#hotel st Philip

[nakeddeparture]

Alex Elijah Moore, 20 - CHARGED with Homicide #7: Adio Pile-Agard - Hotel St Philip/Dodds - Barbados.

https://youtu.be/yosjNr-ek6w

The blighted name: Pile. Naked!!

Like/share/SUBSCRIBE to my YouTube channel - ✔️🔔/HAVE YOUR SAY/comment on YouTube (it costs you nothing). WhatsApp #2527225512.

[tiarascrowns]

CHAUMET ART DECO DIAMOND TIARA

"Property from the Collection of Margaret Thompson Biddle

CHAUMET ART DECO DIAMOND TIARA Old-cut diamonds, platinum (French marks), circa 1930, maker's mark.

Margaret Thompson Biddle was born in Helena, Montana in 1896. She was the daughter of notable copper miner and financier, William Boyce Thompson.

Margaret’s father was born and raised around mining in Montana, so it was no surprise that he went on to make a name for himself in the copper mining industry. He attended the prestigious Philips Exeter Academy in New Hampshire, and Columbia University. After retiring from the New York Stock Exchange around 1915, Thompson’s interests returned back to mining where he founded the Newmont Mining Corporation.

Margaret Thompson married Anthony Drexel Biddle Jr. in 1931. That year he was also appointed the Minister to Norway by President Roosevelt, and then Ambassador to Poland 1937. This role led Biddle and his family all over the world. After fleeing Poland in 1939, they landed in England for one of Anthony’s commissions. In this position, he worked with the governments-in-exile of Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Poland and Yugoslavia. Biddle held numerous ambassador positions in the years that followed before re-enlisting in the army in 1944.

Margaret relocated to France after she and Anthony separated at the end of World War II. She had a home on the French Riviera, and a spectacular hotel particulier on the notable boulevard St. Germain in Paris. Not only was she a writer and author of The Women of England, Margaret was also known to be quite the hostess and socialite. One could find the Eisenhowers, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, and many other notable French creatives at her soirees.

In addition to having a wonderful jewelry collection, Margaret was an avid collector of fine porcelain, silver, home furnishings and art by the most distinguished artists and makers. She gifted a 1,575 piece dinnerware service to former First Lady Eisenhower. Select pieces of the ‘Vermeil’ collection are still on display at The White House present day."

- Christies

[sgtpeppers]

So after I posted those photos of Linda and Paul yesterday, taken by Allen Ginsberg, I started doing some digging into their relationship with Allen. Maybe this is all old news to everyone, but I found some cool stuff, so thought I'd share!

So Allen first met the Beatles on his 39th birthday, although at this point it was just John, Cyn, George and Pattie (x):

"At the party Allen got completely drunk and stripped off his clothes, putting his baggy underpants on his head and hanging a hotel ‘Do not disturb’ notice around his cock. It was at this moment that two of The Beatles arrived: John with Cynthia, and George with Pattie. John and George quickly checked that no photographers were present. Allen kissed John on the cheek, and John told him that he used to draw a magazine at art school called the Daily Howl [in reference to Ginsberg’s poem Howl]; they were friendly enough and accepted drinks, but then made quickly for the door. I asked John why he was leaving so soon. ‘You don’t do that in front of the birds!’ he hissed in my ear." 

Many Years From Now, Barry Miles

Despite this interesting first meeting, it looks like they went on to be friends with all of them, including Paul. In 1967 Allen gifted Paul an early copy of his book 'TV Baby Poems', with the following inscription:

“For Paul McCartney That all fantasies harmonise sweetly & also Hari Krishna!”

(x)

In the same book, Allen actually name drops John and Paul, in the poem Middle of a Long Poem on These States: Kansas City to St. Louis.

You can read the full poem here, but also... here's the section that they're mentioned in:

Paul later goes on to use the phrase 'Electric Arguments' as the title of his 2008 The Fireman album. And I'm just gonna... leave that there.

It seems like they became closer friends in the 90s, and Allen talks about his friendship with Paul in this interview:

I had been talking quite a bit to [Paul] McCartney, visiting him and bringing him poetry and haiku, and looking at Linda McCartney’s photographs and giving him some photos I’d taken of them.

And around this point, Allen and Paul collaborated on an accompanied version of Allen's poem The Ballad of the Skeletons.

Here's Paul talking about how he got involved, but the TLDR is that Allen called him asking if he knew a guitarist that would accompany him at the Royal Albert Hall, and after recommending a couple of people, Paul assumed it was Allen's round about way of asking him.

The performance is so so good, you can watch the full thing here:

Paul just looks so happy doing it!

They also went on to record a version of this as well, which had a more complicated instrumental composed by Paul and then recorded with Allen on vocals, Philip Glass on keyboards, Paul on guitar, drums, Hammond organ and maracas, Lenny Kaye on bass, Marc Ribot on guitar and David Mansfield on guitar. - you can read more about it here.

And I just love this quote from Allen about working with Paul (from this interview again):

He reacts to the words in an intelligent way. You can hear it on the tape. Like if I say on the recording, “What’s cooking,” all of a sudden he brings in the maracas to get that really funny excitement. When I say, “Blow Nancy blow,” he blows on the Hammond organ. He added a lot of enthusiasm and a lot of interpretation. And sometimes, when I made a flub, he covered it. He left his lead sheet in his guitar case, so we had to share my lead sheet [at Albert Hall], which was fun.

I just love finding out all these random little things Paul has been involved in, he gets everywhere!

Allen also (tried) to give Paul advice on his poetry (x), and Allen's comments about Eleanor Rigby were one of the things that lead Paul to publish his own poetry in Blackbird Singing.

I used to hang out a bit with Allen Ginsberg in the Sixties, and later on during the last couple of years of his life we became good friends. And he said to me “That Eleanor Rigby is a f- good poem, man.” So I thought, well, he’s no slouch, and so, with Adrian pushing me, I looked at them again, and thought, yes, some of them could be read.

(x)

Allen Ginsberg unfortunately passed away on the 5th April 1997, about a year before Linda, but it seems like those last few years of Allen's life included a really beautiful, collaborative friendship with them!

