down beside her, but it’s impossible to ignore the butterflies.

She rolls her shoulders and stares at the sky above, fixating on the solitary vapour trail that cuts across the endless blue.

“Speaking of previous liaisons... do you bring all your conquests here?” She’s mostly kidding, but there’s an undercurrent of needing to know too. She peers at Lexa. “Or am I one of the lucky few?”

A slow shake of Lexa’s head before she leans over on her elbow, closing in and partially blocking the sun, and Clarke’s skepticism must be plain to see, because Lexa looks so intensely sincere now, no trace of a smile or any disingenuousness when she says: “It’s the truth, I swear.”

Still, Clarke has her doubts. There’s no way Lexa isn’t tripping over hot women throwing themselves at her feet and this boat trip is too well-orchestrated not to be a tried and tested seduction technique.

Clarke peels off her shades to look Lexa square in the eye, and that frank, steady gaze pierces straight through her.

“I mean it, Clarke.”

The space between them shrinks.

Lexa’s pupils dilate as her focus shifts to parted lips. “You’re special.”

Water drips off the ends of Lexa’s hair onto Clarke’s shoulder and chest, and whatever rebuttal she had dies in her throat. She’s the one to reach out, gripping Lexa by the neck to tug her the rest of the way and kiss her like Clarke’s been dreaming of all morning.

As soon as Lexa throws a long leg over Clarke to straddle her, knees bracketing her hips, she needs no further convincing.

It’s on.

She dips her tongue inside Lexa’s mouth and slides both hands up Lexa’s rib cage to cup her breasts, a shiver running through Clarke when she feels the hard poke of nipples against her palms. She kneads, and the low, throaty noise it earns her sets her nerves alight, warm tingles suffusing her body.

They kiss deeply, greedily.

They kiss until Clarke has to drag her mouth away to gulp down some air, only to have the oxygen punched out of her lungs once again when Lexa uses the opportunity to shove her bikini bottoms off, scoop her mane of wet hair to one side and resettle against Clarke’s thigh. With her hands planted on either side of Clarke’s shoulders, Lexa holds herself up as she starts to work along the tensed muscle.

The slick, molten feel of Lexa, sliding against her skin, riding Clarke, makes her burn. She lurches up into the next kiss, hungrily reclaiming Lexa’s mouth, urging her on with a grip on her ass, and that shaky little hitch of breath in the back of Lexa’s throat whenever the friction gets her just right succeeds in getting Clarke wetter and wetter too. At this rate, she might come before Lexa does, and the odds only increase when Lexa takes Clarke’s hand and guides it between her legs.

“Use your fingers.”

Another surge of heat floods through Clarke at the instruction, hearing the normally smooth, modulated tone of Lexa’s voice roughed by need.

Clarke studies Lexa’s face, watching for the tiny flickers of reaction as she runs her fingers lower, fascinated by each and every twitch and jolt and slight gasp as she explores. She dips in and drags the wetness up to swirl around Lexa’s clit and is rewarded by the sharp jerk of Lexa’s hips and quite possibly the dirtiest kiss of Clarke’s entire life. She needs no prompting to slide through slick heat to tease at Lexa’s entrance again, fingertips doing a couple of slow swirls before she pauses.

For a beat they remain suspended in a freeze frame of anticipation. Each holding still, a breath caught in their throats.

On the exhale Clarke pushes inside.

And fuck, she missed this. Touching yourself is great and all, empowering, fantastic for stress relief, et cetera. But nothing beats the sound another woman makes when you enter her for the first time, when you hear that shaky intake of breath and you feel her clench around your fingers.

“Good?” Clarke asks.

Lexa nods, bottom lip held between her teeth as she looks down at Clarke with hooded eyes, the green of her irises nearly eclipsed by black.

Part of Clarke can’t quite believe this is her reality. That she’s buried to the knuckles and Lexa is moving on her, rolling to meet the steady pump of her wrist.

She glances between their bodies and a groan escapes, another sharp twist of lust coiling in the pit of her stomach once her eyes fasten on her own two fingers coated with Lexa’s arousal, fucking into her. But Clarke pries her eyes away, roving over tight abdominals, taking in the curves of Lexa’s tits and the jut of her nipples, torn between wanting them in her mouth and watching her fingers disappear inside again.

It’s Lexa’s half-stifled whimper when Clarke’s thumb finds her clit that sharpens her focus.

Winding her arm around Lexa’s lower back, Clarke sits them upright and swiftly brings their lips together. The abrupt change of angle has Lexa gasping hotly into her mouth. Again, louder, when Clarke’s palm rubs in. Lexa grips her by the shoulder and the back of her neck, blunt nails digging in as Lexa grinds down harder, faster, speeding towards the climax—the first of many, if Clarke has her way—sucking in short, sharp gasps while Clarke keeps pace, despite it being hell on her wrist.

