#memorial benches scotland

[classicmemorialbenches]

Where can you find a memorial bench?

Classic Benches are handcrafted to order in our workshop in the Lancashire village of Lathom.

A memorial bench should be strong, perfectly proportioned, and built to last. We've created a beautiful collection of benches that have been designed to complement and enhance their surroundings for decades.

[reasonsforhope]

Humans are so cute. They think they can outsmart birds. They place nasty metal spikes on rooftops and ledges to prevent birds from nesting there.

It’s a classic human trick known in urban design as “evil architecture”: designing a place in a way that’s meant to deter others. Think of the city benches you see segmented by bars to stop homeless people sleeping there.

But birds are genius rebels. Not only are they undeterred by evil architecture, they actually use it to their advantage, according to a new Dutch study published in the journal Deinsea.

Crows and magpies, it turns out, are learning to rip strips of anti-bird spikes off of buildings and use them to build their nests. It’s an incredible addition to the growing body of evidence about the intelligence of birds, so wrongly maligned as stupid that “bird-brained” is still commonly used as an insult...

Magpies also use anti-bird spikes for their nests. In 2021, a hospital patient in Antwerp, Belgium, looked out the window and noticed a huge magpie’s nest in a tree in the courtyard. Biologist Auke-Florian Hiemstra of Leiden-based Naturalis Biodiversity Center, one of the study’s authors, went to collect the nest and found that it was made out of 50 meters of anti-bird strips, containing no fewer than 1,500 metal spikes.

Hiemstra describes the magpie nest as “an impregnable fortress.”

Pictured: A huge magpie nest made out of 1,500 metal spikes.

Magpies are known to build roofs over their nests to prevent other birds from stealing their eggs and young. Usually, they scrounge around in nature for thorny plants or spiky branches to form the roof. But city birds don’t need to search for the perfect branch — they can just use the anti-bird spikes that humans have so kindly put at their disposal.

“The magpies appear to be using the pins exactly the same way we do: to keep other birds away from their nest,” Hiemstra said.

Another urban magpie nest, this one from Scotland, really shows off the roof-building tactic:

Pictured: A nest from Scotland shows how urban magpies are using anti-bird spikes to construct a roof meant to protect their young and eggs from predators.

Birds had already been spotted using upward-pointing anti-bird spikes as foundations for nests. In 2016, the so-called Parkdale Pigeon became Twitter-famous for refusing to give up when humans removed her first nest and installed spikes on her chosen nesting site, the top of an LCD monitor on a subway platform in Melbourne. The avian architect rebelled and built an even better home there, using the spikes as a foundation to hold her nest more securely in place.

...Hiemstra’s study is the first to show that birds, adapting to city life, are learning to seek out and use our anti-bird spikes as their nesting material. Pretty badass, right?

The genius of birds — and other animals we underestimate

It’s a well-established fact that many bird species are highly intelligent. Members of the corvid family, which includes crows and magpies, are especially renowned for their smarts. Crows can solve complex puzzles, while magpies can pass the “mirror test” — the classic test that scientists use to determine if a species is self-aware.

Studies show that some birds have evolved cognitive skills similar to our own: They have amazing memories, remembering for months the thousands of different hiding places where they’ve stashed seeds, and they use their own experiences to predict the behavior of other birds, suggesting they’ve got some theory of mind.

And, as author Jennifer Ackerman details in The Genius of Birds, birds are brilliant at using tools. Black palm cockatoos use twigs as drumsticks, tapping out a beat on a tree trunk to get a female’s attention. Jays use sticks as spears to attack other birds...

Birds have also been known to use human tools to their advantage. When carrion crows want to crack a walnut, for example, they position the nut on a busy road, wait for a passing car to crush the shell, then swoop down to collect the nut and eat it. This behavior has been recorded several times in Japanese crows.

But what’s unique about Hiemstra’s study is that it shows birds using human tools, specifically designed to thwart birds’ plans, in order to thwart our plans instead. We humans try to keep birds away with spikes, and the birds — ingenious rebels that they are — retort: Thanks, humans!

-via Vox, July 26, 2023

[balladofthewhitehorse]

A Brief Respite

Seagulls wheeled ahead, their noisy cries filling the air as the three padded their way down a narrow path; It wound through tumbling gorse and over tufts of heath, some vestige of footsteps trodden over centuries upon centuries.

England paused briefly to regard the white cliffs, now reduced to a bright trail along the horizon before they tumbled into the North Sea; For many years, England had stood here and felt anxiety claw at his rib-cage. For many years, this was the wall between him and danger - perhaps it still was, England worrying his lip with his teeth as Scotland sauntered past him with a loud groan (A sword to the back; Splintering vertebrae as his brother collapsed at England’s feet. Northumbria would remain his for now). With the Sun shining on his face however, and a quickly melting ice-cream in his hand, England sank onto the bench alongside his siblings. He readily leaned back, overcome with the realisation that he was with them for the first time in…days, weeks, months? Perhaps it was years, and nothing had brought the three together; Aside from their own desires, pulling them together no matter how far apart they’d become. England almost wanted to ask Scotland and Wales what had brought them here. But, he dared not disturb their peace - England sighed with the satisfaction of their presence, of their shadows stretching over the dusty path together. Swinging one leg over the other, he leaned back against the bench’s headrest; A lonely ice-cream van had been their respite, and England was glad for it. ‘’...This is nice, eh?’’ He mumbled to no-one in particular, watching the sea quietly. ‘’Mhm.’’ Scotland hummed lightly, prodding his ice-cream with a spoon. He knew his brother was proud of his countryside; Of the South Downs and the Lake District, England could get very sentimental about it - and although Scotland was liable to wax poetic about his own countryside, he also knew that his ice cream was rapidly melting in the summer heat. ‘’Aye, it is.’’ Scotland drew in a deep breath (salt lined his lungs; bringing forth some tangle of memories, half-drowned and half-forgotten). He took a spoonful of his ice-cream, casting a ponderous glance towards England’s half-licked ice-cream before it flickered towards Wales’ portion (mint choc-chip, or as Scotland had teased on their way down towards the cliffs; Toothpaste flavour, to which Wales rebuked whether Scotland had ever brushed his teeth - an argument, that for a change, was mostly just silly claims over each other’s dental hygiene). ‘’Say England, do ye ken what that bird is there?’’ A black figure stood on the cliffs, stark against the pale chalk. ‘’I told you about it once.’’

‘’Eh? You mean when I was a child?’’ England replied, turning to peer at the bird in the distance. With no hesitation, Scotland leaned forward - and took a great bite of England’s ice-cream; He leaned back smugly as his brother whirled around, eyes bugging in offence. ‘’...That was the bird.’’ He snorted, beaming impishly at his brother. ‘’Cormorants fly real fast, didnae ken that?’’ A crafty bugger - as Scotland might’ve put it, as he watched England’s eyes narrow. ‘’Consider that the older brother tax.’’ He teased, shrugging coolly. ‘’I don’t make the rules, it’s just the way it is.’’ Scotland licked his lips with satisfaction, humming as he glanced innocently at Wales; Who was shielding her ice-cream with her hand, watching him with suspicion. ‘’Oh Wales, you’re breaking my heart.’’ He crooned softly, biting back a snicker (mischief flashed in his eyes - as Scotland mimed wiping a tear from the corner of his eye). ‘’...I’d never dare steal ice-cream from my favourite sister.’’ 

‘’I’m your only sister.’’ 

Wales slowly began to stand up, shielding her ice-cream close to her breast as Scotland followed - some strange dance down the dusty path. ‘’Scotland! If you touch my ice-’’ Her voice broke into a shrill shriek as Scotland lunged forward - cold hand around her wrist, narrowly dodging a kick to his shins. ‘’-You bastard!’’ Wales hissed as Scotland took a bite of her ice-cream, huffing as she watched her younger brother wipe his mouth. ‘’England, attack!’’ England (not wishing to lose any more ice-cream to Scotland) looked up sheepishly, ice-cream cone awkwardly pushed into his mouth, cheeks puffed out in a suspiciously cone-like manner. ‘’Um-’’ He glanced down at his feet, scuffing them in the dirt. ‘’-I’m a bit busy?’’ Laughter bubbled in his chest as Wales sighed, tutting something or other about England choking if he didn’t chew his food (it tugged at his heart-strings, a sense of nostalgia; England wolfing down a bowl of rabbit stew, his belly aching afterwards and Wales telling him that she warned him so). ‘’Mhmph’’ Wales’ eyes goggled at the sight - and then the corners crinkled with mirth. ‘’Are you a squirrel?’’ She teased, snickering as England awkwardly swallowed (for a moment, Wales though he might choke for real - and yet he simply turned his eyes towards her, wide-eyed as if stunned by himself). Any disagreement that she might have had with Scotland over these so-called sibling taxes was forgotten, as her knees trembled with laughter - Wales wheezing as she sat back down onto the bench, sinking against the headrest as Scotland joined her, laughing soundly too. 