[piratefalls]

i'm back with a header i like a lot more. this one's a little shorter than usual, but still has a little of everything. also, instead of individual links we've graduated to a masterlist!

masterlist.

you've ruined my life (by not being mine) by coffeecatsme

“I have a secret,” Alex whispers in his ear—he’s sprawled over Henry on the couch, calves and thighs and chests pressed together, breath washing over Henry’s skin. “I shouldn’t tell you.” “Oh?” Alex nods vehemently. “Can’t lose you,” he murmurs, fingertips on Henry’s face, and Christ that touch is deadly. “Can’t tell you I love you. You’d leave.” Henry stares. “Oh.”

i speak in grey (to match the shades on the inside of my brain) by sticktothescript

He spends all of that week researching what non-binary means, but he pointedly ignores the squirming feeling of excitement in his chest. He’s just curious, that’s all. That’s all it can be. He’s lived his whole life as a man. He’s the First Son. There’s no room for testing boundaries when the people need him. --- or; a 5+1 of Alex Claremont-Diaz exploring gender identity

And The Show Goes On by orestespdf

For the second time that evening, a hand suddenly smacks his shoulder. Henry looks up, expecting Philip, but instead he is greeted with a smarmy smile. Henry’s stomach drops at the sight of the man who stands behind him. “Christopher,” Philip laughs. His brother stands, and he and the man shake hands vigorously above Henry’s head. Henry wants to melt into his seat and disappear. “I’m so glad you could make it. Henry, you remember my mate, Christopher Lewis?” Henry stares down at the intricately folded napkin in front of him. Christopher Lewis: 2011 St Andrews graduate, former head of the Eton rugby club, excellent skier, wine aficionado. Seven years older than Henry. Green eyes. Nice shoulders. Yes, Henry remembers Christopher Lewis. He wishes he didn’t. After years of not seeing him, Henry runs into Philip's old friend again. Fallout ensues.

heartbeats under coats by HypnosTheory

Alex, a DC lawyer on his way back from a work trip, is stranded in New York after a freak blizzard grounds all flights. He gets the last available hotel room on the island, but a freak error means the room is double booked. Unwilling to leave the other stranded, both men agree to share the room and wait out the blizzard together.

don't just give it up. by smc_27

Alex checks the flight path for the 12th time this minute, and then rolls his eyes and groans. Amy, next to him, opens one eye. He apologizes wordlessly and tries to stop being so fucking antsy. Look. Look. He’s got something - someone - fucking perfect waiting for him across the Atlantic. If anyone knew what exactly he’s flying to, they’d speed the plane the fuck up and get him there.

this moment in time by rizcriz

She moves away from the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. “What did you do, Alex?” He turns back to the table and puts his hands in his hair as he leans over the cup of coffee. “I made Henry a christmas card, and snuck it into his bag before he left for London.” “Okay?” “I may have used it as a vessel to confess my feelings for him.” He says it fast, almost too quickly to be understood, but June’s had a lifetime of translating Alex-speak, and he hears her quick intake of breath and pulls his hands from his hair to look over his shoulder at her. -- Or, it's a New Years to remember.

when the silence screams by teacupivy

Today, Henry comes home to a stillness that’s out of place in the usually bustling December air. It's only a little disconcerting. or Alex is incredibly frustrated with the state of life and Henry offers to get on his knees.

i dream of our odyssey by violetbaudelairequagmire

Alex rests his elbows on the counter of the small cafe attached to Bankston’s Books, enjoying the quiet period in between the morning stay-at-home-mom-crying-toddler storytime crowd and the rush of college students that appear in the afternoon. It’s only a couple hours, but it’s nice to have that time with just a few black coffees in between the rush of “pumpkin spice latte and a cakepop” and “quad shot espressos and keep them coming” that dominate the busy periods at the bookstore. He’s not complaining though- he loves this job. He gets a discount on books, no one cares how much coffee he drinks in a shift, and, in the last couple of weeks, he’s had a great view of the new guy quietly shelving books. it's a bookstore au!

Shatter Me by politics_and_prose

Henry is resigned to the life he's meant to lead until he meets a man so full of happiness and life that he's got no choice but to confront the secret he's been keeping for years.

Singularity by OrchidScript

"Henry didn’t try to resist. He’d lost his capacity for it the moment his scruffy looking nerf herder had stood in the White House press room and called Henry his choice. Under the onslaught of purposeful dragging of fingernails, featherlight touches under tables, the pink-bitten promise of more, Henry abandoned all defense. He willingly succumbed to his fiancé’s heated breath and honeyed words." The boys find inspiration in a hotel room armchair.

In Every Universe by clottedcreamfudge

Alex and Henry will find each other in every universe. A series of either explicitly or implicitly soulmate-themed AUs, which are all heading in one very specific direction.

You Remind Me of Home by athousandrooms & ifyoustay

Henry had taken the news that he was being summoned to England early much worse than Alex had. He'd left him with a million apologies on his lips. Alex had swallowed them all with a parting kiss and the promise of seeing him on the 23rd, knowing full well that no matter how much as much as he wished to, he couldn’t afford to travel with him during finals season of his first year of Law School. It's been a week, and Alex... Alex would give anything to have Henry here. But, all's well that ends well, as they say.

well we're not here to fuck ducks by stutteringpeach

Henry is looking for someone to help him with his duck study. He makes quite a serious typo in his 'All Staff' email.

with my name on your lips, tell me how does it taste by viciouslyqueer

“I don’t think anyone will be offended if two... very close friends decide to try it out, H. I certainly won’t.” Alex laughs when Henry fixes him with a half-hearted glare. “And you felt the need to track me down and show me this on a random Tuesday morning because...” Henry trails off with a perfectly arched brow. It’s infuriatingly attractive. Alex braces himself on the table and leans in, stopping with his mouth an inch away from Henry’s ear. He can almost hear him holding his breath. “Because I want to take my time with you, sweetheart,” Alex whispers sweetly. “And this is the perfect opportunity.”

Don't - Don't You Want Me? by absoluteaudacity

Alex is bad at communicating sometimes.

(you might be) someone i could love by weather_stained

(...or you're just somebody I fucked once.) After Henry has an anonymous one-night stand at a party, he can't stop thinking about the boy with the beautiful brown eyes and messy curls. Months later, Pez scores them an invitation to spend Thanksgiving weekend with June Claremont-Diaz, her girlfriend, and her brother, at her family's lakehouse. It could be the second chance he's been looking for, or he could be stuck hopelessly pining for someone who only ever wanted sex.