They’re hardly kissing at all now, mouths hanging slack and sharing the same air, noses pressing into cheeks as they pant against one another’s lips.

She soon feels the first flutters, the growing tension in Lexa’s form, the choppy motion of Lexa’s hips and the careless scratch of her nails at Clarke’s nape. She curls the tips of her fingers on each partial drag out then slams back in, lifting Lexa an inch off her lap with each thrust. Clarke keeps the heel of her palm tight against Lexa’s clit, the pressure firm and constant, and in the next collection of halting, rapid breaths, Lexa’s whole frame pulls taut. A ragged cry is torn from her throat and she clenches hard, coming in a hot spill around Clarke’s fingers. Lexa shudders through it, a tremble in her jaw when she catches Clarke’s mouth in a fierce, bruising kiss, licking into her with a groan that makes Clarke gush in turn.

They remain in a heavy lip lock long after the tremors subside, neither inclined to separate. Restless hands weave through Clarke’s hair then seek out her curves, roaming down her chest with purpose, pushing under the top half of her swimsuit. She gives a low hum of approval when Lexa’s thumbs roll over the tight tips of her nipples, the ache mirrored in the dull, pulsing emptiness between her legs.

She feels close to orgasm already, like if she got even the tiniest bit of friction she’d go off like a rocket. Just a small shift of her hand to grind against her own knuckles would do it. But the way Lexa is touching her breasts, palms running all over, teasing her nipples into stiff, hypersensitive points, might be enough to get Clarke there.

And all the while, she’s still inside Lexa. Fucking her lazily with slow presses of her fingers, incapable of much more vigour when her wrist is screaming. She’s debating what to do next, whether to withdraw and flip Lexa onto her back for round two or continue like this, when a distant droning noise intrudes, faintly audible above the gentle lap of water, the thick, wet squelch of Clarke’s hand working between Lexa’s thighs, and their combined heavy breathing.

Growing more distracted by the second, Clarke draws her mouth away. She squints at the horizon beneath the shade of her free hand while warm lips meander along her jaw and down her neck.

She ceases her movements, despite Lexa’s meaningful buck of her hips and the subsequent small growl of complaint when Clarke fails to take the hint.

“What’s—” Teeth nip at the fading hickey on her throat and she gasps, hand flying to tangle in Lexa’s damp, curling hair. But as the object begins to resolve itself, Clarke tenses for a different reason. “Is that a boat?”

Lexa abandons her sulk to look too.

A white shape is rapidly approaching, throwing up sea spray, sunlight glinting off the surface and the waves and making it difficult to discern from this distance until… oh. Oh, yeah.

Letting out a string of (presumably) expletives in her native tongue, Lexa scrambles off Clarke to scoop up the clothes strewn across the deck. She pulls on her tank top, yanks the shorts up her legs, and has just enough time to arrange herself into a casual pose beside Clarke before the other boat reaches them. The occupants are obnoxiously young; late teens or early twenties, as far as Clarke can tell from a distance; a bunch of bikini-clad girls and lanky guys in board shorts hanging off one another as music blasts.

She sighs inwardly. Grits her teeth and refrains from giving them the middle finger while they whoop and cheer in passing, beer bottles held aloft as they thunder towards the wooden jetty.

So much for the sexy beach idyll. Clearly, not everyone has such reverence for the tranquility of this spot.

“Shall we stay a while or…?” Clarke hedges.

Lexa purses her lips and casts her stormy gaze around, jaw working side to side in rotation, but a gentle touch on her leg pulls her focus back to Clarke.

Consternation softens into regret.

“You didn’t even get a chance to swim or feel the sand between your toes.”

“I’ll cope. Besides…” Clarke wets her lips and drops into a huskier register. “It wasn’t a total bust.”

Lexa’s mouth twitches, clearly fighting a smile, and to Clarke that’s a win.

“Come on, don’t let these pesky teens ruin our hot date,” she continues in a playful tone. “I bet you have a few aces up your sleeve; other favourite haunts to wow the ladies with.”

One shoulder lifts in a slight shrug. “We do have the boat for the rest of the day. I could take you somewhere else. For lunch, if you’re hungry yet?”

Clarke gives a noncommittal hum, lightly trailing her wet fingers along the soft skin of Lexa’s inner thigh. “I could eat.”

The suggestive undertone isn’t lost in translation. Their eyes meet and Clarke dares to make it explicit.

“But lunch wasn’t what I had in mind… unless we’re counting pussy as a food group.”

Lexa loses the battle against keeping her smile under control. The tips of her ears are tinged pink. “Are Americans always so forward?”

“Um, I don’t recall any shyness on your part two nights ago.”

Dainty little ears burn brightly while Lexa’s smile grows, becoming toothier, and Clarke just wants to smooch that perfect face all day long.

