#lothian grey

[gobbyteeth]

he was a studious yapper

[corallapis]

Edward Clifford, details from A Lunch Party at Ashridge House (1892). Sitters identified below.

Rt Hon. John ‘Yvo’ Vesey, 4th Viscount de Vesci (1844-1903), husband of (3)

Colonel Hon. Sir Reginald Chetwynd-Talbot (1841-1929), husband of (4), brother of (5, 7, 12, 14, 16)

Viscountess de Vesci (née Lady Evelyn Charteris) (1849-1939), wife of (1)

Margaret, Lady Chetwynd-Talbot (née Stuart-Wortley) (?-1937), wife of (2)

Countess Brownlow (née Lady Adelaide Chetwynd-Talbot) (1844-1917), wife of (15), sister of (2, 7, 12, 14, 16)

Miss Pamela Wyndham (later Baroness Glenconner; Viscountess Grey) (1871-1928), daughter of (10)

Hon. Alfred Chetwynd-Talbot (1848-1913), brother of (2, 5, 12, 14, 16)

Lady Alice Gaisford (née Kerr) (1836-1892)

Mr Harry Cust (1861-1917), cousin and heir of (15)

Mrs Percy Wyndham (née Madeline Campbell) (1835-1920), mother of (6)

George Herbert, 13th Earl of Pembroke (1850-1895), husband of (12)

Countess of Pembroke (née Lady Gertrude Chetwynd-Talbot) (1840-1906), wife of (11), sister of (2, 5, 7, 14, 16)

Countess Cowper (née Lady Katrine Compton) (1845-1913)

Admiral Hon. Walter Carpenter (né Chetwynd-Talbot) (1834-1904), brother of (2, 5, 7, 12, 16)

Adelbert Brownlow-Cust, 3rd Earl Brownlow (1844-1921), husband of (5), cousin of (9)

Marchioness of Lothian (née Constance Chetwynd-Talbot) (1836-1901), sister of (2, 5, 7, 12, 14)

[scotianostra]

Tollcross.

This is a major road junction to the south west of the city centre of Edinburgh, which takes its name from a local historical land area.

The earliest reference to Tollcross dates from 1439 with Tolcors being the typical early form with the cors ending continuing in use to the late 18th century. Towcroce and Tolcroce appear in the early 16th century. Stuart Harris has pointed out that there were no crossroads until modern times and that there is no evidence for such meaning as "toll at a crossroad". He derives the name from cors with cros as a later form (as in Old Welsh toll cors, meaning a boggy hollow) and that the ending -corse would have aptly described the low-lying area beside the now culverted Lochrin Burn running between the slopes of the Burgh Muir and the High Riggs south of the Grassmarket, High Riggs is the area behind the trees in the middle of the pic.

From the earliest, the name has referred to an area of land. It is called "Lands of Tolcross" in a 1649 Charter of Charles II: "South parts of Tollcross owned by Major James Weir" in 1814: "That part of the village of Portsburgh called Tollcross" in 1836. In an Act of 1771 in the reign of George III, when suburbs outside the royalty of Edinburgh were made into districts, one of the districts was "to be one District called Toll-Cross".

Archaeological excavations by Headland Archaeology in 2012, as part of a planning condition in advance of development, found evidence of occupation of the area during the Medieval period. The excavations found the transformation of the area from an agricultural landscape to an industrial area, including the remains of the Lochrin Distillery, a slaughterhouses, Edinburgh Ice and Cold Storage Company’s unit, an ice rink and a garage, that had been built over each other.

Tollcross is at the end of the road which runs from the West End of Princes Street, up Lothian Road, to Earl Grey Street to one of the busiest junctionsin the citym where t leads straight on to Brougham Stree towards The Meadows, to the right on to Home Street, the road leads to Bruntsfield and Morningside, and to the left along Lauriston Place past Edinburgh College of Art, George Herriots School and The University of Edinburgh at Teviot.

[liminalpsych]

Theory: Gawain's horse Gringolet was an Eriskay pony.

Source for Gringolet's coloring: This excellent blog post, Sir Gawain and the Grey Gringolet.

“They brought Sir Gawaine a steed,

Was dapple gray and good att need,

I tell withouten scorne” [268-70, The Greene Knight]

Wikipedia's entry on Gringolet says, "More generally accepted is the suggestion by the prominent Arthurian scholar Roger Sherman Loomis that the French name Gringalet derived from either the Welsh guin-calet ("white and hardy"), or keincaled ("handsome and hardy")."

So he's dapple gray or he's white. (Possibly "linked to a wider Celtic tradition of white horses with red ears." Not important for the purposes of this post.) Both can be true, since true "white" horses are rare; generally they're gray and have whitened as they've gotten older. Thus young Gringolet could be dapple gray while older Gringolet could be white. (It really doesn't take long for them to get really white looking.)

Back to the Eriskay ponies! We know from a recent comprehensive archaeological study that medieval knights rode ponies. Horses that were under 14.2hh / 4'10" / 1.47 meters at the shoulder or smaller. Which is probably about 950 lbs / 430 kg or smaller (weight is based on my 14.2 horse, who's built pretty drafty and heavy boned, and is 950 lbs when he's not too chonky).

Eriskay ponies are between 12 and 13.2 hh (4 ft to 4 ft 6 inches, or 121.92 cm to 137.16 cm) at the top of their shoulder, which is closer to the average of horses at the time of King Arthur and Sir Gawain.