Locked In by allmylovesatonce

After their night together in Paris, Henry and Alex get quarantined in their hotel, locked in for two full weeks.

hours by demigodbeautiies

Although the White House is fast, the British press is faster. It has to be a leak. An accident. A screw up. There's no way a story like this would be allowed to break if anyone had actual control over the situation. Perhaps the entire headline is wrong, and the agonising lurch in Henry's stomach is for nothing. He reads it again. BREAKING: Son of US President Ellen Claremont abducted, held hostage. Watch for LIVE updates.

Forty-Four Days by bleedingballroomfloor

"God, I haven't seen you in forty-four days," Alex suddenly spits, and Henry feels the pain of his words in his own chest, like ice replacing the blood in his veins. Because that's it, isn't it? Forty-four days of separation. Forty-four days of waking up to an empty bed, of making coffee along with his tea only to realize that Alex isn't there to drink it, of long meetings without any of Alex's witty jokes, of cold hands on chilly autumn walks because Alex isn't there to warm them up. Maybe it's the simple fact of hearing for the first time, or maybe it's the tipping point of the taxing day, but Henry feels something inside of him snap, and — And all he knows is that he needs to see Alex now.

Hope is a Five-Alarm Fire by AnchoredArchangel

“I’m just saying- we know you, Alejandro. I've ran the odds and with your personal history of decision-making and impulse control, there’s a less than four percent chance you of all people didn’t shoot your shot. Even if he’s in the closet. Even if he’s supposedly straight. Even if he’s a prince. You love a good story.” Doesn’t he ever. Too bad he’s never going to get the chance to tell this one. Or: Alex returns to real life after crossing the actual Prince of England off his totally superfluous valid No Consequences Sex List. It does not go quite like he expected.

Wrap Me Up, Unfold Me by @sparklepocalypse

After the Kensington confrontation, Henry gets on the plane with Alex. (Or, Henry and Alex join the Mile High Club in filthy, spectacular fashion.)

Shameless by everwitch

Henry has a lot of sex. A lot. He's young and in college and there is no shortage of men to fall in bed with. What better time to explore what he likes and what he fucking loves, as well as to catalogue how to make his many, many partners feel as good as possible? It’s all part of the learning experience. And Henry is a very dedicated student. Alex has been inescapably aware of Henry ever since that one time they kissed. You don’t just stop being aware of the guy who basically caused your sexuality. So when Henry propositions Alex at a lame frat party, Alex accepts eagerly. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. Maybe, if he can just have Henry once, he’ll have a better chance of finally getting over his embarrassing fixation with Henry. It's worth a try.

3/4ths Cup of Love by inexplicablymine

“What the fuck are you doing with my pinto beans?” “It says I need them for pie weights.” “Hell no, baby, sweetheart. Over my dead body are you using the beans I use for mole for your quiche recipe. I would like us to eat these.” “Hey!” “If you put my beans in the oven, I will make it so you can’t possibly ever put a bun in the oven.” “Noted.” Or, The ups and downs of Henry learning how to perfect his quiche recipe.

A Practical Arrangement by kiwiana

“I know.” In fairness, he didn’t ask his mom to delay the wedding after the betrothal was made official when he turned eighteen. It wasn’t that she expected another option to materialise—he’s pretty sure she was trying to give him and Henry more time to get to know each other, maybe move past their open animosity a little. They’ve been pushed together every few months for the last three years, their marriage an inevitability. “I just… I still can’t quite get my head around it, you know? Married. To Henry.”

if you ever want me to tag you, let me know!

tagging: @starkfridays @stilesgivesmefeels

[spiky-berry21]

Took awhile, but the last of the trio is finally finished! I present to you:

Transcription (due to the trend endlessly blurry images):

Born: 14th of February, 1901

Boston, Massachusetts

Born to Marie and Philip Caradine. Angelique, or ‘Angel’ as she calls herself nowadays, had had a fairly normal upbringing in the early years leading up to 1912. Well... If you discounted the gang her family were associated with.

Being the youngest of the Caradine siblings, she was coddled and babied by her older siblings and parents. Often told by her relatives that she had a wonderful voice. Though, not all was happy in the Caradine household. As a week after her eleventh birthday, her brothers and father would be massacred in an unseen ambush by a rival gang over a turf of land. Forcing her remaining family into a miserable ten years of poverty.

From that point on, Angelique would use the only thing she was ever good at to help her family from falling to famine. That being her voice. Singing for small crowds in the streets, and when she got older, on the stage in dance halls, or really any place that would have her. Whilst her two remaining siblings, Remy and Dotty, would take turns collecting the payments and performing alongside her. That was most likely how she got scouted. Eventually it became a career for her as she reached her early twenties, and at the age of twenty-one, she would leave behind the house she and her family had bought in Tennessee. Travelling around the southern half of America for a few years or so, before moving to St. Louis, Missouri, due to her newfound employment at the ‘Hotel Maribel’. Sure, she lives in a dingy little hotel room on the outskirts of St. Louis. But as long as she kept on moving, things would surely come her way eventually... Right?

Aside from singing her heart out on stage, Angel has shown to be quite proficient in dance. Commonly incorporating a slice of choreography into her performances whenever the moment arises. She has also shown to be quite skilled in the art of gossip, making it all the more chaotic due to her rather sociable nature. And the fact that when you get her to start, you can’t get her to stop. In addition to being the queen of smack-talk, it is relatively unknown to most cats that she speaks a small bit of French. Mostly due to her mother’s French ancestry. Oh, and if you were wondering, yes she does have an accent. She just likes to suppress it.