“Anyway, I prefer the term ‘go-getter.’ As in, I see someone I want and I go get her.”

A pained groan. “I should leave you stranded on the beach for that.”

“Hey!” Clarke swats at Lexa’s knee in retaliation, but Lexa catches her hand, holding it captive. Clarke sniffs for dramatic effect. “I was going to let you strip me out of this bathing suit later, but now I’m strongly reconsidering.”

“If it helps sway your decision, I’d definitely appreciate seeing you naked again.”

“And how would you show your gratitude?”

“Mm. At least three times, and maybe twice more with the strap if you’re into toys.”

God.

“Okay. Alright. Well, lucky for you, I’m kind of dying for you to fuck me so I guess that clinches it.”

It’s about as far from playing it cool as could be, but Clarke doesn’t care. The truth is she’s soaked, aching for relief, and she isn’t picky about whichever method Lexa might use to get her off, as long as it happens soon.

Eyes flashing dark, Lexa cups a hand behind Clarke’s neck and pulls her mouth to hers. Clarke reacts without thought, already opening up to accept the slide of Lexa’s tongue before her brain catches up and she remembers they’re not alone.

Cracking an eye open, she’s relieved to see nobody on the other boat appears to be paying them any attention. She attempts to evade the next kiss, only for Lexa to pursue it more doggedly, and that makes Clarke smile even as she lays a palm on Lexa’s chest to gently hold off her advance. The mini pout on Lexa’s face when they pull apart is a treat, and Clarke can’t conceal her enjoyment of it. Unable to resist the lure, she steals one final peck.

For a few indulgent seconds, she luxuriates in the softness of Lexa’s full bottom lip, until it dawns on her that an hour-long return journey stands between them and more orgasms, and she sighs.

“Why isn’t teleportation a real thing yet? Having to wait a full 60 minutes to get you under me is so unfair.”

Slowly, with the greatest delicacy and patience, Lexa brushes their noses together, one side then the other, nudging the tip before she withdraws. Despite the sun beating down on her back, it gives Clarke chills, shivers running down her neck and arms. For the duration she just holds still and melts while her stomach flips, and the butterflies that had lain dormant return in full force.

When she opens her eyes, she’s greeted by the slight, sloping smile on Lexa’s lips and her stomach does another somersault.

“I’m starting to think you’re only interested in me for sex,” Lexa says lightly.

Clarke lets out a small scoff. “You’re the one with a one-track mind. I was minding my own business, soaking up the rays, until you pounced.”

“Can you blame me?”

Lexa’s heated stare roves over several inches of cleavage before she forcibly drags her eyes back up.

“Actually… I have a confession to make.” She draws that plush bottom lip, still slightly swollen and red from kissing, between her teeth. “I dropped a tray of drinks at work yesterday because I had a flashback to you sitting on my face. Anya yelled at me and I didn’t even give a fuck that she deducted it from my tips.”

Heat rises in Clarke’s cheeks, triggered by her own vivid recollection of events. She won’t forget it in a hurry and she’s flattered to hear it was just as memorable for Lexa too. But also, it feels like a point of pride that she made Lexa’s cool girl veneer slip, even if she wasn’t there to witness it in person.

“Now I feel partly responsible for this tragic loss of earnings and broken glassware.”

“I said you were trouble.”

They inch closer, eyes glued to lips, their breath hot on one another’s faces.

“How can I make it up to you?” Clarke asks.

“I have some ideas.”

Her mind can’t help going to the aforementioned strap.

All smiles, they surrender to the magnetic pull. The world around them recedes. There’s only Lexa’s mouth on hers, soft yet urgent, and the tingles that erupt all over, Clarke’s pulse accelerating when long fingers thread into her hair again.

And it’s sublime.

Close to perfection.

She can almost hear the swell of imaginary violins soundtracking the moment—until a smattering of shrill wolf whistles pierces through the bliss.

The kiss breaks on a huff of shared, quiet laughter. Clarke’s eyes slide across to the jetty, where they’re being enthusiastically toasted by their neighbours. She groans and drops her forehead to Lexa’s shoulder, breathing in the saltwater, sun-warmed scent of her before showing her face again.

“I believe that’s our cue to leave,” Clarke says.

The long, lidded look Lexa favours her with, eyes shaded darker by desire and the hint of some deeper emotion that feels altogether too big, too soon to acknowledge, has Clarke battling the urge to launch herself at Lexa’s lips again, regardless of the unwanted spectators nearby.

“Keep that up, Lex, and they might really have something to holler about—and possibly livestream on the internet.”

A faint smile reappears. “What am I doing, Clarke?”

“Looking. Giving me those” - she gestures vaguely - “eyes.”