They're from the Outer Hebrides islands in Scotland, originally the Isle of Eriskay. They have long been protected from outside influence by their island location, and so the Eriskay ponies of today are probably pretty close to the ones of the 5th century, at least closer than any of the other native ponies of England, Scotland, etc. Here's a map I found on a Google search of the Scottish islands. The Orkneys, where Gawain would have been from in later Arthurian literature*, are 18-20 at the top/north of the map. Eriskay is in the Outer Hebrides, a tiiiny isle between South Uist (16) and Barra (17) on the far left/west of the map. So not exactly the same place, but close enough, relatively speaking. And I couldn't find anything on native horse breeds of the Orkneys.

* He wasn't from Orkney in the early literature, he was of Lothian. His father was Loth of Lothian, which is in southeastern Scotland in the lowlands, and Loth was later King of Norway in Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain, supposedly by right of being nephew of the former king. Orkney was a separate kingdom with its own king. But he's most popularly associated with Orkney in later literature and in modern fandom, so we're going with it.

Other native Scottish breeds include:

Galloway pony. If this one came in gray, I'd say it's as likely as the Eriskay (especially as Gawain was originally from what is now southeastern Scotland in the early literature aka Geoffrey of Monmouth's work), but it was usually bay or black. Now extinct as a breed, unfortunately. Noted for its “good looks, a wide, deep chest, and a tendency to pace rather than trot", which would have been an advantage on long rides. From Scotland and northern England. Small head and neck, elegant build, eventually absorbed into the Fell pony.

Shetland pony. I think they were probably a little small even for shorter medieval knights. They're 3.3 feet tall at the shoulder maximum. That's 10 hh or about 1 meter tall. 300-500 lbs or 135-225 kg.

Highland pony. They are usually various shades of dun, and taller than the other ponies, and do sometimes show up in dapple gray. We have fewer records and evidence of its history though; we have some descriptions in the 18th century of what's believed to be Highland ponies, but that's about it. I'll accept arguments for some old variety of the Highland pony as Gringolet, but remember that we're looking at the late 5th century, so the late 400's C.E., and I think the modern Highland pony is not going to provide a useful model of whatever Gawain was riding back in the 5th century.

[fineosaur]

url song name

so the rules of the game are to write one song for every letter in your url, and then tag as many people as there are letters in your url.

i haven’t done a tag in a while but i can’t resist music tags. thanks for the tag @salty-wench & @ybbag777 xx

free - florence + the machine

i didn’t know - skinshape

needle in the hay - elliot smith

electricity - riley pearce

old and grey - harrison storm

she hangs brightly - mazzy star

angel in lothian - sam fender

u&me - alt j

rome - solann

i pretty much just shuffled my liked songs till i got songs so enjoy this chaos.

i don’t know which of my mutuals are actually very active since i myself am not the most active person on tumblr. i’m more of a erratically active blogger so i’ll tag the ones I KNOW are still on tumblr.

@stompandhollar my beloved, @wexpyke , @go-catch-a-chickn, @cloudshapedfalls , @nalgenewhore, @catb-fics

[pacifymebby]

what’s ur fav sam song babe

i feel like i think it’s something really depressing like wgo 😭😭

Hahaha that's definitely one of them!

My top 5 are probably

Angel in Lothian

You're Not The Only One

The Borders

All Is On My Side (or wild grey ocean it's mostly depending how sad I am)

Greasy Spoon

I know you only asked for my favourite but they all swap around so often I can't choose just one

[thoughtlessarse]

A small yet fearsome bird was caught on camera hunting and killing a giant rodent on a Scottish golf course – despite being 6000km from home. Mark Begg captured a rare sighting of the Steppe Grey Shrike, or "world's smallest bird of prey". It is believed to have been blown off course from its usual hunting grounds in Asia, on Winterfield Golf Course in Dunbar, East Lothian, on September 18. Fascinating shots show the predatory songbird, known as a "butcher bird", issuing a "death bite" to kill the much larger vole before struggling to carry its mammoth meal to a nearby thicket. The 60-year-old great grandad-of-one then snapped the pint-sized predator impaling its furry victim on twigs before ripping it apart.

continue reading

FTR, a bird of prey is a carnivorous bird that hunts for its food, especially one that preys on vertebrates.

[fendercapaldi]

What is your favorite song by Sam 😊

Probably "The Borders" but also Angel in Lothian and Wild Grey Ocean are up there ❤

[maypoleman1]

6th March

St Baldred’s Day/ Uncle Tom Cobbley And All

Old uncle Tom Cobley and all. Source: Devon Heritage’s postcard collection

On this day in 1794, Thomas Cobbley a prosperous yeoman from Crediton in Devon died. Cobbley was the inspiration for the drinking song Widdecombe Fair which tells the repetitive story of Cobbley and his mates piling onto an unfortunate grey mare to get to the fair. Perhaps the rhyme was knowing mockery of the local squire because Cobbley was a landowner who possessed several horses and had no need to borrow his steed from Tom Pearce. At least two of Cobbley’s gang are mentioned in church records, including Pearce, and Cobbley himself was buried in the churchyard at Sprayton where his grave can still be seen. Apparently Cobbley and his crew, including the long suffering mare, haunt the roads in and out of Widdecombe in eternal search of the fair, which still takes place every September.

