#memorial benches scotland

[classicmemorialbenches]

Techniques we use to depicting images on memorial bench designs

At Classic we have a number of techniques we use to depict images on our memorial bench designs and one of our favourite things to do is the colour resin inlay. There are several techniques that can be used. Here are,

✅Preparing the artwork

✅Carving the shapes into the wood

✅Pouring all of the colours

✅Skimming off the excess glue

✅clamped

[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

[lifesizehysteria]

A Mother's Blessings | A Bridgerton Fic

Part 11: Francesca

Fandom: Bridgerton (TV) Rating: Gen Pairing: Violet Bridgerton/Marcus Anderson Characters: Violet Bridgerton, Francesca Bridgerton, Marcus Anderson Summary: A collection of moments through Violet and Marcus’ courtship in which Violet seeks the blessings of her children. AO3 Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Violet walked hand in hand with Marcus through the corridor, on their way back to the front of the house after stealing a few moments alone, a nightly routine they had developed in the almost two weeks since he had arrived for the holiday. The house was quiet, most everyone else having already retired to their chambers for the night, allowing the two of them as much privacy as possible among Violet’s brood.

As they turned the corner, the gentle sound of the pianoforte drifted out from behind the closed door of the drawing room, a sound Violet had found particularly soothing since Francesca’s return. She brought them to a halt outside the door, stepping in front of Marcus, her blue eyes sparkling up at him. 

“I think I shall say goodnight here,” she whispered, bringing her hand up to his face. He took her cue, wrapping one arm around her waist to draw her in against him before lowering his head and pressing a tender kiss to her lips. Violet let her nose rub gently against his, delighting in the closeness that they still had to steal in precious moments, grasping every one that came their way. 

“Goodnight, my dear,” he murmured in his rich voice that still melted her insides every single time. 

“Goodnight, my darling.” She kissed him again, letting her nails lightly scratch his cheek through his beard before she brought her hand down to settle on her stomach. She watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corner, ignoring, as she did every time they bid each other goodnight, that the number of guaranteed goodnights they had left was dwindling quickly. 

Turning back to the drawing room door, she opened it gingerly and let herself inside. The music filled the room, sweeping her up as it wrapped around her, familiar and warm like a shawl against the night’s cold breeze. Resting back against the door, she did not move from where she was until the song came to an end, not wanting to disturb but simply enjoy. 

“It is so wonderful to hear you playing again. I have missed it so,” she said gently, crossing the room to stand by the pianoforte. “Almost as much as I have missed you.”

Francesca smiled up at her, then scooted over on the bench. “Will you play with me?” The offer was earnest, clearly Francesca’s way of showing Violet that she missed her, too. 

“I would love to. At least there is no one else around to hear it this time,” she chuckled, unwilling to pass up a moment with her daughter, even if her skills were far outmatched.

“You played very nicely, Mama,” she assured her as Violet came to sit beside her. Humming her unconvinced appreciation, Violet reveled in the closeness, so happy to have her daughter home, very aware that she would be returning to Scotland far sooner than Violet was ready for. 

“What are we playing, dearest?” The smile on her face was filled with joy and warmth, and she was so happy to see it reflected back at her.

Francesca played a quick, simple melody that Violet immediately recognized. It was the first song she had taught her daughter when she was so small she had to sit on a book to properly reach the keys. Violet did not know the name of the song. She was not even sure it had one. It had been a melody her own teacher had used as a warm up when she had learned to play as a child, and once Violet had taught it to her daughter, it had slowly developed into a full song of its own, a duet no one knew but the two of them. 

Violet set her left hand on the keys, watching for Francesca’s cue so they would start in time together. Her fingers created the chords from muscle memory, allowing her to listen to the way Francesca played the melody, adding in flourishes that she had never heard before, elevating it from a simple child’s melody to something far more beautiful and sophisticated, but still remaining true to the original at its heart. As she played the final chord, Violet could feel tears threatening to well, and she blinked them away. She brought her hand back to her lap, her eyes turned down as she worked to control the influx of emotion. 

“That is still my favorite song to play,” Francesca said quietly, leaning into her mother’s shoulder. Violet looked up at her with a slightly watery smile, letting her hand gently cup her cheek. 

“Mine, too.” 

A silence fell between them, and Violet had to keep herself from filling it, reminding her of how different she and her daughter could be. She brought her hand back to her lap, fidgeting slightly in the quiet. 

“Do you love Lord Anderson?”

Violet’s head spun to look at her daughter, her eyebrows lifted in surprise at the sudden and specific change of subject. 