It loosens a small laugh. Lexa lowers her gaze and Clarke regrets mentioning it now, because it feels like the sun momentarily disappearing behind the clouds when Lexa’s thrilling, singular focus isn’t on her.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

Lexa looks up, and the restored eye contact makes Clarke’s blood pump faster.

She lets out the breath she was holding. “Maybe I like it more than I should, considering.”

“Considering…?”

“I won’t be here next week.”

Pragmatic; matter-of-fact. A reality check and a casual reminder they both need to hear before they throw themselves headlong into… whatever this thing is between them: it has an expiration date.

In the lull, Lexa scans every millimetre of Clarke’s face and she hopes the nerves don’t show through the front she’s putting on.

After a moment, the corner of Lexa’s mouth lifts into a smirk, but it seems slightly forced. Her eyes are more pebbly, neutral grey than green. “Then let’s make sure you have good memories to take home with you.”

#vacation au #cool for the summer #clexa fic #my fic

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brandyschillace · 6 months ago

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Authors Support Authors

When no one else can be relied on, other writers will be there.

Being an author is a *ride* my friends. I have done signings where there are lines of people. And some where three people came, one of which was my partner and one my best friend. I’ve been flown places and feted... And I’ve been ignored by the people who invited me (who seemed shocked and annoyed at my very presence). I’ve had readers tell me I changed their lives. I’ve had readers tell me a toddler with a dictionary could do better.

But you know what has never waivered—at least in my experience? Other authors are almost unfailingly supportive. Of course there are exceptions, I’m sure. But I’ve been cared for by writers all my career; they are the support system, they are the ones who lift all the boats. Authors know that this is a mad, precarious, bizarre path with few safe havens. They will be there for you.

#authors #writers #author community #support writers #publishing #books #neil gaiman #Alex Grecian #Stephen Gallagher #Christopher Fowler #ellen datlow #cory doctorow #all have been supportive

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marzipanandminutiae · 8 months ago

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do you think lucille and thomas celebrated their birthdays?

christmas?

I think they observed their birthdays, yes. Thomas since he was maybe two or three- official celebrations with a lavish cake and presents until he disappointed James by becoming...well, himself, and pilfered biscuits and sketches or beautifully-written story booklets from Lucille after that.

Nobody bothered celebrating Lucille's birthday until Thomas was old enough to notice that he got feted and she didn't. At which point it had to be remedied at once, and every year on April 1st, he found a way to give her some carved or clockwork trifle. His biscuit-stealing operations were less successful- getting caught meant a swift "I made him do it" and canings for the birthday girl, which were not his intent at all. So she didn't always get a sweet like he did. But she got Something, and ample expressions of Thomas' love, which was more than an utterly unwanted child could have hoped for.

(They only even know Lucille's birthday because their canonical nanny, Theresa, celebrated it for the few years she was with them.)

When they're adults, the cakes return- Lucille is a fairly decent baker -and he always gets her at least one present every year that leads her to chide him for spending money on it. But she's clearly happy in her own subtle way, each time, so he keeps up the tradition.

As for Christmas...I imagine there were some family festivities for appearances' sake when James was alive, and not much at all after that. They never learned to love Christmas- Thomas might have liked it well enough with his aunt and uncle, after Beatrice's murder, but Lucille had no such experience and has no use for it as a result. And he's not willing to rock the boat for it, so. No Christmas for the adult Sharpes.

Fun fact: per the character bios, Edith canonically dislikes Christmas. I imagine it's because of all the social engagements involved- she does "take a dim view of social frivolity," after all, and being Carter's hostess during the holidays must be exhausting.

I actually wrote an OT3 Christmas fic a few years back, though, and you can read it here if you like!

#ask #anon #crimson peak #headcanons

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doueverwonder · 6 months ago

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Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist—I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened you—sit down and tell me all the news.”It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pávlovna Schérer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. With these words she greeted Prince Vasíli Kurágin, a man of high rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception.

Anna Pávlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used only by the elite.All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran as follows:“If you have nothing better to do, Count (or Prince), and if the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10—Annette Schérer.”

“Heavens! what a virulent attack!” replied the prince, not in the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke in that refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pávlovna, kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the sofa.“First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are.

Set your friend’s mind at rest,” said he without altering his tone, beneath the politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony could be discerned.“Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times like these if one has any feeling?” said Anna Pávlovna. “You are staying the whole evening, I hope?”“And the fete at the English ambassador’s? Today is Wednesday. I must put in an appearance there,” said the prince. “My daughter is coming for me to take me there.”“I thought today’s fete had been canceled.

I confess all these festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome.”“If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have been put off,” said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force of habit said things he did not even wish to be believed.“Don’t tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosíltsev’s dispatch? You know everything.”“What can one say about it?” replied the prince in a cold, listless tone. “What has been decided?