‘’Aye, I think he is.’’ Scotland wheezed, chest heaving as he leaned forward; Arms on his knees, the Sun warming his back as he rocked with laughter. ‘’Jesus Christ-’’ He snorted, shaking his head as he reached for his ice-cream (carefully placed on the bench - so as not to be spilled while he took a younger brother tax from Wales’s ice-cream). ‘’-Hey…where’s my ice-cream?’’ Scotland jerked upright, staring at Wales in disbelief as she stared back at him, eyebrow raised. ‘’What?’’ ‘’I rightfully took my younger brother tax from you.’’ Wales scoffed, shaking her head. ‘’I didn’t touch your ice-cream.’’ Her gaze flickered towards England, spotting the small plastic tub in his hand. ‘’Maybe you should ask squirrel-boy behind you?’’ She teased, watching as Scotland’s eyes snapped towards England; Astonishment on his face as familiar as ever (she remembered Scotland learning very quickly that a young England who didn’t want to bathe was very liable to pull Scotland in after him). Wales snickered as England shot up from the bench - shoving a spoonful of Scotland’s ice-cream in his mouth with a satisfied hum, darting down the little dusty path as his brother swiped at him, complaining loudly.

‘’I’m rightfully taking my younger brother tax!’’ England exclaimed, scooping another spoonful of salted caramel into his mouth; He hummed in approval, giggling as Scotland chased after him.

‘’Don’t eat it all, you prick-!’’

‘’Piss off!’’

The cormant watched them disdainfully from the cliffs, as Scotland and England chased one another through the tumbling gorse and over tufts of heath, winding their way back up the path. It seemed to sigh, shaking its sleek black head - before taking to the air with a flap of black wings.

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day Twenty-Three - Train @sapphicmicrofics

April Daily Series - 563 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

“What’s this?” Marlene’s voice was directly behind her now. She’d apparently grown tired of sifting through the box of memories and moved on to the corkboard beside Dorcas’s bed.

Dorcas released a stream of smoke through the window. “What does it look like?

“Pandora called it a ‘shrine.’”

The harsh scoff clipped Dorcas’s throat on the way out. “Then it’s an awfully shitty shrine.”

Marlene hummed a note of disagreement, but didn’t argue. She was far less combative today, which should have been suspicious, but Dorcas didn’t have the energy to defend herself. The tension she’d carried since Marlene’s arrival wore her down.

“I miss my old number. The team gave it to someone else when I left Scotland. I’m number thirty now.”

Dorcas tried to ignore the tug of nostalgia. She’d spent so many hours behind protective glass watching her girlfriend’s #14 jersey with rapt attention, clocking every shift in her stance and clawing back the urge to rush onto the ice to protect her when the other team crowded her net. Often, she left games with scratches on her chest from blindly grappling for Marlene’s lucky charm, an Irish claddagh ring from her grandmother that she wore around her neck.

“Thirty is a solid number,” Dorcas said, idly tapping her cigarette out the window. “Especially doubled on your jersey, front and back. It’s related to career success.”

“Really? That’s good to know.”

Marlene moved closer and plopped on the bench. “Be honest with me, Cas. Do you want me to step on that train tomorrow? Will you miss me?”

“My feelings won’t change the outcome, so why does it matter?” Dorcas asked.

“You don’t know that.”

Dorcas flicked the dying cherry off of her cigarette and rolled the filter between her fingers. “I know that you won’t leave your team and long-distance doesn’t work. I know that you run when it hurts. Nothing has changed.”

“A few things have changed, actually. My team went recreational. We have scrimmages, but don’t compete. My gigs are mostly at local clubs, but I travel a bit too. I have a show in London in two weeks,” Marlene said, shifting closer. “I can send you tickets, if you want.”

“And the cowardice?” Dorcas prompted. “Still fleeing if it’s hard? I haven’t gone soft since you left.”

Marlene sighed theatrically. “I should hope not. I always liked your sharp wit and pointy elbows.”

“Hilarious.”

Charming, as always. I wish she’d stop.

“I’m here now, Cas. If I didn’t bolt out of here when you told me off the first night and I didn’t run after making a complete arse of myself yesterday morning, isn’t that proof that I’m not quite the coward I used to be?”

Dorcas rested her temple against the window and closed her eyes. The cold glass tempered her frustration a bit as she returned her attention to the people below. She preferred this distance over the six inches between her hip and Marlene’s. From here, she could see the bigger picture and remain an unbiased observer. In this room, she was a reluctant participant and couldn’t find a shred of objectivity.

“I suppose that is progress,” Dorcas admitted, her gaze trailing a couple across the street. They were holding hands and smiling at each other.

“Enough progress?” Marlene asked. “For you to think about it? About us?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Next Part>>>

[scotianostra]

January 3rd 1959 saw the death of the poet and scholar Edwin Muir.

Born on the Orkney island of Wyre in 1887, Muir spent his early years in the idyllic setting of his father’s farm, ‘The Bu, when he was 14, his father lost his farm, and the family moved to Glasgow. In quick succession his father, two brothers, and his mother died within the space of a few years. His life as a young man was a depressing experience, and involved a raft of unpleasant jobs in factories and offices, including working in a factory that turned bones into charcoal. “He suffered psychologically in a most destructive way, although perhaps the poet of later years benefited from these experiences as much as from his Orkney 'Eden’.”

Termed a philosophical, political and social poet, Muir’s poetry attempts to find meaning and pattern in life, harmony & cooperation instead of competition and conflict; popular themes include a sense of timelessness, a sense of displacement and rootlessness and innocence. He travelled in Europe with his wife and fellow writer, Willa Muir, translating European writers such as Franz Kafka into English. The Muirs were significantly involved in the Scottish Literary Renaissance.

In 1955 he was made Norton Professor of English at Harvard University. He returned to Britain in 1956 but died in 1959 at Swaffham Prior, Cambridge, and was buried there.

A memorial bench was erected in 1962 to Muir in the idyllic village of Swanston, Edinburgh, where he spent time during the 1950s, there is also a Memorial to Edwin Muir in St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall, Orkney.

Scotland's Winter.

Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill,

The sun looks from the hill

Helmed in his winter casket,

And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky.

The water at the mill

Sounds more hoarse and dull.

The miller's daughter walking by

With frozen fingers soldered to her basket

Seems to be knocking

Upon a hundred leagues of floor

With her light heels, and mocking

Percy and Douglas dead,

And Bruce on his burial bed,

Where he lies white as may

With wars and leprosy,

And all the kings before

This land was kingless,

And all the singers before

This land was songless,

This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgement Day.

But they, the powerless dead,

Listening can hear no more

Than a hard tapping on the floor

A little overhead

Of common heels that do not know

Whence they come or where they go

And are content

With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.

[eirinstiva]

Thiefsplaining (?)

"The Raffles Relics" starts! Is this like some Indiana Jones story? Or more like A Night at the Museum? I don't know, but let see~

It was in one of the magazines for December, 1899, that an article appeared which afforded our minds a brief respite from the then consuming excitement of the war in South Africa. These were the days when Raffles really had white hair, and when he and I were nearing the end of our surreptitious second innings, as professional cracksmen of the deadliest dye. 

So this story is closer to "The Knees of the Gods" than "No Sinecure". Interesting.

The magazine was one of those that are read (and sold) by the million; the article was rudely illustrated on every other page. Its subject was the so-called Black Museum at Scotland Yard; and from the catchpenny text we first learned that the gruesome show was now enriched by a special and elaborate exhibit known as the Raffles Relics.

What would you do, Raffles? Steal back them? Or just pay a visit to the museum?

That's the chest you took to your bank with me inside, and those must be my own rope-ladder and things on top. They produce so badly in the baser magazines that it's impossible to swear to them; there's nothing for it but a visit of inspection."

Well, museums are interesting, even those about those considereda bit controversial, but I don't think it's a good idea to discuss with your guide unless you're Sherlock Holmes.

"That's not quite right," I put in mildly. "He never made use of the knife." The young clerk twisted his head round in its vase of starch. "Chawley Peace killed two policemen," said he. "No, he didn't; only one of them was a policeman; and he never killed anybody with a knife."

"Who was Charles Peace?" he inquired, with the bland effrontery of any judge upon the bench. The clerk's reply came pat and unexpected. "The greatest burgular we ever had," said he, "till good old Raffles knocked him out!" "The greatest of the pre-Raffleites," the master murmured, as we passed on to the safer memorials of mere murder. 

I've read this parts so many times, but I always read has "pre-raphaelites". Well, Raffles could be considered a master on his area, so it's accurate. Now I need a portrait of AJ in this style, or at least Bunny as John Everett Millais' Ophelia

"I suppose so," assented the grave gentleman wit the silver hair. "Unless," he added, as if suddenly inspired, "unless it was that man Raffles." "It couldn't 've bin," jerked the clerk from his conning-tower of a collar. "He'd gone to Davy Jones long before." "Are you sure?" asked Raffles. "Was his body ever found?" "Found and buried," replied our imaginative friend. "Malter, I think it was; or it may have been Giberaltar. I forget which."