As always, have a magnifique day/night! 😘

[fromkenari]

Waterloo Letters #4 (3/4): Hometown stuff

Here’s an idea: Do you know, I’ve realised I’ve never actually told you what I thought the first time we met? You see, for me, memories are difficult. Very often, they hurt. A curious thing about grief is the way it takes your entire life, all those foundational years that made you who you are, and makes them so painful to look back upon because of the absence there, that suddenly they’re inaccessible. You must invent an entirely new system. I started to think of myself and my life and my whole lifetime worth of memories as all the dark, dusty rooms of Buckingham Palace. I took the night Bea left rehab and I begged her to take it seriously, and I put it in a room with pink peonies on the wallpaper and a golden harp in the center of the floor. I took my first time, with one of my brother’s mates from uni when I was seventeen, and I found the smallest, most cramped little broom cupboard I could muster, and I shoved it in. I took my father’s last night, the way his face went slack, the smell of his hands, the fever, the waiting and waiting and terrible waiting and the even worse not-waiting anymore, and I found the biggest room, a ballroom, wide open and dark, windows drawn and covered. Locked the doors. But the first time I saw you. Rio. I took that down to the gardens. I pressed it into the leaves of a silver maple and recited it to the Waterloo Vase. It didn’t fit in any rooms. You were talking with Nora and June, happy and animated and fully alive, a person living in dimensions I couldn’t access, and so beautiful. Your hair was longer then. You weren’t evena president’s son yet, but you weren’t afraid. You had a yellow ipê-amarelo in your pocket. I thought, this is the most incredible thing I have ever seen, and I had better keep it a safe distance away from me. I thought, if someone like that ever loved me, it would set me on fire. And then I was a careless fool, and I fell in love with you anyway. When you rang me at truly shocking hours of the night, I loved you. When you kissed me in disgusting public toilets and pouted in hotel bars and made me happy in ways in which it had never even occurred to me that a mangled-up, locked-up person like me could be happy, I loved you. And then, inexplicably, you had the absolute audacity to love me back. Can you believe it? Sometimes, even now, I still can’t. I’m sorry things didn’t go better with Philip. I wish I could send hope. Yours, Henry P.S. From Michelangelo to Tommaso Cavalieri, 1533: I know well that, at this hour, I could as easily forget your name as the food by which I live; nay, it were easier to forget the food, which only nourishes my body miserably, than your name, which nourishes both body and soul, filling the one and the other with such sweetness that neither weariness nor fear of death is felt by me while memory preserves you to my mind. Think, if the eyes could also enjoy their portion, in what condition I should find myself.

McQuiston, Casey. Red, White & Royal Blue: A Novel (pp. 298-301). St. Martin's Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

1 | 2 | 4

[manwalksintobar]

Call It Music  // Philip Levine

Some days I catch a rhythm, almost a song   in my own breath. I'm alone here   in Brooklyn Heights, late morning, the sky   above the St. George Hotel clear, clear   for New York, that is. The radio playing   "Bird Flight," Parker in his California   tragic voice fifty years ago, his faltering   "Lover Man" just before he crashed into chaos.   I would guess that outside the recording studio   in Burbank the sun was high above the jacarandas,   it was late March, the worst of yesterday's rain   had come and gone, the sky washed blue. Bird   could have seen for miles if he'd looked, but what   he saw was so foreign he clenched his eyes,   shook his head, and barked like a dog—just once—   and then Howard McGhee took his arm and assured him   he'd be OK. I know this because Howard told me   years later that he thought Bird could   lie down in the hotel room they shared, sleep   for an hour or more, and waken as himself.   The perfect sunlight angles into my little room   above Willow Street. I listen to my breath   come and go and try to catch its curious taste,   part milk, part iron, part blood, as it passes   from me into the world. This is not me,   this is automatic, this entering and exiting,   my body's essential occupation without which   I am a thing. The whole process has a name,   a word I don't know, an elegant word not   in English or Yiddish or Spanish, a word   that means nothing to me. Howard truly believed   what he said that day when he steered   Parker into a cab and drove the silent miles   beside him while the bright world   unfurled around them: filling stations, stands   of fruits and vegetables, a kiosk selling trinkets   from Mexico and the Philippines. It was all   so actual and Western, it was a new creation   coming into being, like the music of Charlie Parker   someone later called "glad," though that day   I would have said silent, "the silent music   of Charlie Parker." Howard said nothing.   He paid the driver and helped Bird up two flights   to their room, got his boots off, and went out   to let him sleep as the afternoon entered   the history of darkness. I'm not judging   Howard, he did better than I could have   now or then. Then I was 19, working   on the loading docks at Railway Express,   coming day by day into the damaged body   of a man while I sang into the filthy air   the Yiddish drinking songs my Zadie taught me   before his breath failed. Now Howard is gone,   eleven long years gone, the sweet voice silenced.   "The subtle bridge between Eldridge and Navarro,"   they later wrote, all that rising passion   a footnote to others. I remember in '85   walking the halls of Cass Tech, the high school   where he taught after his performing days,   when suddenly he took my left hand in his   two hands to tell me it all worked out   for the best. Maybe he'd gotten religion,   maybe he knew how little time was left,   maybe that day he was just worn down   by my questions about Parker. To him Bird   was truly Charlie Parker, a man, a silent note   going out forever on the breath of genius   which now I hear soaring above my own breath   as this bright morning fades into afternoon.   Music, I'll call it music. It's what we need   as the sun staggers behind the low gray clouds   blowing relentlessly in from that nameless ocean,   the calm and endless one I've still to cross.

[lenetaylor]

The Kellys - Paul McCartney's domestics

George and Gwen Kelly were employed by Paul McCartney for about a year (1966) at his house at Cavendish. The circumstances of their leaving are somewhat mysterious. Here's all the information on them that I could gather from public sources.

Paul bought the house at 7 Cavendish Ave on 13 April 1965 for £40,000. He then spent about £20,000 to renovate and redecorate, finally moving (from the Ashers' house on Wimpole Street) in March 1966. The house had (has) a basement, which served as living quarters for servants, a ground floor, and two floors above it. On the ground floor Paul installed an open-plan kitchen and a formal dining room.

In Paul McCartney: The Life by Philip Norman (2016), he writes: "Paul’s brief to the Adamses [the designers] was the strangest they’d ever received, or ever would again; he said he wanted the kind of house where a smell of cabbage floated up from the basement...In fact, the house had no basement from which cosy cabbage-smells could waft to its upper storeys." 100% wrong: The house does have a basement, and you can see the windows to the basement in some photos. This was a standard design for houses at the time, with the main kitchen in the basement along with quarters for some of the staff. This is where the Kellys lived.