They have decided that Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours.”Prince Vasíli always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale part. Anna Pávlovna Schérer on the contrary, despite her forty years, overflowed with animation and impulsiveness.

To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it did not suit her faded features, always played round her lips expressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect, which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to correct.In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pávlovna burst out:“Oh, don’t speak to me of Austria.

Perhaps I don’t understand things, but Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is the one thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will not forsake him.

He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in the person of this murderer and villain! We alone must avenge the blood of the just one.... Whom, I ask you, can we rely on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and cannot understand the Emperor Alexander’s loftiness of soul. She has refused to evacuate Malta.

She wanted to find, and still seeks, some secret motive in our actions. What answer did Novosíltsev get? None. The English have not understood and cannot understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what have they promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will not perform!

Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all Europe is powerless before him.... And I don’t believe a word that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty destiny of our adored monarch.

He will save Europe!”She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.“I think,” said the prince with a smile, “that if you had been sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King of Prussia’s consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me a cup of tea?”“In a moment. À propos,” she added, becoming calm again, “I am expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte de Mortemart, who is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best French families.

He is one of the genuine émigrés, the good ones. And also the Abbé Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been received by the Emperor. Had you heard?”“I shall be delighted to meet them,” said the prince. “But tell me,” he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief motive of his visit, “is it true that the Dowager Empress wants Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary at Vienna?

The baron by all accounts is a poor creature.”Prince Vasíli wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were trying through the Dowager Empress Márya Fëdorovna to secure it for the baron.

Anna Pávlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was pleased with.“Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her sister,” was all she said, in a dry and mournful tone.As she named the Empress, Anna Pávlovna’s face suddenly assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke beaucoup d’estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness

.The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pávlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak as he had done of a man recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she said:“

Now about your family. Do you know that since your daughter came out everyone has been enraptured by her? They say she is amazingly beautiful.”The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.“I often think,” she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate conversation—“I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life are distributed.

Why has fate given you two such splendid children? I don’t speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don’t like him,” she added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. “Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than anyone, and so you don’t deserve to have them.”And she smiled her ecstatic smile.“I can’t help it,” said the prince. “Lavater would have said I lack the bump of paternity.”

“Don’t joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves” (and her face assumed its melancholy expression), “he was mentioned at Her Majesty’s and you were pitied....”The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly, awaiting a reply. He frowned.“What would you have me do?” he said at last.

“You know I did all a father could for their education, and they have both turned out fools. Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That is the only difference between them.” He said this smiling in a way more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles round his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and unpleasant.“And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a father there would be nothing I could reproach you with,” said Anna Pávlovna, looking up pensively.“I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my children are the bane of my life.

It is the cross I have to bear. That is how I explain it to myself. It can’t be helped!”He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate by a gesture. Anna Pávlovna meditated.“Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?” she asked. “They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I don’t feel that weakness in myself as yet, I know a little person who is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary Bolkónskaya.”

Prince Vasíli did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of the head that he was considering this information.“Do you know,” he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad current of his thoughts, “that Anatole is costing me forty thousand rubles a year? And,” he went on after a pause, “what will it be in five years, if he goes on like this?” Presently he added: “That’s what we fathers have to put up with.... Is this princess of yours rich?”

“Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country. He is the well-known Prince Bolkónski who had to retire from the army under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed ‘the King of Prussia.’ He is very clever but eccentric, and a bore. The poor girl is very unhappy. She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-camp of Kutúzov’s and will be here tonight.”“Listen, dear Annette,” said the prince, suddenly taking Anna Pávlovna’s hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. “Arrange that affair for me and I shall always be your most devoted slave-slafe with an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich and of good family and that’s all I want.”

And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he raised the maid of honor’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in another direction.“Attendez,” said Anna Pávlovna, reflecting, “I’ll speak to Lise, young Bolkónski’s wife, this very evening, and perhaps the thing can be arranged. It shall be on your family’s behalf that I’ll start my apprenticeship as old maid.”

faust, tolstoy, y'all really are making sure i'm well read tonight.

#aperson&theheam

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freetheshit-outofyou · 2 years ago

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I was today years old when I learned this, I should have learned it much sooner.

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causewealwayshaveeachother · 1 year ago

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📓📓📓

damn THREE books...

1 tattoo artist/reference desk librarian

what if a tattoo artist and a reference desk librarian fell in love...

reggie: a tattoo artist with a passion for reading dense academic textbooks and their bibliographies and a crush on the reference desk librarian who always seems to be on shift when he goes in

alex: a reference desk librarian with a hobby for gossipping about frequent patrons and a massive crush on his favorite grad student - though for what field he's not yet certain

the plot: reggie is a frequent visitor of alex's library in search of literally just random shit he's interested in learning about. alex is utterly convinced he's a student at the university (don't worry about what the relationship is between the library, the university, and the public) and is determined to figure out what his field of study is without asking, through the power of gossipping about it with his friends

reggie and willie have a tattoo shop together. the tattoo shop is called Sparkwheel's Tattoos and Piercings. it is named after ur nicknames for reggie and willie for each other being sparky and wheels <3 it's also named after the fact that in this fic their last names are both sparkwheel. also they have matching sparkwheels tattooed on their heels <33

"Oh, we're not married," Reggie said. "We just have the same last name for way weirder reasons."