Raffles and Bunny are having a really good time. AJ likes the praise and at the same time, he can't confess that he's still alive. Mixed feelings~

But the present recital was unduly trying, and Raffles created a noble diversion by calling attention to an early photograph of himself, which may still hang on the wall over the historic chest, but which I had carefully ignored. It shows him in flannels, after some great feat upon the tented field. I am afraid there is a Sullivan between his lips, a look of lazy insolence in the half-shut eyes. I have since possessed myself of a copy, and it is not Raffles at his best; but the features are clean-cut and regular; and I often wish that I had lent it to the artistic gentlemen who have battered the statue out of all likeness to the man

Why Raffles is so handsome in Bunny's eyes? I don't know but I'm sure this is another example of "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". I wanna read more comments on AJ's beauty. Is there any Bunny's picture?

"You mean Bunny?" said the familiar fellow. "No, sir, he'd be out of place; we've only room for real criminals here. Bunny was neither one thing nor the other. He could follow Raffles, but that's all he could do. He was no good on his own. Even when he put up the low-down job of robbing his old 'ome, it's believed he hadn't the 'eart to take the stuff away, and Raffles had to break in a second time for it. No, sir, we don't bother our heads about Bunny; we shall never hear no more of 'im. He was a harmless sort of rotter, if you awsk me."

It wouldn't be a fun visit for Raffles without the police.

"Inspector Druce," the clerk informed us in impressive whispers, "who had the Chalk Farm case in hand. He'd be the man for Raffles, if Raffles was alive to-day!" "I'm sure he would," was the grave reply. "I should be very sorry to have a man like that after me. But what a run there seems to be upon your Black Museum!"

Raffles did a magician trick and disappeared. Amazing as always <3

It was nearly four hours since Raffles had stolen away from my side in the ominous precincts of Scotland Yard. Where could he be? Our landlady wrung her hands over him; she had cooked a dinner after her favorite's heart, and I let it spoil before making one of the most melancholy meals of my life.

Where are thou, Raffles?

"I don't care why you went there!" I cried. "I want to know why you stayed, or went back, or whatever it was you may have done. I thought they had got you, and you had given them the slip!"

Bunny has the right to be mad at him, but as always he can't be angry for long because admiration to AJ is there for eternity.

The foreshadowing of "The Knees of the Gods" is at the end, and than makes my heart ache.

But I remember nothing better or more vividly than the last words of Raffles upon his last crime, unless it be the pressure of his hand as he said them, or the rather sad twinkle in his tired eyes.

[maly tears]

[endless-summer-soldier]

you see me - epilogue

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

summary: Bucky has grown used to a life of solitude after a mysterious accident leaves him forgettable. every person he comes in contact has no memory of him the moment he walks away. until he meets a cute girl at a record store who actual remembers him.

warnings: alcohol, sex (minors do not read), slight mentions of depression

taglist: @sebsgirl71479

word count: 1k

series playlist

series masterlist

X

“What brings you to Edinburgh?” the customs agent asked him.

“Holiday,” he responded. This became the standard answer they provided as they traveled throughout Europe. He reviewed the passport before giving it a firm stamp and allowing Bucky through.

Traveling was a challenge given Bucky’s predicament, but the two had fallen into an easy routine. He still had some credentials on him from when he was an Avenger which granted him easy access to different countries. His language skills became very useful as they crossed border lines and Y/N finally started picking up some conversational skills thanks to Bucky (and Duolingo). 

Making money was surprisingly easy. Y/N started writing travel articles for magazines and kept up a popular blog where advertisers paid to be featured on her site. Bucky found a new passion in photography and started documenting all their adventures together and selling his photos to travel magazines. They didn’t have a ton of cash coming in, but it was enough to support the vagabond lifestyle.

Y/N still kept in touch with her family and friends, constantly reminding them of her new beau, but being apart from them didn’t bother her all that much. All she needed was Bucky in her life and she loved exploring all these new places.

Y/N was especially excited to visit Scotland, mostly because Bucky was always talking about how much he loved it. Bucky had planned some excursions for the day and they were fortunate enough to get a beautiful day in the sun. After a quick lunch in a fish and chips shop, they headed to Edinburgh Castle. 

They walked up toward the castle hand in hand and Bucky was surprisingly chatty. Usually Y/N led the conversations, but today he was making comments left and right about seemingly pointless things. She figured he was just excited to be visiting one of his favorite spots again.

They navigated around the groups of tourists with little kids running around and walked through the castle as Bucky whispered bits of knowledge into her ear. Y/N was constantly amazed at how much he knew about history. He had his camera with him and was constantly taking shots of the architecture and views from impeccable angles. He always managed to capture a few candid shots of Y/N when she wasn’t looking, with the light hitting her in the perfect way. Once she started to pick up on his lens, she fell into a habit of photo bombing his shots with a peace sign or her tongue out.

As the tour came to an end, Bucky said, “I have one more spot I want to show you.” They walked down the hill of the castle and weaved through the gardens to an ornate fountain. 

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed. She always loved sitting around fountains with a cup of coffee and a book. Bucky would take photos from all different angles and she would sneak a peek to watch as he worked. Occasionally he would capture candid shots of strangers and would send Y/N to talk to them so he could send over some of the photos.

They fell into their standard routine: Y/N snagged a cup of coffee from a nearby cart and sat on the bench, book in hand, as Bucky circled the area to find the best angles for photos. 

In between snapping shots, he approached a young couple, chatted with them a bit and showed them some of the photos he took. Then he called to Y/N and gave a head nod to come over. 

“What?” she asked him, confused.

“Come on, this is my favorite place with my favorite girl. Let’s get a picture.” Bucky wasn’t usually one to pose in front of the camera but she couldn’t argue with his logic here. He handed his camera off to one of the kind strangers as Y/N walked over towards the fountain. She easily slid under his arm and they smiled together as the young woman snapped a few shots. 

“One more,” she called to them. Y/N adjusted her pose ever so slightly when she felt Bucky’s arm unfurl from her shoulder. She turned to him, thinking maybe he was doing a fun pose, but instead, she found him down on one knee, a small velvet box in his hand.

“Y/N…” he started. Oh boy she thought. “These past few years have been the best in my life. I never imagined I’d meet someone who would bring me so much happiness and teach me what it is to be in love. You’ve changed everything for me and now that I’ve met you, I can’t live a life without you. So now I’m here, at my favorite place in the world with the only woman I have ever truly loved, and I’m asking you to make me the happiest man alive and marry me.”

A teardrop slid down her face. “James, of course I will.” He jumped up from his knee and captured Y/N into a warm embrace, his hand found her jaw and his lips softly enveloped hers in a passionate kiss. They were removed from their bubble by the sound of applause coming from all around them. She pulled away from Bucky to glance around as a blush crept upon her freckled cheeks. The girl holding Bucky’s camera was absolutely beaming. She showed them all the photos she captured of the special moment and it could not have been more perfect. The couple offered to treat them to a round of champagne at the local pub which Y/N and Bucky happily accepted.

As they walked together, hand in hand, she whispered into his ear, “I can’t believe this is my life.”

He kissed her on the cheek, “I’ve had that thought every day since I met you.”

[annanother-thing]

first sentence patterns

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

thank you @thecouchsofa for the tag - i never really think about first lines so this has been... eye opening

take aways: i have 2 modes - set the scene or dialogue. maybe its time i branched out...

The Quite Life - Drarry, 3.2k, E

“I can’t believe she’s finally gone,” Draco said, dropping onto the sofa.

Mothers-In-Love - Narlily, 9.5k, E

Narcissa giggled as the paper crane flew at her as she opened the back door of the cottage, warmth flooding out to greet her.

Vampire Instincts and Human Aversions - Drarry 3.6k, E

The rain lashed the window as Draco threw himself down on the sofa in his flat and pulled a blanket over himself.

Black and Brown - Gen, 429, M

Lavender crouched behind the pillar, the smoke stinging her eyes. Around her, the room burned.

Memories Old and New - Drarry, 6k, E

“Final session, Potter,” Malfoy rolled closer to the bench as Harry came in, “how long until you come in for another? Now you have the bug, I bet a month at most.”

Seven Minutes In A Hat - Drarry, 2k, E

“Neville, what the fuck!”

Unintended Consequences - Jegulily, 26k (WIP, 65k total when i have finished editing it oops), E

Morning light shone through the gap in the curtains, yellow-gold with the promise of summer heat, despite it being April in Scotland.

Curiosity Is Never Enough - Drarry, 10k, E

Harry could not believe his eyes.