Today is also St Baldred’s Day. Baldred’s most noteworthy feat was to remove a dangerous reef between Bass Rock and mainland Lothian by the power of prayer and deposit it on the coast near North Berwick where it still resides.

[gobbyteeth]

hallow's end shenanigans ft. Lothian dressed as Khadgar and Cal as a witch!

[artwayswinchburgh]

Aerial photo credit Gary Baker

Thankyou to everyone for your lovely comments about the mural I really appreciate your kindness. A very big thankyou to everyone who helped and supported making the mural design and install happen Winchburgh Developments, Winchburgh Community Development Trust and West Lothian Council. Wonderful photo's from Gary Baker Photography and John West from Winchburgh Community Growing Group for great mural maintence advice. I really enjoyed being part of the Winchburgh community and chuffed to be part Wincburgh's first artist in residence in phase 1 of the Big W Art community public art strategy for the village.

Here is my inspiration and idea behind the design of the mural:

Our colourful path takes everyone on a joyful journey through Winchburgh’s evolving landscape. We begin below ground, a mosaic of pink, red rock hues, echo the past industries of working and mining the land, featuring the silhouettes of the miner’s rows, at the heart of the community and Winchburgh’s industrial history. The rows like steps, lead us up to the horizon to a spectrum of colour celebrating locals love of capturing the sunrises and sunsets.We then step forward into a nature trail of colourful abstraction of all the unique plants that adapt and evolve in the local landscape from the bings to its woodland’s species like: greater knap wood, corn marigolds, chicory, knotted pearl wort, crowberry, tall melilot, grey field speedwell, greater butterfly orchid and a silver birch woodland - echoing the adaptiveness of the land and its people. Celebrating a community that is growing with a shared interest to explore and nurture the evolving green havens that make Winchburgh a green gateway for West Lothian adventures.

[spoofymcgee]

finally got over my writer's block enough to drop 2.7k words of hurt/comfort uhura/t'pring talking about how pon farr is kind of messed up, actually. enjoy!

(warning: discussions of non consensual situations, specifically in that pon farr isn't something vulcans really get to consent to)

read on ao3

The sofa is soft. Nyota had requested it specifically from the quartermaster, had dragged T’Pring along–nominally to help her pick it out but really just to spend a couple of hours together as Nyota thoroughly vetted every single sofa option available and picked out the one she claimed was best for napping on. She had decided on a plush, low option covered in soft, velvety grey fabric.

T’Pring knows the sofa is soft. She has sat on it nearly every day for the past ten months, has smoothed out the swirls in the fabric more times than she can count.

Despite this, and despite the hand she’s had running over the cushion to her left for the past four minutes, she cannot feel it.

It is a curious sensation, this disconnect from her body. The first time it happened, she was eight and thoroughly overwhelmed by the sensation of having her mind tied to another’s, among the fury of not being allowed to choose her own bondmate and the dehydration borne of her refusal to drink in protest of being ferried out to the sacred sands for the ceremony.

It had seemed like she’d floated out of her body, left it curled up in her bed and gone… elsewhere. Her sister had found her hours later, on the verge of having to be hospitalized, and all she’d gotten for her trouble was a lecture about logic from their mother.

She’d told T’Maia the next time it happened, but her sister had been entirely unsuccessful in convincing their mother to get T’Pring examined by a medical professional, so the episodes had continued well into her adulthood.

Nowadays she has words like ‘dissociation’ and ‘derealization’. She has people who will help her if she asks for it and a therapist she can talk to after the fact.

She doesn’t talk to her mother much anymore.

Right now, though, T’Pring moves her head slowly to find that her other hand is still secured around her mug of tea. She thinks the sensation is uncomfortable. Logically, it should be: the mug is not heatproof and she has been holding it for several minutes. Under normal circumstances, she would have set it down when she got to the couch, but her limbs feel oddly stiff, and she can’t seem to get them to listen to her.

The doors to their quarters slide open and T’Pring jumps, slamming back into her body at startling speed. The tea sloshes over the rim and onto her hand. It burns, and she bites her bottom lip to keep the tears from spilling, which only serves to drive her closer to crying.

“Hey babe,” Nyota says blithely, shucking her jacket to hang it on the rack by the door. “Ugh, you won’t believe what the Lothian diplomats said to the captain today. It wasn’t even his fault this time! Everything he did was textbook perfect according to the packet they sent us. I swear, it’s like they think we won’t notice if–oh, sweetheart.”

Having hung her jacket and slipped off her shoes, Nyota’s come close enough to see the way T’Pring’s hand is reddening around the cup. She drops to her knees in front of the sofa and takes the mug out of her hand gently, setting it on the table and mopping off her hand with the edge of her undershirt sleeve.

“...Thank you,” T’Pring says, barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” Nyota says, getting back to her feet. “I–can you give me five minutes, or is this an immediate kind of situation? Because I literally ran into a yeoman on a coffee run for Sciences on my way back and he was getting Hadrian tea for somebody and–yeah. But if you need me now, I can definitely wait.”

T’Pring sniffs the air and–well, she was raised better than to wrinkle her nose, but the corners of her mouth tighten. Sue her, she’s having a bad day.

“Please go shower,” she says quietly, squeezing Nyota’s fingers. “It can wait a few minutes.”

Nyota squeezes back and nods wordlessly, lifting her hand and brushing a gentle kiss to her knuckles before going.