2 the soulmate goose of enforcement

my discord avatar is dex from check please. read this

the world: what if instead of any one soulmate au, it was all of them? luke lives in a world where your 16th birthday coincides with the reveal of how, exactly, you're going to find your soulmate, as anticlimactic or exciting as it may turn out to be. he was like 100% certain he was gonna get something music-related. instead he got a goose.

luckily, he meets his soulmate pretty soon after that! unluckily, the goose does not go away as planned. weird.

and thus begins the ever-expanding quasi-platonic polycule of luke's soulmates, their soulmates, their friends, and etcetera. he does eventually find a romantic soulmate too. unfortunately by that point he's too used to everyone ending up being platonic soulmates to realize

oh yeah also it's a royalty au bc it was inspired by a round of troped. remember troped? man.

3 the pirate willexie one where i steal a country name from fete for a king even though i'm only on chapter 6

reggie, fleeing a shitty homelife and following in the footsteps of his best friend, fakes his death for the life insurance payout and becomes a thief. an indeterminate amount of time later, he finally returns to his hometown to retrieve what was left to him in the finally-unsealed will of his missing-presumed-dead best friend. unfortunately, he's super recognizable to like, everyone in the house at the time. and robbing it. time to flee! oh no he's been cornered at the docks! time to jump on a boat as it leaves!

willie is the captain of a transgender pirate ship weilding a leverage-ass understanding of what an EMP cannon is or how it functions. his crew includes: - julie, the first mate/medic/musician -flynn, the tech guy/navigator -luke, the munitions guy/musician -bobby, the head cook -nick, who's just kind of there it's a very exciting time when reggie jumps aboard fleeing the cops. willie loves fleeing the cops and he loves cute boys and he loves having an extra hand on the boat so this whole situation is a win-win-win

alex ran away to sea, is now missing presumed dead. sad!

this fic features: transgenderism! flynn and luke being aro besties! my anger at the concept of a child star! small european countries! a lot of research into what the letters before boat names mean!

#tattoo artist/reference desk librarian #soulmate goose of enforcement #a classic where are they now #reggie's genderverse #s.s. stands for a very specific thing which is not what a lot of fictional s.s. boats are. and it's not Sailing Ship #sailing ships are actually denoted by s.v. for sailing vessel #km #asks #jatp

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graceandfamily · 1 year ago

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S.A.S la Princesse Grace et Jean-Louis Medecin, maire de Monaco, allument la barque pour celebrer la Fete de la Sainte-Devote le 28 Janvier 1978. Prince Grace and Jean-Louis Medecin, mayor of Monaco, burn the boat during Sainte Devote celebration on january 28th, 1978.

#princess grace #1978

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just-syxx · 1 year ago

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Trini boat fete

#boat vibez

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yatescountyhistorycenter · 2 years ago

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From Penn Yan, with love

By Jonathan Monfiletto

Depending on how you look at it, it was either the height of the Cold War or the early days of this standoff between the United States of America and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Fourteen years after World War II ended, the Iron Curtain had indeed descended as Russia wrestled Eastern European countries into its orbit, and the Space Race was on after Sputnik and Sputnik II were launched. Still, the Cuban Missile Crisis had not yet unfolded, the Vietnam War had not yet erupted, and there were still more than 30 years before the USSR fell along with the Berlin Wall.

Amid this period of tension – sometimes with sharp words, other times with nuclear threats – as the world’s two superpowers stared each other down, a dozen Soviet graduate students – with an average age of 27 – spent a week in Penn Yan in November 1959, during a monthlong tour of the United States. They visited various businesses and industries and other establishments, and they learned about what life is like in a democratic, capitalist society during what was billed as an activity to build better international cooperation and understanding.

The group, which also included three American guides, arrived in Penn Yan on Wednesday, November 4 from the Boston, Massachusetts area – having visited Harvard University, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, WGBH Educational Television, and the like – and then departed Penn Yan one week later for a two-day visit to Washington, D.C. and a weeklong stay in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. One of these things is not like the others, as the old Muppets song goes, but it seems Penn Yan got the nod for a tour stop because of its prior connections to the Experiment in International Living, one of the entities that organized the experience.