Best Kept - Drarry, 13k, E

Snow crunched under Harry’s feet as he made the short walk from the Diagon Alley apparition point to the Leaky.#

Christmas Morning - Drarry, 200, T

Outside the window, the snow is falling.

tagging: @gloivy @thehollowone16 @felixantares @silently--here

[fandomficsnstuff]

Witches and Wizards - 2

(Warnings: angst, mentions of death, some fluff and a tiny bit of blood)

Note: I once read parts of a fic where the reader has magic and goes back in time, meeting Merlin. I sadly can’t find it anymore. Also Fred didn’t die in this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Merlin could just tell how nervous Ophelia was, she was chewing and gnawing at her bottom lip, hands fiddling with the hem of her… he wouldn’t call it a tunic, but it seemed to serve as one. As the door swung open, both Merlin and Ophelia walked inside and she halted, seeing Gaius look up from his herbs that he was busying himself with. “Merlin” he greeted, walking over and instantly Ophelia took a small step forward, a frown on her brows as she looked genuinely sorry “I’m sorry about the table and your memory, sir. I can fix the table, I promise. I only erased your memory of me because I thought-... I didn’t know that you knew about magic, and Merlin. I’m sorry” Ophelia stated firmly, Gaius glancing at Merlin with confusion before looking back at Ophelia “I-... I’m guessing you have magic, then” he stated, Ophelia nodding, getting out her wand and walking over to the still broken table, pointing her wand at it “Mensa Reparo” the broken pieces lifted themselves into the air, putting itself together and mending itself, leaving itself standing perfectly on the floor, even sturdier than it had been before it was broken. Gaius and Merlin walked over, each looking at the table with shock and awe, Merlin turning to look at Ophelia. “That was incredible” he complimented, Ophelia’s eyes wide, completely caught off guard, her cheeks and the tips of her ears burning as she shyly looked down but forced herself to act calm “thank you, it means a lot coming from someone as great as you” she stated softly, giving a brief smile to Gaius before looking at Merlin. “I’ll leave Camelot, try and find a way back home, but it’s been a pleas-”

“Leave?? Why?”

“I-... I’ll admit that ending up here wasn’t actually something I thought possible… I just-... I don’t want to be in the way-”

“You won’t be! You aren’t!” Merlin assured hastily, Ophelia glancing at Gaius nervously before looking back at Merlin “a-are you s-sure?”

“Yes, and you can stay here if you like! You can have my bed-”

“What? No! No I couldn’t take your bed-”

“Why not?”

“Because-... i-it’s your bed…”

“It’s alright, really!”

“Merlin, perhaps you need to think about what she is comfortable with as well” Gaius piped up, the two young people looking at him and Ophelia looked back at Merlin who seemed to be less excited than before “I-... just don’t want to be in the way…” Ophelia admitted, Merlin shaking his head with an adorable smile “you wouldn’t! You could tell me about what it’s like where you’re from” he urged, Ophelia unable to hide her smile as she nodded briefly. Merlin gestured to a bench and Ophelia gave Gaius a soft smile before looking at Merlin. “So…” Ophelia started, Gaius shaking his head with a smile as he watched the two of them, both grinning at each other. “Where did you learn that from??” he gestured to the table she had fixed, Ophelia’s cheeks heating up as she smiled “Hogwarts. The best school in the world for Witchcraft and Wizardry! It’s here in Scotland, but of course quite a lot of years away. The headmaster was Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard I’ve ever met, except you of course. We have four houses at Hogwarts that each student is sorted into in the first year. Gryffindor for the brave and loyal, Hufflepuff for the kind-hearted, patient and fair. Slytherin for the cunning and ambitious and finally, the best house of all, Ravenclaw, for the brightest of students with a thirst for knowledge” Ophelia stated with pride and a smirk, Merlin grinning at her “I’m guessing you were in the Ravenclaw house” Merlin stated half-jokingly, Ophelia chuckling briefly “I was. Two of my best friends were in Gryffindor, though. They’re the idiots who managed to get me here” she stated with amusement and a chuckle, Merlin chuckling with her briefly. “What’s it like? At Hogwarts?”

“It was… magical… magic is practised freely there, except for the Dark Arts, of course. There’s classes in different kinds of magic. Like Transfiguration, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Muggle Studies, Divination, Astronomy, History of Magic. One of my favourites was Broom Flying classes-”

“Broom flying??”

“Yup. I love flying on brooms. My un-... someone got me one of the fastest there was at the time, I got it for my fourteenth birthday” Ophelia admitted with a fond smile, Merlin smiling at her “what about your parents?”

“I uh… I’m not-... I-I never really knew my dad but-... he gave me this… he left it for me… it was the ring he was going to propose to my mum with” she admitted as she raised her hand to show off the ring she was wearing on her right forefinger, a silver ring with a blue gem in the centre, looking back up at Merlin. “Do you miss them? Your mother and father? What was it like growing up?”

“I uh, it was alright, you know, normal upbringing” Ophelia lied smoothly, smiling at Merlin who nodded, seemingly buying the lie. “What about you? What are the parents of the great and powerful Merlin like?” she asked with a small smirk, Merlin chuckling briefly “my mother raised me, I never knew my father until…” his smile faded and Ophelia nodded, gesturing to Gaius who had gone back to work “how’d you meet Gaius?”

“He knew my mother, took me in… he knew from the start when he met me” Merlin admitted with a new smile, Ophelia nodding with a grin “he seems nice… I mean, he’s forgiven me for breaking his table and erasing his memories of me” Ophelia half-joked, Merlin chuckling as Ophelia looked out a nearby window, the moon high in the sky. “We should get some sleep… you-”

“I’m not taking your bed, Merlin” Ophelia stated with a chuckle, standing up and walking over to the nearby fire, taking off her shoulder bag and placing it on the ground, taking off the large, knitted tunic she was wearing, Merlin blushing at the… less thick tunic she wore under, it’s long sleeves fitted against her arms instead of sagging, her strange blue-ish trousers staying on as she took off her odd boots that didn’t go past her ankles, some sort of fabric covering her feet as she laid down on the floor, using the thick, knitted tunic to cover her bag and rest her head on. “The floor gets really cold at night, I-I can’t-”

“I’m fine, really Merlin. But thank you, for asking and caring. Goodnight” she stated softly before taking a sip from a small vial that had been in her bag, cringing at the taste and after she put it back inside her bag, she laid back down, turning on her side, her face towards the fire, her eyes already closed, Gaius taking note of Merlin watching her with entranced eyes, as though completely enchanted by her. “Merlin,” the young boy snapped his head towards Gaius, the elderly man nodding towards Merlin’s room “you’ll need to be awake tomorrow” he joked softly, Merlin nodding, casting a soft glance at Ophelia before getting up and walking towards his own room, turning and looking over his shoulder, seeing Gaius gently place a blanket over Ophelia’s shoulders as she slept.

--------------------------------------------------

Ophelia woke up with a groan, lazily lifting her head, looking around, her eyes barely open but the second she saw the entire room was empty, she shot up, looking around frantically as she sat on the floor near the burning embers in the fireplace, her eyes moving to the soft blanket that had been put over her shoulders and she couldn’t help but smile a little, carefully pulling it off of her to stand up, folding it neatly and placing it on a nearby chair before walking over to a table with a bowl of something in it, a small note by it.

You seemed like you needed the rest. Merlin and I are at the tournament, it’d be best if you ate your breakfast before it gets stale- Gaius

Ophelia smiled softly at the note and put it in the pocket of her jeans as a small reminder, looking at the bowl of what looked like porridge as she took a seat in front of it, picking up a spoon and tasting it, cringing a little but she ate it nonetheless. Once she had finished eating, she gave her wand a wave and the bowl and spoon began to clean itself, Ophelia looking out a window to see it was high noon. Ophelia looked around before nodding to herself, giving her wand a wave at a nearby broom, the item beginning to sweep the floors as Ophelia began to clean up the place, which was the least she could do to thank them for letting her stay the night, and for making her breakfast. Ophelia continued to busy herself, tempted to organise all the vials and plants but she refrained, knowing there was probably a system there already.

It was late when the two finally got back, both of them halting completely when they saw a spotless room, some things left untouched but nothing looked chaotic in any way, shape or form. Ophelia was placing some books neatly on the table and when she turned, she halted. “Hi…” she stated softly, looking around, clearing her throat awkwardly “I uh-... t-thanks for the breakfast, and the blanket. I-... I wanted to say thank you, in some way” she admitted as she picked up her bag, throwing it over her head and one shoulder, clutching the strap “thank you, for everything you’ve done… How did Gilli do in the tournament?” Ophelia asked with a frown, Merlin staying silent yet his look was one of sadness, Ophelia frowning at him even more “was-... was he hurt?”

“No, he-...” Merlin cut himself off with a sigh, Gaius glancing at his apprentice before looking back at Ophelia with a grim look on his face “Gilli killed an opponent” he admitted, Ophelia frowning with confusion and concern. “He-... he killed someone?...” Ophelia asked with slight shock before sighing, gently shaking her head before making sure she had all her things. “I’m sorry to hear that” she admitted, heading for the door when Merlin caught up with her, gently grasping her elbow, letting go once she stopped and turned to look at him. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah I-.. don’t want to be a bother and I don’t-... I don’t know a single thing about this place… I mean I don’t know how to get home but I don’t think I can stay here either way…” Ophelia mumbled, Merlin looking absolutely devastated at losing another person who had magic like him. “W-Well if you can’t get home anyway, you could stay with me- I mean ‘us’! You could stay here for as long as you want, we’ll protect you from Uther, we’ll help you, I’ll tell you everything about Camelot and this world, you can stay as long as you want” Merlin stated with determination, Gaius raising his eyebrows high up as he looked at his student, staying quiet and opting to look to Ophelia instead of speaking up. “I-... I-I don’t want to intrude-”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I-... alright then, thank you. I-I can help out around the place if you need me to. I don’t mind using my magic in any way here, as long as you or Gaius are the only ones to see it. I’m quite skilled at potions and herbology so I can grow and take care of any plants or brew any concoction you want. I’m skilled at charms too, and I’m particularly good at the levitation spell and defensive spells and charms, I’m really good at enchanting things too s-so I could enchant bandages and such to use in the future” Ophelia admitted with a small shrug, Merlin’s lips stretching into an adorable, huge grin, looking over his shoulder at Gaius who quickly forced a smile and a nod, Ophelia nodding in return “thank you, I uh… I don’t have any money on me so I don’t know how I could repay-”

“You don’t have to” Merlin quickly added, Ophelia blushing, pressing her lips together in a straight line to prevent her own smile from growing, nodding as she looked towards the spot she had slept in last night, right by the fire. “Thank you” she stated once again, smiling at Gaius who gave her a fond smile before beginning to prepare dinner, putting out an extra plate for the new household member.