T’Pring considers staying on the sofa, but–she’s not supposed to sit still when she’s starting to disassociate, so she pulls herself up and carries her mug into the kitchen, spilling it down the drain and focusing on the splash. She should really save it, as it’s organically grown in Kha’lar back on T’Khasi, but she knows she won’t drink it anyway, and it will do no good to let it sit.

She washes the mug, dragging her fingertips over the roughness of the sponge, and then dries it, listening to the rasp of the towel on ceramic.

When she’s done, she goes back to the living room and puts on one of the trashy Earth pop punk songs that Spock has had playing through his head at all hours recently, courtesy of his bondmate. She lets a few strains float through the door between their minds and chases away the joy she feels at the flash of irritation it gets her.

She does simple stretches until Nyota comes back into the living room, wrapped in her softest sweater and fuzzy pajama pants and carrying T’Pring’s favorite blanket. She drops onto the sofa and frowns at T’Pring’s laptop, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Spock has been bothering me with it recently,” T’Pring explains, reaching over to shut it off. “I wanted to return the favor, and besides, it is a good stimulant.”

“It’s one of Jim’s favorites when he’s particularly annoyed,” Nyota says absently. “I’ll have to talk to him about it.” She shakes herself lightly, turning her gaze back to T’Pring. “Not now, though. You wanna sit?”

T’Pring hesitates. “You have had a difficult day, and–”

Nyota rolls her eyes. “And I’m still going to be here to support you. If I needed a raincheck, I would tell you.”

T’Pring nods slowly and crosses the room, sitting next to her and wrapping the blanket around her shoulders when Nyota nudges it into her lap.

“It is about… next month,” she says after a long pause, her eyes trained on the coffee table. A swell of frustration rises in her sternum at the emotion leaking into her voice, and at the fact that she cannot manage to talk clearly about this subject, even with Nyota, who she intends to spend the rest of her life with. That is the problem with cultural taboos.

“With Pon Farr?” Nyota asks, and T’Pring nods. “Baby, I promise, I’m–” she cuts herself off, drawing back. “Nope. It’s not that, is it?”

Something warm blooms under T’Pring’s breastbone. No one before Nyota has ever trusted T’Pring to voice her insecurities, understood that she may not be entirely unshakable in her convictions but she asks for reassurance when she needs it.

“No,” T’Pring agrees, pulling the blanket a little tighter and reaching for Nyota’s hand. She takes it without a second thought, twining their fingers together in a way that steals T’Pring’s breath every time. “You have told me that you are fine with it. I trust you. It’s–” she breaks off, grimacing slightly and earning a gentle squeeze for her troubles.

“It’s okay,” Nyota says quietly.

T’Pring nods and takes a moment to center herself, draws a few deep breaths, and starts again. “Since I was too small to see the kitchen countertops I have been taught to control myself, to either process my emotions in the moment or store them away for later and to never allow them to dictate my actions. I have learnt to make control a second skin, to be aware of every expression and movement, and to keep my composure in all situations.”

“Okay,” Nyota says. “And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

T’Pring shrugs. “I would not ascribe a moral value to it. It is necessary if I do not want to rip off someone’s head for taking the last apple in the fruit bowl.”

Nyota nods slowly. “Alright. So that’s not the problem.”

T’Pring sighs. “The issue is that I am not allowed the choice. Already, I am failing to maintain my usual level of restraint. Two of my staff have noticed and approached me out of concern. It will only get worse as the event approaches, and then I will have to lock myself in a room with one of the people I care about the most in the entire universe while the vestiges of my control are stolen from me and I devolve to my basest instincts.”

Nyota takes a minute to process that. “Ah. Just–if I’m getting this right; it’s scary that you’re having trouble controlling yourself, because you’ve been doing so your whole life, and you’re worried that the person you are without that is–”

“Not… good,” T’Pring finishes, curling further in on herself. “I do not think I will hurt you, Nyota. Even the most sordid places of my mind know that you are–you’re–”

“I’m not worried about that,” Nyota reassures her, rubbing circles with her thumb along the back of T’Pring’s hand. “I trust you. And I’m sorry that you’re having a difficult time. It can’t be fun, slowly losing your control like that. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“It is not,” T’Pring agrees, leaning onto Nyota’s shoulder. “You are helping. I imagine I will need to start meditating more. I. It is frustrating, is all.”

“Yeah, it definitely sounds like it,” Nyota says, pressing her cheek to the crown of T’Pring’s head. “Maybe I could pull the staff you work most closely with aside and have a quick chat with them? Nothing too in depth, just that you’re going through a difficult time and you might be a little more tetchy.”

T’Pring bites her lip, hesitating. Logically, it would be the correct thing to do. Her staff should be given advance warning if their superior is to be more touchy for a significant period of time–it is an accommodation, she thinks her therapist would say, just like any other she would make for her staff. Emotionally, shame sours roots of her teeth at the mere thought of anyone having to treat her delicately for fear she might snap.

“I suppose,” she says reluctantly.

“It’s not your fault, sweetheart,” Nyota tells her, squeezing her fingers. “You know, I think you’re so cool? I’ve felt what it feels like to be you,” T’Pring’s cheeks heat at the reminder of their first mind meld, which she’d messed up thoroughly enough to metaphorically dunk Nyota face-first into her maelstrom of emotions. “And it’s really fucking hard, babe. You’re so strong, all of the time. I don’t know anyone else who could do that and be a functional person.”