Even though he gets that wrong, we'll continue with Norman's book:

In those same Sunday colour supplements one could read how, if traditional domestic servants might have no place in the egalitarian Sixties, wealthy young bachelors often employed a live-in married couple, usually Spanish, the husband combining the roles of butler and chauffeur, the wife cooking and keeping house. Paul started out at 7 Cavendish Avenue with just such a couple, albeit Irish rather than Spanish and with the reassuring Liverpool-echoey name of Kelly. When he hired them, he gave warning that his household would be anything but a conventional one, and defined their main role as just ‘to fit in’. He soon discovered the drawback in having domestic servants, as noted by writers like Harold Nicolson back in the Victorian country house era: there are always people standing around, eavesdropping on your conversations, obliging you to shut the toilet door (all the more irksome if you’re fond of sitting there, playing guitar) and generally behave as if you’re in an hotel rather than at home. Mr Kelly, evidently seeing himself as Jeeves to Paul’s Bertie Wooster, would ceremonially lay out his young master’s clothes for the day ahead until firmly dissuaded. Pop star pals who stayed overnight, and expected to be left comatose until after noon, would instead be briskly roused by Mr Kelly with early morning tea. On the big dining-room table, he placed a display of silverware whose highly-polished formality was too much even for Paul; to annoy them, he’d take out the ornate silver cruet and put a cheap plastic one in its place.

The "to fit in" quote is from a short piece that appeared in the London Sunday Times on September 18 1966, by Hunter Davies, titled "ATTICVS: All Paul":

Paul McCartney was in his new mansion in St. John's Wood. He lives alone. A Mr. and Mrs. Kelly look after him. Nothing so formal as a housekeeper and butler. Their job, he says, is just to fit in.

Barry Miles, in Many Years From Now (1997), picks up the silver cruet story:

There was a large dining table with an antique lace tablecloth, which was always beautifully set with all the appropriate cutlery, but it had a plastic salt cellar and pepper shaker in the centre. Paul owned silver ones but insisted on using the cheap ones, mainly to annoy the housekeeper, Mrs Kelly, and her husband, who had previously worked for gentry and let it be known, not very subtly, that they regarded their new position as a step down in the world. The husband had initially attempted to continue his role as gentleman's gentleman by laying out Paul's clothes each morning until Paul made it abundantly clear that this was not required. Every time they set the table the silver cruet was laid and each time Paul replaced it with the plastic one. Paul fired them for selling their story to an Australian magazine... “I had this live-in couple called the Kellys who would wake you up early in the morning like everything was just going normally and we had just stayed up all night and it was like, 'Go away please!'”

Nicholas Schaffner's book The Beatles Forever (1977) has this information from George Kelly:

George Kelly, a veteran of 16 years of service in the Royal Army who went on to become butler and chauffeur at some of Britain’s most stately homes before being hired by Paul McCartney in 1966, recalls with distaste in his memoirs having to bring morning tea for two to Paul’s bedroom when Jane was away, and having to endure the sight of the Beatle stubbing out ciggies on his silver Ivor Novello awards. But nothing seems to have unhinged Kelly more that the time he accidentally stumbled in on “one of the most bizarre scenes I have ever witnessed. There, in front of the television set, were the highest-paid pop group in the world and their manager, bowing down and salamming, chanting and dancing with one another!” Kelly recalls making his way through the billowing incense and flashing colored strobelights to give Paul a message, but “nobody took the slightest notice of me. They were all on their own little clouds. So as the Eastern music…grew louder, I just left the room quietly.” Shortly afterward, the butler handed in his notice, but not before receiving lectures from his employer about the benefits of LSD: “Your whole life flashes before you and you realize all the mistakes you have made.” (p. 76)

Schaffner says this is from Kelly's "memoirs", but I can't find any evidence of these memoirs being published. It's possible Schaffner had access to an unpublished manuscript; the quotes certainly read like something written, not an interview.

In addition to serving morning tea at noon and whatever else they were doing, they had to deal with the endless stream of fans. At Meet the Beatles For Real, Carol Bedford talks about visiting London in the summer of 1966:

“I couldn't have been there for more than two minutes when Mr. Kelly, Paul's gardener, came out screaming and waving a hoe at me. He said that Paul had just come in at 3 a.m. and needed rest. I looked up to see the curtains being rustled on the middle window of the second floor. Mrs. Kelly came out, and when asked if Paul and Jane were married, she answered, "No, of course not! That's a bunch of rubbish!"

(Lizzie Bravo added, "Funny, I remember her husband, Mr. Kelly, we called him "Stick" and he was pretty nasty but I don't remember her...")

So did they quit, or were they fired? They were gone by the end of January 1967. Here's an article published January 12, 1967 that ran in several American newspapers; this was titled "They’ve Had Enough of That Job, Thank You":

George and Gwen Kelly, who were Beatle Paul McCartney’s chauffeur and housekeeper until they quit recently, read a newspaper ad saying a Mr. Brown needed a chauffeur and housekeeper. George telephoned the employment agency that had advertised, said he and wife might be interested and asked for details. “Yes,” said the voice on the telephone. “Your prospective employer lives in St. John’s Wood—” “Did you say St. John’s Wood? We know the area very well. We’ve got friends there. We used to work in St. John’s Wood.” “And the wages are good,” said the agency man. “Go on, please,” said George. “There’ll be lots of entertaining. You will see a lot of interesting people.” “Tell me,” said George, “what sort of a chap is Mr. Brown?” There was a long pause. Then in a low, confidential voice, the agency man said: “Now, you must promise not to say anything, but Mr. Brown is really Paul McCartney—one of the Beatles, you know.” “I know,” said George. “Thank you for your trouble in answering my questions.” “When will you be coming in for an interview?” asked the agency man as George hung up. When the Kellys left McCartney, George said he and his wife thought they would be happier working for someone with more regular hours.

(They're not wrong!)

Back to Norman:

Paul’s live-in domestic couple, the Kellys, had left his employment in January 1967, after Mrs Kelly talked out of turn to an Australian newspaper, though he still hand-wrote her a reference calling her ‘efficient and trustworthy’. After trying another couple, the Millses, he found Rose Martin (no relation to George), an unflappable, unshockable woman who would serve him with irreproachable loyalty and discretion for many years to come. However, Rose was fiercely loyal to Jane, so treated Maggie with barely restrained hostility.

And back to Miles:

Paul asked his housekeepers, the Kellys, to leave after he found that they had written an article about his home life for an Australian magazine. Paul: “Mr and Mrs Kelly are looking for another place and I’m getting another couple to replace them. There have been disagreements over the running of the household. I haven’t asked them to leave instantly because that would be unreasonable.” They were replaced by Mr and Mrs Mills. (“She still hasn’t given me a tune yet,” quipped Paul, referring to popular pianist Mrs Mills.)

And then we have Mike McCartney, who has a different story - here he's talking about his photo of Paul's smashed-up face:

The fab pic was eventually stolen from Cave Avenue by a ‘butler’ and sold to an Italian mag to illustrate ‘wild Beatle drug parties in swinging London’.