---------------------------------------------------

Ophelia watched the match with a small frown of concentration, one of her blonde brows lifting ever so slightly as she watched while standing beside Merlin and Gaius. “So, which brawns-before-brains is yours?” she asked jokingly and looked briefly at Merlin, Merlin trying to hold back a chuckle “that would be Arthur, the prince” Merlin stated with a small smirk, turning to look and gauge Ophelia’s reaction, expecting surprise or maybe embarrassment over insulting the prince and King but instead she just hummed quietly with a small smirk “ah, royalty, their last name wouldn’t happen to be Malfoy, would it?” she asked with a teasing smirk, looking up at Merlin who laughed briefly as he shook his head, slightly confused “no” he stated, Ophelia chuckling and looking towards the match again as the younger one, whom she guessed was Arthur, was thrown to the ground without a sword, the older one helping him up as the people cheered. “Well, the Malfoys will certainly be upset about that, with how uptight they are already” she joked quietly, following Merlin as he walked towards a tent, walking inside with Gaius before walking out with him, her eyes landing on the prince who looked shocked to see her. “Merlin, who is this fair lady?” he asked with a charming smile, turning to look at Gaius for the answer, the old man silently panicking but he he smiled confidently all the same “my niece” he smoothly lied, Arthur seemingly buying the lie as he nodded, gently taking Ophelia’s hand and bowing down to kiss it but Ophelia retracted her hand awkwardly “I’m so sorry I-.. I really don’t like to be touched” she lied smoothly, Arthur nodding “my apologies-”

“You couldn’t have known” Ophelia quickly stated politely, Arthur nodding with a small smile “so, what’s your name, if I may ask?”

“Ophelia” she stated with a polite smile, Arthur softly bowing his head in greeting “a beautiful name. What are you doing here instead of in the audience?”

“Better view, besides, I’d rather stay back here than watch the fighting” she admitted with a shrug, Arthur unable to stop his teasing smirk “I’m sorry to hear that. You can’t stomach the blood that might be spilled?” he asked with a cocky attitude, Ophelia unable to hold in her laugh “blood?? Women see far more blood than men” she stated while laughing, shaking her head and grinning at Merlin and Gaius before patting Merlin’s shoulder as she walked off to get something to eat. After eating she had begun to help the wounded, applying bandages, stitching up wounds, checking in on those who needed it. By the time it was afternoon, her hands were soaked with dried blood, her jeans having spots and lines of blood from whenever she wiped her hands on them, the blood stuck to her hands like ink, some blood on her forehead from trying to move her hair from falling into her face. Merlin was the first to come get her, his entire body coming to a halt as he watched her, smiling and laughing with a man who had a particularly awful gash on his arm, Ophelia stitching it up, distracting him by talking and joking so he wouldn’t focus too much on the pain. Merlin couldn’t help but smile, watching her as she finished the stitches and carefully wrapped the man’s arm with bandages, all the while smiling as though she was having a casual conversation with an old friend. Ophelia turned to look around for any wounded patients when she saw Merlin, giving him a soft smile and a wave, Gaius appearing after thinking that Merlin took too long to fetch Ophelia, his own steps halting when he saw her caked in blood from treating the wounded who had survived the tournament so far, her hand patting the healthy shoulder of the man she had just treated as she got up, walking over to Merlin and Gaius.

“It’s time for dinner. Let’s get you washed up before we eat” Gaius urged with a warm smile, guiding her with a hand hovering against her back, Gaius throwing him a look as Merlin kept staring at her before jumping into action and following Gaius and Ophelia to the physician’s quarters. Ophelia stopped after Gaius had asked one of the servants to help her get cleaned up, Merlin walking ahead while Gaius talked, his bad mood practically oozing out of him.

It was late when Ophelia finally returned, her hair damp and she was wearing an actual dress, clearly uncomfortable in the new clothing, her hands clutching the strap of her bag awkwardly as she walked inside the physician’s quarters, smiling at Gaius, who was quite shocked to see her in a dress. “I’m sorry I’m so late… washing out blood is-... awful” she admitted softly, Gaius nodding with a warm smile “it is, yes” he agreed, Ophelia awkwardly walking inside further “where’s Merlin?”

“He went to talk to Gilli…”

“Gilli? Why? I thought he didn’t participate anymore…”

“So did Merlin and I… he nearly killed a man… I believe his opponent will pull through but-..” Gaius cut himself off, Ophelia running a hand over her face in frustration as she sat down on a nearby chair, shaking her head gently as she got out her wand and gave it a wave, her hair instantly drying itself. “I didn’t-... I actually thought that-... I can’t stay here” she decided, standing up, shaking her head. “Why not?”

“Because I-... okay, I guess there’s no point in keeping it a secret; I’ve seen a lot of death and I’m done with death, Gaius. I’m only nineteen and I’ve already seen so much of it… I have nightmares, I can’t fall asleep without forcing my body to let me and I’m anxious most of the time around people. I won’t sit through a war between muggles that I have nothing to do with, it’s not my fight and it’s not my duty and I can tell that a war very well might happen and maybe I’m overreacting but that’s how I stay out of things, such as wars, I leave before they happen” Ophelia admitted, voice raised a little and yet her eyes had tears lingering in them. Just as the door opened she turned around, blinking away her tears as she quickly looked away from them both. “I’m sorry, Gaius, I am, but I won’t stay here, I’m done with death…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Gilli nearly killed someone, Merlin… I’ve-... I’ve fought a lot of people, I’ve been through war and I’ve killed people, but never because I just wanted to get ahead or for my own gain. If this patient dies, Gilli will have killed two people for no reason other than to make himself better at some game he doesn’t have to play and I hate that game, Merlin” Ophelia admitted with a low voice, Merlin staring at her with sad eyes “I don’t want to live through another war” Ophelia added softly, Merlin shaking his head “you won’t! I promise, you won’t, I’ll stop it, I promise!” he pleaded, Ophelia sighing, gently shaking her head before glancing at him again before looking away “I’ll stay until the tournament’s over, but if I think there’s a war coming, I’m sorry, but I’ll leave… until then I’ll stay here and not out there, I won’t watch anymore people get killed” Ophelia stated harshly, Merlin nodding at her with a frown.

[scots-gallivanter]

SEVEN

The Thames flows proudly to the sea.

Where royal cities stately stand

But sweeter flows the Nith to me.

Where Comyns ance had high command

ROBERT BURNS, The Banks of Nith (1789)

CORMORANTS PERCH OUT on their favourite island: a tongue of silt and shingle anchored by half a dozen willows in the River Nith – an islet that isn’t there in most photos of old Dumfries. Four men sit on the left bank today, laughing and sharing a carry-out a yard or two from where their dogs relieve themselves. I flap pushy seagulls away and a woman resting her shopping bags on a bench tells me: ‘The only thing Dumfries hasnae lost, son, is the gulls.’

I wonder what has happened to the town in which I was born. Dumfries’s ancient tenements and closes are gone. Several old buildings have buddleias and other trees growing out of their pointing. The street architecture is homogenous. There is a scruffy look about it at times, though not quite as bad as in 1785 when the Perthshire minister William Thomson, posing as an English gentleman by the name of Captain Newte, passed by. Newte wrote in his book, Tour in England and Scotland, that the ‘lower class of females’ were ‘exceedingly dirty’; and, in his turgid travelogue, Northern Memoirs, in 1697, Richard Franck recalled the nauseating halitosis of the ‘rabble’ who sat around the tollbooth. Onions, seemingly.

Brighter pictures have, of course, been painted of ‘the Queen of the South’, including Defoe’s description of it in 1711 as ‘a prosperous town of merchant adventurers’. Thirty years later Bishop Pococke was impressed by ‘one of the neatest towns in Great Britain’, and, as recently as 1842, Fullarton’s Gazetteer hailed the town as ‘the metropolis of south-west Scotland, a place of elegance, importance, and great antiquity’.

We go for a stroll in the Dock Park, along the riverside – the site of a medieval castle, demolished soon after Defoe came spying, to provide stone for a church that is no longer there. Today, wayfarers push prams or walk dogs, probably unaware of the significance of a granite obelisk that stands near the play area. It’s in memory of John Law Hume, of Dumfries, and Thomas Mullin of the adjacent village of Maxwelltown, now swallowed up by Dumfries, who went down on the Titanic in April 1912. Hume, who was 21, was a violinist, and part of the band that famously played on as the great ship sank. Mullen, a ship’s steward the same age as Hume, was also among the victims, and both are buried in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

An eight-iron would probably be enough to propel a golf ball from the Dock Park to Robert Burns’s marble mausoleum in St Michael’s cemetery, a place of pilgrimage extensively written about, and visited by tourists from many countries. The bard had lived in or around Dumfries for the last eight years of his short life. He was buried in a simpler grave, but his body was exhumed in 1817 to be placed in its present tomb. John McDiarmid, who was editor of the Dumfries Courier, wrote a piece that claimed the poet’s head separated from his torso when workmen tried to move him, and then, ‘with the exception of the bones, crumbled into dust’.