But unlike the group’s other stops, Yates County could offer a look into life in a rural, agrarian community. While six local families each housed two of the Soviet group members during their weeklong stay, the activities during the day kept the Soviet students learning about the agricultural and industrial components of the area and enjoying the recreation offered by the Finger Lakes region. Following a reception at the Oliver House on Thursday, November 5, the group took a walking tour of downtown Penn Yan and later visited three local farms – the Loomis poultry farm, the Miller dairy farm, and the Emerson poultry processing plant. The next day took them to Cornell University to tour the campus as a whole and then visit the animal husbandry, agricultural engineering, and home economics schools.

Other notable activities included attending classes and an assembly at Penn Yan Academy, touring Penn Yan Boat Company and Urbana Wine Cellar, and being feted at a dinner held by the Penn Yan Central School District Adult Education Advisory Council on the final night in the village. There was plenty of time in the itinerary for fun, however – group rides on Keuka Lake and even group flights over the lake as well as the senior play, a high school football game, a bowling outing, free time with their host families, and more. Civic organizations from the Chamber of Commerce to the Rotary Club to the American Legion and other groups hosted the visitors at different points in time.

The group included a medical student, a correspondent for a youth newspaper, a post-graduate agricultural student, a pianist, and even an actress, who was the only member of the group to be singled out in a newspaper headline. None of them had visited the United States before, but all of them seemed to leave with a good impression, especially of the Penn Yan and Yates County community. The goodwill extended to their hosts as well, as the families who hosted the Soviet students wrote letters – now contained within the subject files of the Yates County History Center – commenting on their positive interactions and experiences with their foreign guests. The local American Legion, seemingly contrary to its tenets, even allowed the students to use its facilities to celebrate the 42nd anniversary of the Russian Revolution – an event compared to the Fourth of July in an editorial in The Chronicle-Express.

Generally, the Penn Yan families who hosted the Soviet students had good things to say about their guests and the visit, noting the students were well mannered and well educated and the families and their visitors enjoyed discussing their respective lifestyles without getting into politics. Two main criticisms of the weeklong tour were the television coverage that distracted the Soviet students from the task at hand and the lack of free time in the schedule with which the students could have spent more time with their host families. Overall, it seems as if everyone – the Soviet students and their American hosts alike – believed the experience was a pleasant and worthwhile undertaking.

The words of one of the Soviet students, Vadim Loginov, as quoted in a newspaper article, might sum up the feelings of goodwill on both sides of this moment of U.S.-Soviet cooperation: “We know we have a different approach to things, and a different philosophy of life, but we did not come here to look for the differences, but rather want to see the many things we share alike.”

#history #historyblog #museum #archives #yatescounty #pennyan #america #russia #soviet #ussr #coldwar

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thescribblingtourist · 2 years ago

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From Chester to Cattlewash

Meet George and Barbara Wilson – unofficial Canadian ambassadors to idyllic Barbados.

Written By Richard Perry

Nova Scotia natives George and Barbara Wilson have made 27 trips to Barbados.

Driving north on the Ermy Bourne Highway it was becoming harder to keep our eyes on the road. To our right, three thousand miles of uninterrupted Atlantic swells were breaking on the beach. To our left, the sloping green hills of eastern Barbados displayed lush vegetation and the swaying leaves of breadfruit and coconut trees.

But as we passed giant Round Rock (an Instagram favourite), we saw the smiling Barbara Wilson, waving from her lawn in front of the big green cottage she had told us to look for “just across from the rock.”

We’d arrived in Cattlewash, named years ago when farmers walked their cattle down to the beach so saltwater could provide some relief to fly bites. These days it is a tiny rural neighbourhood serving two ends of the age spectrum: retirees looking to get away from it all and hipster surfers from around the world who ride giant waves in international competitions.

“Welcome to Cattlewash. Come on in.” said George. “May I offer you a drink…rum punch perhaps?”

The Wilsons have lived in several Maritime communities during their careers, but now make their home in Chester, Nova Scotia.

George is a tall, boyishly handsome 84-year old, a former head of sales for Kraft/General Foods in Atlantic Canada. With his velvety smooth, measured voice he could pass for a diplomat, well-suited to moving in high circles.

Barbara, now 80, was a nurse and wound care specialist who trained at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal. More than once she’s had to treat friends on the island for everything from heat stroke to burns from a leaking gas stove.

Like her husband, Barbara has fallen in love with the Bajan people and their lifestyle.

“On some level, we equate it to the openness and friendliness of Newfoundland, which we both love,” she said. In their sailing days, they cruised the southwest coast, visiting outports and making friends with locals who helped tie up their boat. One couple invited them to their wedding.

We’d been tipped off about the Wilsons by fellow Nova Scotian John Cavill, a retired Air Canada public relations executive and a current representative for Barbados Tourism Marketing, Inc. In a country that relies heavily on tourism dollars and foreign exchange revenue, loyal repeat vacationers like the Wilsons are routinely feted at glitzy events hosted by the Prime Minister. This year marked their 27th trip to ‘Little England.’