“Wha- I-I…” she stuttered. None of her children had asked her so directly, and Francesca would not have been the one she would have expected it from. “Yes. I do. Very much.”

“Does it feel the same way as it did with Papa? The fireworks and all that?”

Violet shook her head, a small and tender smile on her face. “No. It is quieter, more peaceful and calming. Your father made me feel as though I could take on the world, so long as he was beside me. Lord Anderson makes me feel as though I do not need to. That everything I could want is right here and that it is okay to be satisfied with my little corner of the world.”

“How did you know? If it was so different from how you felt before, how did you know it was also love?”

“I think if it were not for you, it would have taken me much longer to realize.”

“How do you mean?” Francesca looked at her with curiosity in her eyes. 

“Seeing the quiet love you share with John showed me that love can come in many forms, and one way does not diminish another. They are simply different, and I think at this stage in my life, this is exactly the kind of love that I need.” She brought her hand back to Francesca’s face, sweeping her thumb across the apple of her cheek. “Thank you for showing me what I otherwise might have missed.”

“You are welcome, Mama. I am glad you are so happy.” Francesca gave Violet a soft smile, but Violet did not miss the way it faltered, despite her daughter's effort to hide it. 

Violet's eyebrows knit together, worry immediately muddling her face. “Is something wrong, dearest?” 

“No! No, all is well, Mama,” Francesca insisted, though she did not quite meet her mother’s eye. 

“Francesca,” Violet said quietly, encouraging her daughter to look at her with her hand under her chin. “Is there something wrong between you and John? Is that why he did not come?”

Francesca shook her head. “No. I was truthful that he simply did not wish to be in such close quarters with so many people.”

“Then what is it, my dear? What troubles you?” When Francesca did not answer, Violet brought her hand down to give her arm a gentle squeeze. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Francesca chewed on her lip as if contemplating before speaking down to her hands clasped in her lap. “I think it is just different than I expected.”

“What is?”

Francesca shrugged. “Marriage, being so far away… It is good to have Eloise with me, but I did not expect it to be quite so hard.”

“Oh, my darling.” Violet enveloped her daughter in her arms, soothing her hand along her side as she held her. Francesca’s hands wrapped around her mother’s arm in front of her, leaning into the comfort of her embrace. After a quiet few moments, when Francesca moved to sit back up, Violet let go of her, instead taking one of her daughter’s hands in both of hers. “Do you love him?” she asked as gently as she could, trying to convey her lack of judgment, no matter the answer. 

“Yes, Mama. It is not that,” she said quietly. “It is just…different than I expected.”

Violet felt as though there was something else her daughter was not telling her, but she did not want to risk pushing too hard. She simply nodded and took her daughter's face in her hands so she could place a kiss on her forehead. “If that is the case, then likely all you need is time. You will grow used to whatever things you were not expecting, and you will learn to love your life. No life, no marriage is without challenges. As long as you and your husband work through them together, you will always come out the other side stronger for it, yes?”

Francesca nodded, and Violet brought her hands down to hold onto her daughter’s again. “And I am here to help in whatever way I can. It does not matter how far away you go, I am still your mama and I will show up for you, no matter what. Even if I have to go all the way to Scotland myself.” She tilted Francesca a stern but playful look, drawing out a smile that was accompanied by an affectionate eye roll. 

“I know, Mama. I promise to let you know whenever I need anything.”

“Good.” Violet squeezed her hands, smoothing her thumb along the back of one hand. “Because Bridgertons show up for one another, and while you may be the Countess of Kilmartin, and if I am lucky, someday I may be Lady Anderson, but, my dear girl, you and I will always be Bridgertons.”

[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]

[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

[aerialashes0]

Beautiful Places to Scatter Ashes in the UK

Losing a loved one is one of the most emotional experiences, and finding a meaningful way to honour their memory is essential for many families. One of the most poignant ways to do so is by scattering ashes in special places that hold sentimental value. The UK, with its rich history, stunning landscapes, and tranquil coastlines, offers a variety of perfect locations to scatter ashes. Whether you choose a peaceful hillside, a majestic forest, or the sea, there are numerous Places to Scatter Ashes in Uk that provide a lasting connection to the person you’ve lost.

Scattering Ashes in the Sea: A Serene Tribute

One of the most popular and serene ways to say goodbye is by scattering ashes in the sea. The vast expanse of the ocean provides a sense of eternity, as the ashes become part of the ever-changing tides. The UK’s coastline, stretching from the rugged cliffs of Cornwall to the tranquil shores of Scotland, is dotted with beautiful beaches and peaceful coves. Whether you’re near the busy beaches of Brighton or on the quieter shores of the Isle of Skye, scattering ashes in the sea allows the spirit of your loved one to float with the waves, a fitting tribute to those who loved the sea.