Not many years later MacDiarmid was one of the ringleaders who took Burns’s skull from his grave in the dark of night, put it in a sack and took it to a local plasterer for a mould of it to be made. It is said that several of the crew took their hats off and tried them on the bard’s skull. All of this in the interests of the pseudo-science of phrenology.

When William Wordsworth visited the first grave of Burns with his sister Dorothy in 1803, he wrote a poem that includes the following verse:

The tear will start, and let it flow;

Thou ‘poor Inhabitant below,'

At this dread moment--even so--

Might we together

Have sate and talked where gowans blow,

Or on wild heather.

In her Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland AD 1803, Dorothy Wordsworth opined, unfairly I’d say: ‘We were glad to leave Dumfries, which is no agreeable place to them who do not love the bustle of a town that seems to be rising up to wealth. We could think of little else but poor Burns, and his moving about on that unpoetic ground.’

Two well-known hotels used to stand opposite each other down the High Street past the Midsteeple. The County Hotel, which now houses Waterstones book shop was the headquarters of Prince Charles Edward Stuart for three days in 1745, during which his Jacobites demanded shoes from the populace. Over the road stood the Kings Arms Hotel, which now accommodates Boots the chemist. The serial killer and body snatcher William Hare, of Burke and Hare fame, was put up there in February, 1829 after he turned king’s evidence and was granted immunity from prosecution, and Burke had been executed. A crowd of eight thousand bayed for Hare’s blood outside the hotel, but he was spirited away, nobody knows where.

In his History of Dumfries William McDowall wrote: ‘The news spread rapidly; and under its excitement a vast crowd, estimated at eight thousand people, collected on the streets, the greatest concourse being in the vicinity of the King’s Arms Hotel, where Hare was located, waiting the departure of the Galloway mail. At first, several gentlemen were freely admitted to see him. When, however, the crowd outside increased, and began to use threats of violence, he was removed for greater security to a closet adjoining the tap-room. There he was traced; and a fierce band of intruders, with cries of “Burke him! Burke him!” burst in, who would undoubtedly have made their words good, had not several policemen arrived and cleared the room. The time for the Portpatrick mail to start (eleven o’clock) having come, the inn-yard was cleared with difficulty, the horses were yoked, and the coach was drawn out.

‘Hare did not make his appearance. If he had ventured forth, no trembling quadruped with the name he bore ever experienced a worse fate than that which awaited him. The wrath of the “Monument rangers,” of the “Kirkgate blades,” and all the nameless rabble of the town, from the Moat-brae to the Cat’s Strand, was fairly up: they would have torn him to pieces without mercy; and it is scarcely exaggeration to say, in the words of Shakespeare:

“Had all his hairs been lives,

Their great revenge had stomach for them all.’’’

On the opposite bank of the River Nith stands the disused Rosefield Mill, with its magnificent Venetian palazzo frontage. Tyres, car parts, carpets, cans, an old microwave oven, and other rubbish were removed from the mill in 2022 after a trust bought it for a nominal sum. The Norwegian army-in-exile used the mill as a transit camp and it’s now earmarked as a cultural venue in a town with many associations with Burns; as well as with Bruce, who killed the Red Comyn in the former Greyfriars Church in the town centre. A plaque on the wall at Gregg’s bakery at the top of Friars Vennel now marks the spot of the murder of the English king’s lackey.

Over 2,000 Norwegians were stationed in and around Dumfries after the Germans invaded their country. In 2023, to commemorate the link, a huge ‘stone of friendship’ was unveiled on land off the Whitesands – next to the bus stances where we hope to catch the bus that will hurl us down to the ‘Scottish Riviera’.

(There is a long-standing myth that nine witches were strangled and burned at the stake here one Spring afternoon in 1659, but a minute of the trial reveals that they were killed at 'the ordinar place of execution for the burghe of Drumfreis', which appears to have been at Marchfield out off the Moffat Road. )

I peer at the adjacent Auld Brig, a 17th-century stone bridge, which was built on the site of the 15th-century one that was destroyed in a flood, which was itself built on the site of a wooden one given by Lady Devorgilla in the 1260s. The aforementioned Franck wrote: ‘...you may observe a large and spacious bridge, that directly leads into the country of Galloway, where thrice in a week you shall rarely fail to see their maid-maukins dance corantos in tubs.’ John Macky described the brig in his Journey Through Scotland in 1723 as ‘the finest I saw in Britain, next to London and Rochester’.

Burns would have crossed this bridge many a time; less well-known was the journey across the brig by the poet Robert Fergusson who, some say, might have eclipsed Burns had he not died at the age of 24, when Burns was 15.

Somewhat tattered and dissolute from virtual alcohol poisoning, Fergusson staggered into town on September 26th, 1773, with his companion, Wilson, first name unknown, a naval officer. The poet wore a long white flannel jacket that had been blackened during their arduous journey from Edinburgh, pub by pub. To an eyewitness he looked like a young recruit done in by the mother of all walks, rather than ‘a gay minstrel on pleasure bent’. They’d drunk all night in an Edinburgh howff before deciding in the middle of the night to shank it all the way to Dumfries to see Fergusson’s ‘bosom cronie’, Charlie Salmon, who’d moved there to work as a compositor with Dumfries’s first printer, Robert Jackson, the provost.

In Dumfries the duo resumed their pub crawl, sampling a few of the ninety-odd drinking dens that operated in town at that time. (Most of them are long gone.) From verses penned by Fergusson in the pubs, and published in the Dumfries Weekly News, it seems he was so pleased with his trip that he longed for ‘some orra pence, mair sillar, and a wee bit mair sense’, that he might be able to ‘bide a’ simmer.’

William McDowall wrote in Memorials of St Michaels:

‘Soon afterwards, alas; the unfortunate poet had to exchange all scenes of revelry, mirth, and beauty for a bed in that dark inn, the grave.’

But not before Fergusson had written this:

‘The gods sure in some canny hour

To bonny Nith ha’e ta’en a tour

Where bonny blinks the caller flow’r

Beside the stream

And sportive there ha’e shawn their pow’r

In fairy dreams.’

 

[classicmemorialbenches]

How do I find out the manufacturer of furniture?

There are a few ways to find out the manufacturer of furniture in the UK :

Check for labels or markings on the furniture itself: Many manufacturers will label their products with their name or logo or with other identifying information such as a model or serial number.

Check the original packaging or paperwork: If you still have the original packaging or any paperwork that came with the furniture, it may contain information about the manufacturer.

Search online: You can search for the furniture by name or description on search engines or online marketplaces.

Contact the retailer: If you purchased the furniture from a retailer, they may be able to provide you with information on the manufacturer.

Use a furniture registry: There are online furniture registries that allow you to register your furniture and track its history, which may include information on the manufacturer.

If none of these methods work, you can also try contacting a furniture expert or appraiser, who may be able to help you identify the manufacturer based on the design, materials, and other characteristics of the furniture.

[maharajaexpressindia]

All Aboard for Nostalgia: The Heritage Train Ride

There’s something magical about train travel that captures the essence of nostalgia. The gentle rocking motion, the clickety-clack of the wheels on the tracks, and the ever-changing scenery outside the window evoke a sense of adventure and timelessness. Heritage train rides take this experience to another level, allowing passengers to journey back in time aboard beautifully restored trains that once traversed the landscapes carrying passengers and mail.

A Journey Through Time

History of Heritage Trains

Heritage railways have a rich history, often originating from the early days of railway travel when steam engines were the epitome of modern technology. These trains once served as vital links for passengers and mail, connecting cities and remote areas. Today, they have been meticulously restored and preserved, offering a nostalgic glimpse into the past while providing a unique form of tourism.

The Heritage Train Experience

Imagine stepping onto the platform of a heritage railway station, where the ambience is set by vintage signs, old-fashioned benches, and the distant hiss of steam. As you board the train, the sight of polished wood interiors, brass fittings, and plush seats transports you to a bygone era. The rhythmic chug of the engine, the billowing steam, and the scenic landscapes unfolding outside the window create a sensory experience unlike any other.

Onboard, you might find vintage cabins, attentive service reminiscent of yesteryears, and even staff dressed in period attire, enhancing the feeling of traveling through time. Each element of the journey is designed to evoke memories of the past and create a truly immersive experience.

Destination Delights

Heritage train rides often connect travelers with some of the most picturesque and historically significant destinations. Popular routes might take you through lush hill stations, tranquil countryside, or along the coast, each offering its own unique charm. For instance, the Nilgiri Mountain Railway in India winds through the verdant hills of Ooty, while the Jacobite Steam Train in Scotland traverses the scenic landscapes of the Scottish Highlands. Each journey not only showcases stunning vistas but also offers a peek into the cultural and historical significance of the destinations.