(I'm pretty sure he's conflating stories here - I don't remember reading anywhere else that his photo was stolen)

The only contemporary account of their departure I can find in the newspapers is from The Daily Mirror on January 6, 1967.

Beatle’s Staff Driven Out By His Fans By Kenelm Jenour

The married couple who act as housekeeper and chauffeur to Beatle Paul McCartney have given him their notices. The reason: They could not stand the fans any more. The couple, George and Gwen Kelly, have looked after Paul at his £40,000 London home behind Lord’s cricket ground since he moved in almost a year ago. Last night, while Paul was recording with John, George, and Ringo, Mr. Kelly told me: “Paul has been a good boss. But the fans have been a terrible strain. “In fact sometimes it’s been murder. We’ve had no private life at all. “Sometimes we can’t even get into the house because of fans crowding around outside. And we get phone calls from all over the world at all hours of the night.” The Kellys, both aged 40, told Paul on Wednesday of their decision to quit. But they did not set a date for leaving. “We don’t want to leave him in the lurch,” said Gwen in their basement flat at Paul’s home. “We will probably go in four or five weeks.” Engaged Gwen, who once worked with her husband for the Lord Lieutenant of Monmouthshire, went on: “We didn’t even know Paul was a Beatle when we came here. All we knew was that we had been engaged by a Mr. Paul McCartney. “And that’s what we have always called him - ‘Mr. McCartney’ or ‘Sir.” He hates any familiarity.” One thing the Kellys stressed: They are not leaving Paul, the only bachelor Beatle because he wants to get married. “As far as we know - and we probably know him as well as anyone - he has no immediate plans to marry,” said George.

The image at the top of this post is Paul's letter of recommendation for Gwen Kelly, which was sold at auction in 1993 for £250, according to The Paul McCartney Encyclopedia by Bill Harry (2003). It seems to have been sold through Tracks Ltd. in the UK. Here's the description:

A one-page job reference for a housekeeper, Mrs. G. Kelly, who Paul McCartney employed for a brief period in the mid-sixties in his home in Cavendish Avenue, London. Mrs. Kelly resigned as housekeeper due to differences with Paul about the running of the home. The reference dates to 1967. It reads, "Mrs G Kelly, Mrs Kelly worked for me and was a very capable and trustworthy housekeeper. She is an excellent cook and generally very efficient. Paul McCartney". It comes with four black & white modern prints of photographs of Paul McCartney's home which were formerly the property of Mrs. Kelly, (3 of these depict the housekeeper on the forecourt of the house) an original newspaper clipping relating to her resignation and a modern print out of another newspaper cutting. Three of the photographs measure 9cm x 9cm (3.5 inches x 3.5 inches), the fourth measures 10.5cm x 8.5cm (4.25 inches x 3.25 inches). The photographs are not being sold with copyright. The reference letter measures 20cm x 25cm (8 inches x 10 inches). It has tears and tape stains on the folds. The condition of the letter is fair.

Back to Norman:

Paul’s live-in domestic couple, the Kellys, had left his employment in January 1967, after Mrs Kelly talked out of turn to an Australian newspaper, though he still hand-wrote her a reference calling her ‘efficient and trustworthy’. After trying another couple, the Millses, he found Rose Martin (no relation to George), an unflappable, unshockable woman who would serve him with irreproachable loyalty and discretion for many years to come. However, Rose was fiercely loyal to Jane, so treated Maggie with barely restrained hostility.

I have spent considerable time searching online for "the Australian newspaper/magazine" that the Kellys supposedly sold their story to, but I can't find anything at all. Three possibilities:

The story was published in a small paper or magazine but isn't available online or in an archive

They talked to an Australian reporter but the story was never published, perhaps due to pressure from Beatle management (Murdoch involvement? He owned many newspapers in Australia at that time)

It was a rumor that got published as truth and keeps getting recycled; they really left because the situation was intolerable

I can't find any more information about what happened to the Kellys after they left Cavendish. I would love to know the end of their story!

(Honestly, being Paul's housekeeper in 1966 sounds like the worst job in the world.)

[naran-blr]

Beatriz Whistler, Beatrix o Trixie (1857-1896) pintora británica.

Nació en Chelsea, Londres. Era la hija mayor de diez hijos del escultor John Birnie Philip y Frances Black.

Estudió arte en el estudio de su padre y con Edward William Godwin, que era arquitecto y diseñador.

En 1876 se convirtió en la segunda esposa de Edward Godwin. Edward y Beatrice tuvieron un hijo juntos, también llamado Edward y que sería escultor.

En 1885, Beatrice se separó de su marido como resultado de su infidelidad compulsiva.

A través de su amistad con su marido Edward, ella conoce al pintor James McNeill Whistle. Este tenía como amante a Maud Franklin que había sido su modelo principal desde la década de 1870, pero nunca mostró intención de casarse con Maud.

Joanna Hiffernan, fue otra modelo y amante de Whistle.

Tras la muerte de Godwin, Beatrice se casó con James McNeill Whistler en 1888. No se dio publicidad a la ceremonia para evitar la posibilidad de que una furiosa Maud Franklin interrumpiera la ceremonia nupcial. La pareja se fue poco después a París, para evitar cualquier riesgo de una escena con Maud. Whistler había tenido dos hijas con Maud Franklin: Ione y Maud.

Después de casarse, vivieron en Tower House,y en 1889 Whistler y Beatrice se mudaron a Chelsea, Londres. Después de una recepción indiferente a su exposición individual, Whistler decidió de repente que ya había tenido suficiente de Londres. Él y Beatrice se mudaron a París en 1892 y residieron en Montparnasse.

Estaba en la cima de su carrera cuando se descubrió que Beatrice tenía cáncer. Regresaron a Londres en 1896 y se alojaron en el Hotel Savoy mientras buscaban tratamiento médico.

Los retratos que Whistler hizo de ella, La siesta y Junto al balcón, fueron dibujados mientras ella yacía moribunda. Cerca del final, permaneció en coma la mayor parte del tiempo, completamente sometida por la morfina, que se le administraba para aliviar el dolor. Su muerte fue un duro golpe que Whistler nunca superó del todo.

Murió en St. Jude's Cottage en Hampstead Heath el 10 de mayo de 1896 y fue enterrada el día de su cumpleaños, el 12 de mayo, en el antiguo cementerio de Chiswick en el distrito londinense de Hounslow. Después de su muerte, Whistler fue enterrado en la misma tumba que su esposa.