“Spock,” T’Pring points out, and Nyota snorts.

“He absolutely doesn’t count. He spent all of lunch gazing dreamily at Jim and then had to horf down his food in five minutes so that he wouldn’t pass out on shift,” she says.

That startles a laugh out of T’Pring, and she claps a hand over her mouth, pulling away in time to catch the warm glint in Nyota’s eye.

“Anyway,” she continues, clasping T’Pring’s hand between both of her own. “The next couple of weeks are going to suck for you. You’re allowed to ask people to be aware of that.”

T’Pring nods, breathing through the relief of weight sloughing off her shoulders, leaving behind stinging indentations. “As usual, you are correct.”

“Thank you,” Nyota says graciously. “I’ve got a shift off tomorrow morning; I’ll accompany you down and pull a couple of people out to talk. Other than that, is there anything else?”

T’Pring opens her mouth to say no, and then shuts it again, mulling over her emotions now that the most pressing of them is gone. “I’m not sure.”

“Why don’t we put on that new Mirian sitcom and you can think about it for a bit?” Nyota suggests. “I’ll get you a drink and pull out my knitting and you can let me know when you’re ready to talk about it.”

“That sounds nice,” T’Pring says. “Do we have mango juice left?”

“I think so, let me go check.”

She moves to get up, but T’Pring doesn’t let go of her hand, squeezing it when Nyota looks back at her. “Nyota? Thank you.”

They watch four and a half episodes before T’Pring reaches for the remote. The holographic screen freezes on an image of a heartfelt conversation between two people T’Pring thinks might be an estranged father and son, but she hasn’t been following the plot.

“Of course, babe,” she says, bending down to press a kiss to T’Pring’s forehead. “I’ll be back in a sec. I love you.”

***

Nyota finishes her row and sets down her knittings, turning expectantly to her. “You’ve got it.”

“I believe so,” T’Pring says, mulling it over. “I think I am–angry.”

“M’kay. At anything in particular?”

T’Pring taps her fingers on her glass, listening to her nails click. “I don’t get to choose,” she says. “Not just regarding losing my control, but. Due to some leftover, hundred year old instinct, in three weeks I have to either have intercourse, commit a murder or burn to death from the inside out. It is not… fair.”

“You don’t get to consent,” Nyota says, drawing back slightly. “Oh. Oh, honey.”

“No, it’s–” T’Pring’s words tangle together on her tongue, refusing to come out as she wants them. “It isn’t that I don’t want to, just–I am glad it is you. I just wish I had a choice.”

Nyota clicks her tongue. “No, yeah, that’s really distressing. I’m so sorry, T’Pring. I didn’t even think of that.”

T’Pring shrugs. “I cannot blame you. I didn’t, either.”

Nyota bites her lip. “Fuck, babe, what do I even–” she breaks off, squeezing T’Pring’s hand. “God. Okay. Let me think for a minute.”

They sit quietly for a while, Nyota gently pulling T’Pring’s head into her lap and combing her fingers through her hair until her eyes shut. The ship hums almost inaudibly around them, and the vents open up as the air starts to cycle.

“I think,” Nyota says finally, “And stop me if this isn’t helpful, because I don’t want to speak for you, but I think that something both of our cultures have in common is that they tend to place a pretty heavy emotional weight on sex.”

T’Pring hums, shifting to lie on her back and look up at Nyota.

“And that’s not necessarily… wrong,” Nyota continues. “But it doesn’t have to be right either. It took me a long time to learn that for me, personally, sex doesn’t have to be the most intense, significant thing ever. It can be something I do to make my partner feel good, or to help relieve stress, or just because I’ve had a bad day and want physical reassurance in that way. And obviously it’s still really distressing not to be able to choose, but. I guess my point is just that it can be a tool, whether to help with a headache or to satisfy ridiculous, ancient instincts.”

T’Pring tips her head back, rolling her shoulders as she mulls the words over. “That is… incredibly helpful. I’ve never considered it in that manner.”

Nyota shrugs. “Again, it’s just my perspective on it. I don’t want to discount your feelings, because it makes a lot of sense that you’re angry. This situation really sucks for you, and whatever emotions you have about it are entirely understandable. I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

T’Pring gazes up at her, love swelling under her lungs and cutting off her breath. “I–can I, please?” she asks, nudging at her bond with Nyota.

“Sure,” Nyota says, bemused, and T’Prings pulls aside the curtain between their minds and floods her with the pure adoration filling her chest.

Nyota just grins, leaning down to kiss her and whisper ‘I love you too’ against her lips, as though she hasn’t just spent hours showing it. T’Pring levers herself up so she can sit in Nyota’s lap, and get a better angle to grab Nyota’s bottom lip between her teeth, tugging gently.

Nyota hums, deep in her chest, and T’Pring thinks it’s the best sound she’s heard all day.

[scotianostra]

30th May 1889 saw the birth near Kirkliston of Isobel Wylie Hutchison.

Another of those strong willed Scottish women, Isobel overcame the constraints that the age, her class, and her own personality placed upon her, to become a solo adventurer in the far North, an accomplished plant collector and a successful poet and writer.