Famous Heritage Train Routes

More Than Just a Ride

Heritage train rides offer much more than just a means of travel. They provide a window to some of the most breathtaking views from a unique vantage point. The slow pace of the journey allows travelers to savor the scenic beauty, from rolling hills and dense forests to sparkling rivers and quaint villages.

Unique Experiences Onboard

Additionally, many heritage railway routes lead to lesser-known destinations, offering opportunities for off-the-beaten-path adventures and exploration. Special events, such as themed journeys, cultural performances, or gourmet meals onboard, add an extra layer of enchantment to the experience. For example, the Royal Scotsman in the UK offers luxurious accommodations and fine dining, while the Maharaja Express in India includes cultural excursions and opulent amenities.

Scenic Beauty and Cultural Significance

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Embark on this nostalgic journey today and let the heritage railway transport you to a world of timeless elegance and scenic splendor. Whether you’re a history enthusiast, a nature lover, or simply seeking a unique travel experience, a heritage train ride offers something for everyone.

[freedformwriter]

Diary of a Baggage Train: Day 5

 ‘I’m on a magical mystery tour,’ I explain to my hosts at the latest converted church hostelry. They’ve ambitiously converted it into a bunkhouse and an upscale bistro. A wall of permanently illuminated stain-glass saints watch over the late-breakfasting backpackers. Reclaimed religious artifacts are mixed with a series of renovation photographs only the people who put their blood, sweat, and tears into this building could appreciate. I am proportionately effusive as we chat over the porridge. As this bunkhouse seemed staffed only by men, I’ve determined that this impractically charming project is deeply queer. I look for little clues (the crisp packets are arranged in rainbow order!) Having branded my cluelessness as part of a ‘wherever the road takes me’ life philosophy, I mention being gobsmacked again today by how much driving it takes to connect the backpackers hotels. Yes, my hosts commiserate, tourists are always confused when they end up with a £160 pound fare. I should take the northwest, not southeast loop; there’s a good bakery on the way. Leaving, I bump into a beautiful woman in so obviously expensive a raincoat and boots that she must be the co-owner. ‘Don’t come off the road,’ she warns as I drive off into the rain. No rainbow church.

Thirty minutes of driving along a single-track lane, of letting the ever-present vans by me, and giving space to the men in midge nets clearing trees, and I’m already tired. From the Bistro Church to tonight’s hostel, which will probably also be in some type of converted Victorian civic building no longer required for its original purpose, is just six miles as the crow flies. By google directions, it’s sixty-one fucking miles. The Fiat informs me my average trip speed is 22 miles per hour. You do the math. Compounding things, we had a long-distance family conference last night about where I want be next year: a hard question to answer what with my vacillating long covid and an endless question mark over the Portugal project. I’m in anticipatory mode now and can feel the energy leeching from my body as my brain spins out the countless scenarios. Magical mystery tour, remember?

I stop to have lunch next to a martyr’s mound, the haunt of one of those Irish monks who paddled over to proselytise in the 6th century. The very thing that attracted the early Irish Christians to this part of Scotland is the very same reason I have spent so much time on the road today: the lochs. Today, the Hill of St. Kessog is populated by school children with soggy chips and dutiful dog walkers. Two kinds of seagulls swirl and compete with the ducks for food, the regular kind and the pretty little blackfaced ones with orange beaks that I find, with typical human caprice, more charming. A lone swan takes on all incautious dogs. In the distance, the mountaintops are mist bound. My mother’s trail updates show her wearing both a yellow raincoat and a midge mask. I get up from the bench, a memorial to a man by the name of Swann, my grandmother’s name. A good omen, perhaps.

I have neither the energy nor the fortitude to clamber out of the car in the pouring rain to investigate further roadside distractions, not even the tantalising ‘Famous Shark Bathroom!’ My destination, once sighted, is not another converted church. Moreover, it’s a building ostensibly still used for its original purpose: a public house with the bar and restaurant on the ground floor and rooms above. It’s not been updated. A giant stuffed black bear dressed in a kilt leers out from behind the doorway. A patron has placed a glass on its head. A wall of taxidermy birds are frozen in an unchanged tableau, and, oh my god, is that a baby seal? Who would kill that real life plushy toy and be proud of it? But the hotel is leaning into the creepy vibe. Their Wi-Fi password is Haunted Inn. No spaces.

[vikasgarden]

Vikas' laughter was not muffled. She let it all out and shook her head. “Fun? No. It wasn't fun at all.” But her sparkling eyes, the wide smile on her face and her overall relaxed body told other stories. “It was incredible. I haven't had a better day in years, and I'm not exaggerating.” She still had the taste of the candy on her lips. Each color has a different taste and one is better than the other. She loved it and licked her lips to relive the taste of the candy she had chosen. “I haven't been to the markets in years. Not for pleasure. Most of the time I run a stall myself and it's great. Selling flowers and other things, talking to the other vendors and getting things that aren't available to the public. But you miss out on so much because you have to run your stall and earn money. Today was a wonderful and successful change of pace. I can't tell you the last time I walked this much. My feet will hate me tomorrow, but that's a problem for the future Vika.” She shook her head once more as she giggled slightly. 

“My sisters and I haven't been to the markets for years. Vanora is married to her work. I visit her from time to time when she's working in the workshop and I'm in Wick. But most of the time she's busy. It must be hard to be one of three people in town who can do car and other engine repairs. The townspeople don't trust anyone who isn't from Wick, although most of them don't seem like it and are cheerful and chatty to strangers. When it comes to their belongings, they only trust their own people. And Viatrix?” She shrugged and her smile faded a little. “She hasn't been in Scotland all summer. I guess she'll be back in the winter. But it's Viatrix. You never know.” 

Vika fell silent for a moment. Sometimes she has these moments. She gets very quiet, seems to lose herself in her thoughts, but as quickly as these moments come, they disappear again. “What about you? When was the last time you were at a market like this?” 

She looked at him for a moment. His high cheekbones, the curve of his eyebrows, the way he was wearing his hair today. Speaking of hair, “I almost forgot something!” She only had the sweets with her, so Vika had to stand up again. “Give me a moment. Admire the view. It won't take long.” She winked at him as she went back to the car to get what she had planned. She bought something for both of them and then forgot to give it to him because she was so excited to get here.

Fortunately, when she returned to Zeev, he was admiring the view. So she was able to sneak up to him, even if it wasn't quite so quiet. The first leaves had found their way to the ground, and the soft crackling as they got under Vika's shoes gave her away despite her best efforts. She was also a little preoccupied with the object in her hand. She looked at it, brushing her fingers over it as she worked her magic into the wreath of flowers she had bought from her grandmother's friend. Vika stopped behind Zeev and carefully placed the wreath of flowers on his head. “It wouldn't be a day with a garden fairy without a wreath of flowers, would it?” She laughed softly and circled the bench to drop back into her seat. She already had her own wreath of flowers in her hair. “I made it last longer. So that we both have not only the memory of this day, but a little souvenir.” 

She looked at him again. It wasn't just because Zeev was a really handsome man that he was fun to look at. This time it was also because of the flowers in his hair. Hopefully she hadn't messed up his hair too much. But she just couldn't help herself. And the flowers looked great on him. “They suit you. You should wear them more often. Especially the chrysanthemums. The king of Sundawn.” She giggled.

continuation of (☀️) ⸻ @vikasgarden

The fae's childlike enthusiasm had a positive effect on his own disposition and he couldn't help but smile at her words. His joy was less about the offer of sweets - Zeev had never had a great passion for them - and more about the sociability and colourful hustle and bustle of the people. Seeing how cheerful and friendly everyone was with each other warmed his heart in a way. Apart from that, he thought it was nice that Vika had the opportunity to gain experiences outside of her seclusion that would soon enough develop into warm memories. 

A wave of nostalgia overcame him as they strolled through the market. He, too, was not free of memories that were both painful and pleasurable. He had often travelled with his siblings and family members into the heart of his home town when they too had offered a farmer’s market. Everything from crafts to harvests had been present. Long before they had to hide completely, they had offered their own work from time to time. From herbs and dried flowers to tea blends and minor spells - which for the common people were nothing more than gimmicks and small hints at the history of the city. For the Coven, these days were of particular significance, as they usually coincided with festivities that they themselves celebrated. The approaching start of autumn on these days was able to evoke equivalent feelings and with Vika, who was not a witch but came very close, these moments were easy to reproduce. 

Vika's cheerfulness was easy to mirror and made him forget any worries he carried with him wherever he went. Maybe that's why he liked her closeness so much, and not just because they had similar interests. 

There has always been something magical about the Scottish Highlands. Proof that the earth was a marvellous place and so much more powerful than a human, a witch or even a fairy. It was no surprise, looking down, that anyone looking out over the uneven lands felt exalted. On one side, the sea beat against the rocks; on the other, the view fell directly onto the small town, which looked like miniature figures from this distance. One could imagine that it was possible to take them with your index finger and thumb and rearrange them. No wonder the English wanted to conquer this country for themselves. Zeev's ambitions in these regards were rather limited. Ruling had never been his goal; the earth and its inhabitants were far too wilful for that. Instead, he leant back on the bench and took in the scenery. Vika's offer was accepted with hesitation. His first impulse had been to refuse, as she was clearly enjoying the sweets more than he was. However, politeness prevailed and he surmised that a sweet would do him no harm. 