Beatrice firmaba sus obras con un monograma o trébol, "BP", y luego "BG". También expuso como "Rix Birnie" para evitar ser estigmatizada como artista femenina. Quedan pocos de sus trabajos.

Le ponemos cara, pintada por su segundo marido.

Y en fotografía.

[bookingshotelbg]

The City of the Plain

Arrival in Philippopolis

I arrived in Philippopolis on a Sunday evening after a long and tiring 16-hour journey along dusty roads. The horses were tired, but they picked up speed as we reached the cobbled streets of the city. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, trying to make it seem like he had been driving fast all day, which wasn’t true. I was exhausted and not looking forward to the kind of accommodation I would find.

As we entered the city, I saw a lit street, a lively café, and heard cheerful gipsy music. Hotel staff appeared, greeting me warmly. The owner came out, and yes, he had received my telegram! Rooms were ready for me, and I was shown to a nice, clean, simple room. After seeing myself in a mirror, I realized I was covered in dust, with my hair gray from the long journey. But no worries! A bath was waiting for me, followed by a nice little dinner. The wine? A pint of the local variety. Everything seemed perfect!

The City’s Setting and History

Philippopolis is located on the Plain of Thrace, which is incredibly flat and surrounded by tall, jagged mountains. The landscape is dotted with strange, large mounds, like exaggerated molehills. These mounds are ancient burial mounds called tumuli. In the summer, the plain feels hot and steamy, and through the haze, you can see a large hill that doesn’t look big from far away but, up close, shows several smaller hills, almost like a crouching animal. This is a huge piece of uneven granite that rises from the plain Customized Tours Bulgaria.

Many centuries ago, Philip of Macedon built a city on this hill. Today, that city is known as Philippopolis.

The Character of Philippopolis

Philippopolis has a unique character. The city has a strong passion for education, and its people are known for their hardworking nature. Bulgarians aren’t particularly speculative; they prefer stability, focusing on agriculture and the industry of their peasants. However, there are changes, as the Turks have returned to the area, influencing daily life.

The people of Philippopolis have distinct characteristics. They tend to avoid the heat of the summer by seeking shelter or cooler places. During my stay, I visited the Monastery of St. Petka, where I spent a night under the open sky, enjoying the calmness and simplicity of the place.

[skiholidaysbg]

The City of the Plain

Arrival in Philippopolis

I arrived in Philippopolis on a Sunday evening after a long and tiring 16-hour journey along dusty roads. The horses were tired, but they picked up speed as we reached the cobbled streets of the city. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, trying to make it seem like he had been driving fast all day, which wasn’t true. I was exhausted and not looking forward to the kind of accommodation I would find.

As we entered the city, I saw a lit street, a lively café, and heard cheerful gipsy music. Hotel staff appeared, greeting me warmly. The owner came out, and yes, he had received my telegram! Rooms were ready for me, and I was shown to a nice, clean, simple room. After seeing myself in a mirror, I realized I was covered in dust, with my hair gray from the long journey. But no worries! A bath was waiting for me, followed by a nice little dinner. The wine? A pint of the local variety. Everything seemed perfect!

The City’s Setting and History

Philippopolis is located on the Plain of Thrace, which is incredibly flat and surrounded by tall, jagged mountains. The landscape is dotted with strange, large mounds, like exaggerated molehills. These mounds are ancient burial mounds called tumuli. In the summer, the plain feels hot and steamy, and through the haze, you can see a large hill that doesn’t look big from far away but, up close, shows several smaller hills, almost like a crouching animal. This is a huge piece of uneven granite that rises from the plain Customized Tours Bulgaria.

Many centuries ago, Philip of Macedon built a city on this hill. Today, that city is known as Philippopolis.

The Character of Philippopolis

Philippopolis has a unique character. The city has a strong passion for education, and its people are known for their hardworking nature. Bulgarians aren’t particularly speculative; they prefer stability, focusing on agriculture and the industry of their peasants. However, there are changes, as the Turks have returned to the area, influencing daily life.

The people of Philippopolis have distinct characteristics. They tend to avoid the heat of the summer by seeking shelter or cooler places. During my stay, I visited the Monastery of St. Petka, where I spent a night under the open sky, enjoying the calmness and simplicity of the place.

[nakeddeparture]

Kenaz Aaron Crichlow, 24, sentenced to 40 years for the murder of Jeremiah ‘Gunna’ Grannum - Barbados.

https://youtu.be/UK7IF1U045c

Jeremiah was 21 years old at the time of his death. Kenaz made sure he didn’t reach 22 years. There’s a new type of ‘human’ in your streets. Naked!!

Like/share/SUBSCRIBE to my YouTube channel - ✔️🔔/HAVE YOUR SAY/comment on YouTube (it costs you nothing). WhatsApp #2527225512.

[bestours]

The City of the Plain

Arrival in Philippopolis

I arrived in Philippopolis on a Sunday evening after a long and tiring 16-hour journey along dusty roads. The horses were tired, but they picked up speed as we reached the cobbled streets of the city. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, trying to make it seem like he had been driving fast all day, which wasn’t true. I was exhausted and not looking forward to the kind of accommodation I would find.

As we entered the city, I saw a lit street, a lively café, and heard cheerful gipsy music. Hotel staff appeared, greeting me warmly. The owner came out, and yes, he had received my telegram! Rooms were ready for me, and I was shown to a nice, clean, simple room. After seeing myself in a mirror, I realized I was covered in dust, with my hair gray from the long journey. But no worries! A bath was waiting for me, followed by a nice little dinner. The wine? A pint of the local variety. Everything seemed perfect!

The City’s Setting and History

Philippopolis is located on the Plain of Thrace, which is incredibly flat and surrounded by tall, jagged mountains. The landscape is dotted with strange, large mounds, like exaggerated molehills. These mounds are ancient burial mounds called tumuli. In the summer, the plain feels hot and steamy, and through the haze, you can see a large hill that doesn’t look big from far away but, up close, shows several smaller hills, almost like a crouching animal. This is a huge piece of uneven granite that rises from the plain Customized Tours Bulgaria.

Many centuries ago, Philip of Macedon built a city on this hill. Today, that city is known as Philippopolis.