“At our reception, two children in their school uniforms opened our car door,” said Barbara. “They were so polite and engaging. Inside, we were met with steel pan drums and children singing Beautiful Barbados.”

Beautiful, beautiful Barbados Gem of the Caribbean Sea Come back to my island Barbados Come back to my island and me.

Please me come back where the night winds are blowing Come back to the surf and the sea You’ll find rest, you’ll find peace in Barbados Come back to my island and me.

“We shook hands with Prime Minister Stuart that night. I told him we’re from Nova Scotia, and that along with Newfoundland we’ve always had a wonderful history of trade with Barbados. I said ‘We always sent salt, fish and lumber. In return, you gave us rum and sugar. We got the better part of that deal!’”

The Prime Minister of Cattlewash

Not five minutes into our hors d’oevres and rum punch, it’s clear why this Canadian couple has no trouble filling the cottage with guests. They are gracious hosts and love to share stories. Their friendships with Bajan neighbours and other vacationers have led to some creative hijinx.

“We have had fun jokingly forming our own government at Cattlewash,” said George. “We had a prime minister who was from Montreal, a Dr. Doug Kinnear who was the doctor for the Montreal Canadiens. He and his wife Katie have been down for about ten or fifteen years, living near us. So we had our ‘government’ meetings'. Barb, as a former nurse, was going to be minister of health. I was minister or tourism or something along those lines.

“Unfortunately, Doug died just last year. So last night at our party we held our glasses up to honour Prime Minister Doug Kinnear of Cattlewash. He was a colourful character. He always had stories about the Habs.”

Dr. Doug Kinnear, the Prime Minister of Cattlewash, treats Habs captain Bob Gainey. Photo credit: Globe and Mail

I found an obituary of their friend. He led the Canadiens’ medical team from 1962 to 1999. During that time, they won an impressive 12 Stanley Cups.

All roads lead to rum

It’s said of Barbados that wherever you see a church, you’ll find at least one rum shack nearby. We checked. It’s true. There are said to be as many as 1,700 rum shacks – on an island only 21 miles long by 14 miles wide!

I was curious if our new friends were fans of the tried and true Bajan rum punch recipe of one part sour, two parts sweet, three parts strong and four parts weak. “Actually, we leave out the weak…the water or juice. Ice cubes are all you really need.”

Seated on their patio, with the ocean in full view and a noisy surf soundtrack, we got into some good stories. Like the time they showed up in the local church, the only whites in the congregation, and the pastor, Father Matthias, invited them to stand up and announce to the flock who they were and where they were from.

“We gave our names and where we’re from in Canada,” said George. “It was pretty quiet. I told them we came because of the warmth of the people, who are very special and then added that we also came for … the Bajan macaroni pie. That’s when they got excited and broke into applause.”

An inauspicious welcome

George still recalls their first day in Barbados back in the late sixties. “In all our excitement, in the darkness I rushed into the water and had no sooner stepped in when I told my friend Bill, a doctor, that I thought a shark had bitten my foot, the pain was that bad. I had stepped on sea urchins. I had 40 barbs in each foot. I spent two weeks with my feet in buckets trying to get them out.”

In Barbados, everything is close. At 432 square kilometres (166 square miles), the entire island covers roughly the same area as St. John’s, Newfoundland. One minute you’re facing the calmer waters on the west coast, where play is the order of the day. Pasty white tourists, mostly from the United Kingdom, Canada and the United States fill the beach chairs and restaurants.

The Wilsons’ front yard view, where the Ermy Bourne Highway skirts the Atlantic Ocean in eastern Barbados.

But head a few miles inland and the landscape changes dramatically. The terrain rises through sugar cane fields, past roadside neighbourhoods (with ubiquitous rum shops) past an occasional long-abandoned windmill. When you climb Cherry Tree Hill facing the wild east coast, the view is stunning – one of those stop and stare moments. It’s hard not to imagine the country’s colonial past and these very fields where slaves worked unbearable days in oppressive heat.

Soon, the twisty, bumpy roads wind down toward sea level and the untamed east coast where the Wilsons have found their Shangri-La, where it is quiet and scenic – just the way they like it.

George and Barbara point to where they like to go for walks. Cattlewash has a beautiful one mile stretch of unbroken beach – said to be among the longest in Barbados.

“We’ve stayed in Sunset Crest in Holetown, and we like to visit,” said Barbara. “and we’ve had a safari tour into places that are like jungles, so dense and gorgeous. But when we come over that hill and in view of the sea and feel the trade winds, ahhh…coming down the hill…everything falls off and it is so lovely seeing the sea.”

-30-

#Barbados #AirCanada #bajan #travel #Bathsheba #MyBarbados

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