At the altitude they were at, it was surprisingly warm, despite the stronger wind. Vika's wavy brown hair waved like grass in the breeze and she savoured the taste of her accomplishments. Zeev couldn't remember the exact last time he had been so blissfully close to another person. A peace that felt fleeting, but complete. From their position, they could watch the sunset perfectly as it set behind green and lush hills. The daily loss of sunlight was always associated with a certain sadness for the Sundawner, the certainty of their return, however, comforting. “That was a beautiful day,” he spoke openly and smiled at her, his nose outstretched towards the last rays of sunlight. “Thank you for tagging along.”

Expressing feelings openly was easy for Zeev. Being at peace with himself and with life opened many doors that few people were even aware of. Despite all the pains of the past and the supposed mistakes he had made, he had never lost the gentleness of his upbringing. “I don't think I need to ask if you had fun?” His laughter was muffled, but sincere. His smile was evident in the sparkle in his eyes. “Do you often go to markets with your sisters?”

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"MOTHER ACCUSES SON OF STEALING JEWELRY,” Toronto Star. February 27, 1933. Page 2.  ---- Youth Admits He Took Her Watches and Bracelet and Sold Them ---- Mrs. Nellie Baldwin, mother of Ed. Baldwin, complained in police court to-day that her son, 17 years of age, had taken two watches and a gold bracelet and disposed of them unlawfully. When asked by Magistrate Browne what he did with the jewelry, the accused lad replied: "I sold them on Yonge St." 

Crown-Attorney Malone declared that Baldwin had left school three years ago, and that at the present time his parents had but small control over the boy's actions. 

The case was adjourned for further Investigation, to March 2, bail of $200 being accepted. 

Held on $5,000 Bail John McGregor, charged with criminal negligence, was remanded on bail of $5,000 till March 27. It was stated by the crown that the injured party would be unable to appear until about that time. Goldie Klyman was the person alleged to have been struck by an auto driven by McGregor, at Euclid Ave., about 12.20 a.m.. Feb. 19. 

Charged with conspiracy with intent to defraud the Workmen's Compensation Board, Lazo Baitch was ordered remanded to March 6 on $5,000 bail. 

Alfred G. Hall, and Fred Hastings. charged with theft in the amount of $1.500 and $33.90 were remanded until March 6. 

Heavy Bail Demanded Solomon Ruckenstein was remanded to March 6, under bail of $20,000. on charges of theft and conspiracy, involving $100,000. Crown-Attorney Gibson requested that the bail be set at the figure named, since the amount. of $15,000 had failed to hold a man named Lewis, allegedly implicated in the case. Detective Glasscock brought Ruckenstein here from Montreal. 

 W. J. Webber was remanded. to March 6 on a charge involving $560 worth of stock, preferred by Rosa Neital of Walmsley Blvd. Bail of $5,000 was set.

Looking For Lottery Man Benjamin Cutler pleaded guilty to having lottery tickets to sell and was remanded till March 6. 

 "Cutler tells me that a man comes. every Monday and hands over about two dozen of the tickets which are sold at 25 cents each," stated Arthur Roebuck, defense counsel, in reply to Magistrate Browne's question as to where the tickets came from. 

 "Yes-yes," commented the bench, quickly, "and accused has told me that same tale before-but I'm not going to be fooled with much longer. I'll either find out who the man is higher up, of know why. I'm going to remand Cutler from week to week, if necessary, until his memory re- rives sufficiently to give the court the answer required. And I don't believe him when he says he doesn't know the name of that ticket supplying man." 

Fined 77 Celestials William Douglas. superintendent of the Orphans' Homies of Scotland, Bridge of Weir, was a visitor who sat on the bench beside Magistrate Tinker in early city police court to-day. 

Fines aggregating $154 and costs were assessed against Cheng Yu and 76 others, guilty of "gambling on the Lord's Day." Two dollars and costs each was the penalty imposed.

Edward Wicherley was fined $10 or five days for fighting in front of a theatre on Saturday night. Martin Wrobel, said by police to have been the aggressor in the scrap with Wicherley, was ordered to pay $10 or go to jail for seven days. Wrobel was given permission to go out and get money to pay the fine. 

Joe Kearns was fined $30 or 30 days for being drunk, 

Fred Falconer, said to have spent three months in jail over drunkenness charges, was to-day ordered to pay $10 and costs or serve ten days. Mick 

Mackerly was sent to jail for 60 drys for stealing aluminum bars from the Aluminum Company of Canada. 

It Was Wing's Birthday Low Wing was charged in the liquor and traffic court with having liquor in his restaurant on Elizabeth St. 

"Some of the businessmen on Eliza- beth St. were putting on a little party, testified P. C. Sheer, 29, who visited Wing's cafe at 4 a.m. and found a bottle.

"That day is my birthday." said Wing, through Interpreter Chin Wey, "and I invited in a few friends." 

"Don't have any more birthdays for a year at any rate," said Magistrate Jones as he assessed the Chinese $50 and costs or one month.

Jack Ryder was cutting in and out of traffic in Bloor St., when P.C. Hainer (457) saw him late on Friday night. To-day he was convicted of reckless driving and was fined $10 and costs. 

Jail for One Week On Bathurst St. at 5.45 a.m. February 13th. Louis McConnell's car bumped into a parked car, doing $55 damages, and "kept on going." 

"I drove 50 or 55 miles an hour to overtake him." testified P.C. Cooper, 607. McConnell was fined $10 and costs or seven days and seven days. 

Ned Popov pleaded guilty to having a gallon of spirits of "unlawful manufacture." He was fined $200 and costs or six months and one month in jail. 

George Dezing has a charge of reckless driving to answer here as soon as he gets out of custody at Cobalt. 

Herbert Cox's car ran into a car on Logan Ave. Cox told Sergeant Hobson he had had a drink of wine. but he showed no indication of it the officer stated. The damage had been, repaired. Cox was fined $10 and costs or 10 days and his driving permit was cancelled for 30 days. 

When Edna Masey's car stopped. on the tracks at Sherbourne and Wellesley Sts., P.C. Jackson (736) investigated. "She was absolutely Intoxicated," testified the officer. "She couldn't stand or answer any questions." Edna was committed to jail for seven days. 

Told What to Expect Joseph Keeling charged with reckless driving at Jarvis and Maitland Sts., asked for a remand till March 6 to give him time to finish a painting job. It was granted and he was told to "expect the worst" on that date. 

Stephen Zrebruk charged with having alcohol illegally, pleaded not guilty and was remanded for a week. 

Edward Sopher, charged with reckless driving and Arnold Lawrence, facing a charge of breach of the Excise Act, will appear March 6. Bail in each case was set at $500. 

Alex Zilento and Nick Baker will return on March 7 to answer separate charges of having alcohol il- legally. Both were placed on $500 bail. 

Two alleged reckless drivers were remanded till March 3. John W. Dunlop is on $200 bail and James Gray on $500. on

[scotianostra]

Edwin Muir the Orcadian poet, novelist and translator was born on May 15th 1887.

Muir was born on a farm in Deerness, where his mother was also born, at Hacco. In 1901, when he was 14, his father lost his farm, and the family moved to Glasgow. In quick succession his father, two brothers, and his mother died within the space of a few years. His life as a young man was a depressing experience, and involved what he viewed as a raft of unpleasant jobs in factories and offices, including working in a factory that turned bones into charcoal. He suffered psychologically in a most destructive way, although perhaps the poet of later years benefited from these experiences as much as from his Orkney 'Eden'.

Termed a philosophical, political and social poet, Muir’s poetry attempts to find meaning and pattern in life, harmony & cooperation instead of competition and conflict; popular themes include a sense of timelessness, a sense of displacement and rootlessness and innocence. He travelled in Europe with his wife and fellow writer, Willa, translating European writers such as Franz Kafka into English. The Muirs were significantly involved in the Scottish Literary Renaissance.

In 1955 he was made Norton Professor of English at Harvard University. He returned to Britain in 1956 but died in 1959 at Swaffham Prior, Cambridge, and was buried there.

A memorial bench was erected in 1962 to Muir in the idyllic village of Swanston, Edinburgh, where he spent time during the 1950s.

This poem from Muir is called Scotland's Winter.

Now the ice lays its smooth claws on the sill, The sun looks from the hill Helmed in his winter casket, And sweeps his arctic sword across the sky. The water at the mill Sounds more hoarse and dull. The miller's daughter walking by With frozen fingers soldered to her basket Seems to be knocking Upon a hundred leagues of floor With her light heels, and mocking Percy and Douglas dead, And Bruce on his burial bed, Where he lies white as may With wars and leprosy, And all the kings before This land was kingless, And all the singers before This land was songless, This land that with its dead and living waits the Judgement Day. But they, the powerless dead, Listening can hear no more Than a hard tapping on the floor A little overhead Of common heels that do not know Whence they come or where they go And are content With their poor frozen life and shallow banishment.