Carlowrie "Castle", a Scots baronial mansion near Kirkliston in West Lothian, was the comfortable upper-middle class home into which Isobel Wylie Hutchison was born in 1889. It was there her father, Thomas Hutchison, a successful wine merchant in Edinburgh, looked after his gardens, and passed on to Isobel his fascination for plants and his habit of meticulous note-taking. I put the commas round castle as, although it is known as a castle by it's name in the old sense of things, having only been built in the mid 19th century, to me a castle needs to have a lot more history than that, Isobels grandfather had it built from scratch, nowadays it is top wedding venue and voted one of the top three venues under 200 bedrooms in Europe.

Back to the lady in question, three deaths were to shatter Isobel’s youth. From 1900 she went to school in Edinburgh where she studied a curriculum suited for a young Victorian Lady. After her sister married a naval officer and saw very little of him for long periods Isobel decided that marriage would restrict her life.

Three deaths were to shatter Isobel’s youth. Her father died suddenly, shortly before her 11th birthday; and her two brothers when she was in her early twenties – one in a climbing accident in 1912, and the other during the First World War. The deaths however meant she has an independent lady of means, affording her the luxury of leading her own life without restrictions.

She travelled to the Arctic, filming the things she saw around her, the landscape and the wildflowers growing there and the daily lives of the indigenous people. Other travellers of the time who wrote of their discoveries did not dwell on the domestic detail that makes Hutchison's work unique. Her first exploration was to East Greenland in 1927, followed in 1928 by a year in Umanak, North Greenland. She filmed eskimos collecting ice for water and hunting seals from a kayak, the wild flowers of Umanak and the Governor's coffee party! Scottish whalers had taught reels and other dances to the locals, Hutchison filmed them a century later still dancing with enthusiasm.

In 1934 she set out for Alaska, travelling by coastal steamer from Vancouver to Skagway and then overland to Nome. Here she found a very small freighter to take her along the north coast of Alaska, ending with 120 miles by dog sledge and returning on mail plane to Alberta. Hutchison brought back samples of the plant life for the Royal Horticultural Society and the Natural History Museum. She had a long connection with the Royal Scottish Geographical Society as Honorary Editor of the magazine and as a fellow and Vice President.

She was awarded the Mungo Park Medal as a tribute to her explorations and in recognition of her original and valuable researches in Iceland, Greenland and Arctic Alaska. She wrote several travel books including 'North to the Rime-Ringed Sun' and 'Stepping Stones from Alaska to Asia' and four volumes of poetry.

In later life she gave frequent lectures, using films and lantern slides, describing her travels for film-making and writing articles for National Geographic' magazine. She died in 1982.

Of her poems I have chosen one I can resonate with, having spent my childhood on the doorstep of the Pentland Hills, south of Edinburgh:

LAMENT FOR THE PENTLAND MEN.

Oh early grey of morning-time! Oh Pentland Hills! The bracken white with frosty rime, The brown peat rills, Home of the wild-bird wet with dew, Heard ye the sunrise yearning For the eager beat of Pentland feet No more, no more, no more returning?

Up from the city’s clustered spires, Up from the glen, The thin sweet bugle-call inspires The Redford men. Home of the wild-bird wet with dew Heard ye the bugle yearning For the eager beat of Pentland feet No more, no more, no more returning?

From high Caerketton’s pebbly ridge, From Kips to Castlelaw, From Loganlee to Redford Bridge, From Dunsyre to Cobbinshaw, Braes where the sheep-dog watches lone Fling wild the echo, yearning For the eager beat of Pentland feet No more, no more, no more returning.

Oh fallen hearts of Pentland gold! Oh bleeding feet that roam The long grey silences that fold The Hills of Home! Hear ye no sobbing faint and far? The grey old Pentlands yearning For the wistful beat of children’s feet No more, no more, no more returning.

You can read more about this little know Scottish explorer and her poetry here https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poet/isobel-wylie-hutchison/?fbclid=IwAR1xQBXLm5Z020id-

[lockawayknight]

more elden ring au info before bed:

grandfather lothian was a knight of elden lord godfrey, and his son, creighton’s father, was raised to be a knight of godfrey’s son, godwyn. obvi that didn’t happen

when the elden ring was shattered, lothian disappeared during the outbreak of wars, and the rest of the du lothian family were exiled as tarnished. but they never forgot their original purpose: to serve the elden lord

when creighton was born, he had it beaten and drilled heavily into his head that he must serve godfrey’s lineage; and so, when he eventually found sight of grace once more and was led back to the lands between as a young lad, he quickly and blindly joined godrick’s court as a knight

once he defected from godrick, he wandered the lands between until he met varré, who quickly convinced him to serve mohg — another child of godfrey’s lineage

once a feared and notorious knight of godrick’s court, he now is a feared but mysterious finger of mohg, keeping his former identity concealed beneath a chain mask and iron helm

few random notes:

has a dappled grey destrier named partridge

CAN still see grace but doesn’t really know what it means anymore. whatever. shiny.

is missing his little finger on his right hand for invasion reasons

hates malenia as just like a Concept and would happily lay down his life fighting her in order to keep miquella in mohg’s control

has a love/hate relationship with morgott. was relatively close to him when serving godrick, but that kinda got fucky when he left and, y’know, joined his evil twin’s side of things. he still sees morgott as a mentor of sorts but unfortunately he fucked that up for himself since now morgott sees him mostly as a traitor :/

can most often be found in liurnia: at the rose church tending to the blooms, invading other worlds as a bloody finger of mohg, or enjoying shellfish with his pal big boggart

has a huge crush on varré but shhh its ok its ok

[weavingthetapestry]