The Character of Philippopolis

Philippopolis has a unique character. The city has a strong passion for education, and its people are known for their hardworking nature. Bulgarians aren’t particularly speculative; they prefer stability, focusing on agriculture and the industry of their peasants. However, there are changes, as the Turks have returned to the area, influencing daily life.

The people of Philippopolis have distinct characteristics. They tend to avoid the heat of the summer by seeking shelter or cooler places. During my stay, I visited the Monastery of St. Petka, where I spent a night under the open sky, enjoying the calmness and simplicity of the place.

[sofiatravels]

The City of the Plain

Arrival in Philippopolis

I arrived in Philippopolis on a Sunday evening after a long and tiring 16-hour journey along dusty roads. The horses were tired, but they picked up speed as we reached the cobbled streets of the city. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, trying to make it seem like he had been driving fast all day, which wasn’t true. I was exhausted and not looking forward to the kind of accommodation I would find.

As we entered the city, I saw a lit street, a lively café, and heard cheerful gipsy music. Hotel staff appeared, greeting me warmly. The owner came out, and yes, he had received my telegram! Rooms were ready for me, and I was shown to a nice, clean, simple room. After seeing myself in a mirror, I realized I was covered in dust, with my hair gray from the long journey. But no worries! A bath was waiting for me, followed by a nice little dinner. The wine? A pint of the local variety. Everything seemed perfect!

The City’s Setting and History

Philippopolis is located on the Plain of Thrace, which is incredibly flat and surrounded by tall, jagged mountains. The landscape is dotted with strange, large mounds, like exaggerated molehills. These mounds are ancient burial mounds called tumuli. In the summer, the plain feels hot and steamy, and through the haze, you can see a large hill that doesn’t look big from far away but, up close, shows several smaller hills, almost like a crouching animal. This is a huge piece of uneven granite that rises from the plain Customized Tours Bulgaria.

Many centuries ago, Philip of Macedon built a city on this hill. Today, that city is known as Philippopolis.

The Character of Philippopolis

Philippopolis has a unique character. The city has a strong passion for education, and its people are known for their hardworking nature. Bulgarians aren’t particularly speculative; they prefer stability, focusing on agriculture and the industry of their peasants. However, there are changes, as the Turks have returned to the area, influencing daily life.

The people of Philippopolis have distinct characteristics. They tend to avoid the heat of the summer by seeking shelter or cooler places. During my stay, I visited the Monastery of St. Petka, where I spent a night under the open sky, enjoying the calmness and simplicity of the place.

[bookingpackagesbg]

The City of the Plain

Arrival in Philippopolis

I arrived in Philippopolis on a Sunday evening after a long and tiring 16-hour journey along dusty roads. The horses were tired, but they picked up speed as we reached the cobbled streets of the city. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, trying to make it seem like he had been driving fast all day, which wasn’t true. I was exhausted and not looking forward to the kind of accommodation I would find.

As we entered the city, I saw a lit street, a lively café, and heard cheerful gipsy music. Hotel staff appeared, greeting me warmly. The owner came out, and yes, he had received my telegram! Rooms were ready for me, and I was shown to a nice, clean, simple room. After seeing myself in a mirror, I realized I was covered in dust, with my hair gray from the long journey. But no worries! A bath was waiting for me, followed by a nice little dinner. The wine? A pint of the local variety. Everything seemed perfect!

The City’s Setting and History

Philippopolis is located on the Plain of Thrace, which is incredibly flat and surrounded by tall, jagged mountains. The landscape is dotted with strange, large mounds, like exaggerated molehills. These mounds are ancient burial mounds called tumuli. In the summer, the plain feels hot and steamy, and through the haze, you can see a large hill that doesn’t look big from far away but, up close, shows several smaller hills, almost like a crouching animal. This is a huge piece of uneven granite that rises from the plain Customized Tours Bulgaria.

Many centuries ago, Philip of Macedon built a city on this hill. Today, that city is known as Philippopolis.

The Character of Philippopolis

Philippopolis has a unique character. The city has a strong passion for education, and its people are known for their hardworking nature. Bulgarians aren’t particularly speculative; they prefer stability, focusing on agriculture and the industry of their peasants. However, there are changes, as the Turks have returned to the area, influencing daily life.

The people of Philippopolis have distinct characteristics. They tend to avoid the heat of the summer by seeking shelter or cooler places. During my stay, I visited the Monastery of St. Petka, where I spent a night under the open sky, enjoying the calmness and simplicity of the place.

[huytas]

The City of the Plain

Arrival in Philippopolis

I arrived in Philippopolis on a Sunday evening after a long and tiring 16-hour journey along dusty roads. The horses were tired, but they picked up speed as we reached the cobbled streets of the city. The driver shouted and cracked his whip, trying to make it seem like he had been driving fast all day, which wasn’t true. I was exhausted and not looking forward to the kind of accommodation I would find.

As we entered the city, I saw a lit street, a lively café, and heard cheerful gipsy music. Hotel staff appeared, greeting me warmly. The owner came out, and yes, he had received my telegram! Rooms were ready for me, and I was shown to a nice, clean, simple room. After seeing myself in a mirror, I realized I was covered in dust, with my hair gray from the long journey. But no worries! A bath was waiting for me, followed by a nice little dinner. The wine? A pint of the local variety. Everything seemed perfect!

The City’s Setting and History

Philippopolis is located on the Plain of Thrace, which is incredibly flat and surrounded by tall, jagged mountains. The landscape is dotted with strange, large mounds, like exaggerated molehills. These mounds are ancient burial mounds called tumuli. In the summer, the plain feels hot and steamy, and through the haze, you can see a large hill that doesn’t look big from far away but, up close, shows several smaller hills, almost like a crouching animal. This is a huge piece of uneven granite that rises from the plain Customized Tours Bulgaria.

Many centuries ago, Philip of Macedon built a city on this hill. Today, that city is known as Philippopolis.

The Character of Philippopolis

Philippopolis has a unique character. The city has a strong passion for education, and its people are known for their hardworking nature. Bulgarians aren’t particularly speculative; they prefer stability, focusing on agriculture and the industry of their peasants. However, there are changes, as the Turks have returned to the area, influencing daily life.

The people of Philippopolis have distinct characteristics. They tend to avoid the heat of the summer by seeking shelter or cooler places. During my stay, I visited the Monastery of St. Petka, where I spent a night under the open sky, enjoying the calmness and simplicity of the place.