3rd May 1128: Kelso Abbey Consecrated

Although King David I was perhaps not as saintly as contemporary chroniclers would have us believe, he certainly founded a lot of monasteries. Setting aside his rather subjective view of what constituted barbarity, John of Hexham’s description of the king’s outward piety is quite revealing:

“There has been none like unto that prince in our days: devoted to divine services, failing not to attend each day at the canonical hours, and also at the vigils of the dead. And in this he was to be praised that in a spirit of foresight and courage he wisely tempered the fierceness of his barbarous nation; that he was frequent in washing the feet of the poor, and compassionate in feeding and clothing them; that he built and supplied sufficiently with lands and revenues the monasteries of Kelso, Melrose, Newbattle, Holmcultram*, Jedburgh, Holyrood- these being situated to this side of the sea of Scotland**, besides those which he benefited in Scotland***, and in other places.”

This list of abbeys patronised by David in Lothian and Cumbria alone reflects the king’s particular spiritual interests. Three of these abbeys (Melrose, Newbattle, and Holmcultram) were staffed by Cistercian monks, and two (Jedburgh and Holyrood) by Augustinian canons regular. These orders were especially favoured by David, and multiple Cistercian and Augustinian houses sprang up north of the Forth as well after he succeeded to the Scottish throne in 1124. But the king also patronised a range of other religious organisations, and his royal descendants and the Scottish nobility soon followed his lead. By the end of the thirteenth century, Scotland was home to an eclectic mix of Cluniac, Tironensian, Culdee, and Valliscaulian monasteries, as well as houses belonging to Premonstratensian canons, and the Knights Templar and Hospitaller, and various Dominican, Franciscan, Carmelite, and Trinitarian friaries. David’s first known foundation reflected this wide-ranging religious interest. In 1113, he settled Tironensian monks on his lands at Selkirk, now the site of a well-known Borders town. This small beginning would have important consequences for the spread of reformed monasticism in Scotland and the overall shape of the mediaeval Scottish Church...

(The abbey of Tiron, the French motherhouse of the Tironensian order. David I visited the abbey himself and the first monks at Selkirk came from there. Source - wikimedia commons where the user Calips has kindly made this image available for reuse under a creative commons license)

David’s project at Selkirk reflected the spiritual trends of the age. The early twelfth century witnessed the blossoming of another Benedictine reform movement, with various new monastic orders popping up all over western Europe (but especially in France). These attracted many people who sought to return to a purer and stricter form of conventual life and who felt that observance of the monastic “rule” of St Benedict had grown too lax, especially in the great abbeys of the day. Citeaux, the motherhouse of the influential Cistercian order which was founded in a marshy wood by Robert of Molesme in 1098, was only the most famously successful example. Another slightly less popular but nonetheless influential foundation was the abbey of Tiron, which is supposed to have been founded by the hermit Bernard of Abbeville in a “wooded place” near Chartres around the year 1109.  Tiron was granted its official foundation charter in 1114, and by the 1120s the new order had over a hundred daughter houses, especially in France, Britain, and Ireland.

One of the earliest examples in Britain was the priory of St Dogmaels in Pembrokeshire, which was founded around 1113 and became an abbey a few years later. However apart from that house’s own two daughter houses (Pill Priory and Calder Priory) the Tironensians did not spread much further in Wales, at least not in comparison with the number of traditional Benedictine and Cistercian houses. In England the Tironensian order was represented by only a handful of priories, founded mostly in the first half of the twelfth century, and one abbey at Humberston in Lincolnshire, founded in 1160. Meanwhile Ireland’s sole Tironensian house- Glascarrig Priory in County Wexford – was again a daughter house of St Dogmaels. In Scotland, by contrast, the congregation of Tiron would become extremely influential, both within and outwith the cloister. The “grey monks”, as they came to be known, had arrived by at least 1113, which is when the Chronicle of Melrose claims that David founded a community at Selkirk. The abbey which these monks established, dedicated to St Mary and St John the Evangelist, received its formal foundation charter from David c.1119-20. This also came with a substantial endowment in lands and possessions and the charter was witnessed by many important members of the prince’s inner circle, including his wife Maud, their young son Henry, and David’s former chaplain John, now bishop of Glasgow.

(St Dogmael’s Abbey in Wales, another early Tironensian foundation in Britain. Source: Wikimedia Commons, where user Stephen McKay has kindly made this available for reuse under a creative commons license)

From the beginning, the monks of Selkirk were evidently at the centre of David’s spiritual and political plans. However it is less clear why he singled out the Tironensian order as the beneficiary of his patronage. His choice might have been influenced by his chaplain John, who remained close to David even after his elevation to the see of Glasgow, and who was himself a monk of Tiron (he later attempted to retire to the French motherhouse of the order during the 1130s). Like much of his career, David’s decision to found a Tironensian house may also have been influenced by his relationship with his sister Matilda and her husband Henry I of England. Although neither had a particular interest in the Tironensians, David’s political association with Henry in the years before he ascended the Scottish throne provided him with some of the tools to indulge his own interest in the order. It was with the English king’s support that David secured possession of substantial lands in the south of the kingdom of Scotland, despite his older brother Alexander I’s opposition. His relationship with Henry I also created ties between the future king of Scots and northern France. David not only held lands from the English king around Cherbourg in Normandy, but he was also in touch with affairs in other parts of France, and he is known to have visited the abbey of Tiron in person on at least one occasion before 1114. Although the source of his particular interest in the Tironensians must remain unclear, David plainly found the spiritual ideals and organisation of the fledgling order impressive enough that his earliest recorded action as “Prince of the Cumbrians” was to invite the monks of Tiron to settle on his new lands in southern Scotland.

The new community at Selkirk was apparently quite successful in its early years. Despite the distance between Lothian and the forests of Perche, the monks there retained close links with the motherhouse. The first two abbots of Selkirk succeeded in turn as heads of the order and abbots of Tiron. The monks rose high in the Scottish church too, as the third and fourth abbots of Selkirk succeeded as bishop of Glasgow and bishop of St Andrews respectively. By this time however, it had become clear that the original home of the monks beside the Ettrick water was unsuitable. Within fifteen years of the original foundation, plans were afoot to move the whole community around twenty miles downstream to Kelso, where the River Teviot joins the Tweed.

The new site may have been selected because of its proximity to the royal castle and burgh of Roxburgh, which David had been developing as a political, economic, and administrative centre. After he succeeded his older brother Alexander as King of Scots in 1124, Roxburgh also became one of the most important royal residences in the realm, and it made sense to have the new king’s favoured monastery near at hand. Accordingly, the decision was taken to transfer the abbey to Kelso, although this was to be a gradual process, with the building work and relocation of the monks taking at least two years. Eventually, when the move was largely complete, the abbey church of St Mary and St John the Evangelist was officially consecrated on 3rd May 1128, an event which was probably attended by the king and his leading nobles.

(A twelfth century portrayal of David I and his grandson Malcolm IV in the historiated initial of a charter granted to the abbey of Kelso. Source- wikimedia commons)

Kelso abbey was to become one of the richest abbeys in the kingdom and by the end of the century it had acquired several daughter houses, including the abbeys of Arbroath, Kilwinning, and Lindores. The grey monks could be very influential figures: it has already been noted that Herbert, the abbot who oversaw the move from Selkirk to Kelso was destined to succeed to the see of Glasgow, while his successor Arnold rose to the position of bishop of St Andrews. Another (though much later) influential Tironensian was Bernard, who was first abbot of Kilwinning, then abbot of Arbroath, and then bishop of the Isles and chancellor to King Robert I. And even after David I turned to other reformed orders like the Cistercians to further his spiritual policies, Kelso abbey retained its close links with the royal family. David’s only son and heir, Prince Henry, was buried at the abbey after his untimely death in 1152. One of the abbey’s charters, granted by Henry’s son Malcolm IV a few years later, preserves the only surviving contemporary picture of Malcolm and his grandfather David, who are portrayed in a style reminiscent of the biblical Solomon and David in the historiated capital ‘M’.

Like many other Border abbeys Kelso suffered heavily during the bitter Anglo-Scottish warfare which broke out after 1296. Nonetheless it remained an important and wealthy establishment, the abbacy of which sixteenth century kings and nobles often sought to secure as a commend for their younger or illegitimate kinsmen. In 1460, Kelso even witnessed a coronation when the eight-year-old James III was crowned king of Scots in the presence of his mother and the leading nobles of the realm, following the death of his father during the siege of nearby Roxburgh Castle. The abbey outlasted this castle by at least a century, but not much more. Having already suffered considerably from English attacks during the “Rough Wooing” of the 1540s, Kelso abbey was officially dissolved after the Protestant Reformation in 1560. Much of the abbey was gradually dismantled over the next three centuries. Though the burgh which grew up around the monastery is still thriving today, the building itself is much reduced, with only the central part of the abbey church remaining above ground. The fine Romanesque architecture of these ruins suggests that they formed part of the original church consecrated in 1128. Almost nine hundred years old, the ruined church stands today as a memorial to the former grandeur, wealth, and influence of the Tironensian order in Scotland.

(A seventeenth century depiction of the ruined abbey of Kelso, made by John Slezer. Reproduced under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution licence, with the permission of the National Libraries of Scotland)

Notes:

* It is actually unclear whether David founded Holmcultram or was simply a patron of the monastery. Of the monasteries on John of Hexham’s list, this is also the only one which does not lie within the borders of 21st century Scotland.

** The “Scottish sea” usually meant the Firth of Forth in the Middle Ages.

*** When John of Hexham says that David also patronised monasteries “in Scotland” he probably means Scotia ‘proper’, i.e. the land north of the Forth, as opposed to Lothian, which is where Kelso, Melrose, Newbattle, Jedburgh, and Holyrood lay in the twelfth century.

Selected Bibliography:

- “Chronicle of Melrose”, as translated in “The Church Historians of England”, vol.4, edited by Joseph Stevenson

- “Early Sources of Scottish History”, edited by A.O. Anderson

- “Scottish Annals from English Chroniclers”, edited by A.O. Anderson

- “Liber S. Marie de Calchou: Registrum Cartarum Abbacie Tironensis de Kelso, 1113-1567″, edited by Cosmo Innes

- “The Charters of King David I”, edited by G.W.S. Barrow

- “The Monks of Tiron”, K. Thompson

- “Kingship and Unity, Scotland 1000-1306″, by G.W.S. Barrow

- “David I”, by Richard Oram

[pacifymebby]

what’s your fav Sam song?

Angel in Lothian I think, Wild Grey Ocean is also one of my favourites and You're Not They Only One. But Angel in Lothian always comes out on top!!