For many, scattering ashes in the sea has a symbolic meaning, representing the freedom and eternal journey of the soul. In some coastal locations, it is possible to arrange for a small ceremony aboard a boat, allowing the ashes to be released at sea. Companies like Aerial Ashes offer services to help families make this tribute even more meaningful by ensuring the ashes are scattered in a location that fits your loved one’s spirit.

Historic Locations for Ashes Scattering

In addition to the sea, many families opt to scatter ashes in the beautiful gardens or grounds of historic locations across the UK. From castles to botanical gardens, the possibilities are endless. The stunning Kew Gardens in London, with its tranquil atmosphere and lush greenery, is a perfect example of a location that offers both peace and beauty. Scattering ashes in such places not only provides a sense of serenity but also connects the memory of a loved one with the enduring history of the site.

Another well-known location for scattering ashes is the Lake District, home to rolling hills and beautiful lakes. Many people choose to scatter ashes near the water’s edge, allowing the ashes to settle in the stillness of the lake, a perfect place to reflect on memories and the life that has passed. These scenic locations offer a perfect place to honour a loved one who appreciated nature or had a connection to the area.

Mountainous Locations for a Majestic Tribute

For those who seek a more dramatic setting, scattering ashes in the mountains of the UK offers a breathtaking and spiritually uplifting experience. The Scottish Highlands and Snowdonia National Park in Wales are two of the most spectacular locations where families can release their loved one’s ashes. The towering peaks and rugged landscapes provide a serene backdrop for those who wish to honour a memory with an element of grandeur. Scattering ashes in the mountains allows the ashes to be returned to the land, where they can rest among the elements—wind, water, and earth.

Scattering Ashes in Gardens and Memorial Sites

While outdoor locations are often the preferred choice for scattering ashes, there are also formal memorial sites designed specifically for this purpose. Many churches, cemeteries, and crematoriums offer gardens where families can scatter ashes in a designated area. These gardens are peaceful sanctuaries, providing a tranquil space to reflect and pay tribute. Some even have benches, memorial plaques, or trees dedicated to the memory of the deceased, allowing families to return and visit their loved one at any time.

In conclusion, there are countless places to scatter ashes in the UK, each offering a unique way to commemorate a life and create lasting memories. Whether you choose the sea, a historical landmark, a mountain, or a peaceful garden, the act of scattering ashes provides a beautiful and meaningful way to honour a loved one. Aerial Ashes can guide you through the process, ensuring that the location you choose aligns with the spirit of the person you wish to remember.

[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]

Cultural Significance and Symbolism of Memorial Benches

Memorial benches hold cultural significance and symbolism in various ways. These benches are often placed in public spaces, Here are some key aspects of their cultural significance and symbolism:

✅Remembrance

✅Commemoration

✅Symbol of comfort and solace

✅Connection with nature and the environment

✅Legacy and impact

[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

Call to Action

Ready to embark on a journey through time? A heritage train ride awaits, promising an unforgettable blend of nostalgia, scenic beauty, and unique experiences. Discover more about booking your heritage railway adventure by visiting reputable tour operators like Maharaja Express Heritage Train Tours. Don’t miss the chance to relive the golden age of train travel and create lasting memories on a heritage train ride.

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.

[extary]

Commando Memorial dedicated to the men of the British Commando Forces raised during World War II. Spean Bridge, Scotland. ➡️ ~ #scotland #memorial #commandomemorial #escocia #uk #sculpture #monument #escultura #war #worldwar #nature #naturaleza #speanbridge #bench #sky #hill #clouds #lochaber #highlands

[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.”

[scotianostra]

On December 8th 1980, John Lennon was gunned down and killed in New York.

Over the years  it is Paul McCartney who is the Beatle most connected with Scotland, but John Lennon has links with our country going back to his childhood.

The ex-Beatle was a regular visitor to Durness in Sutherland during his younger years after his dear Aunt Mater remarried a dentist called Bert who owned a home that overlooked Sango Bay. John, who travelled north with his cousin Stanley Parks, who lived in Edinburgh and later in Largs, would head to the coast for weeks on end, often being dragged into helping his uncle fix up the house.

“The family party roughed it in a primitive farmhouse lit by oil lamp and candles and noisy with the screeches of Mater’s pet parrot,” wrote Philip Norman in his biography John Lennon: The Life. 

The house where Lennon holidayed at Sangomore, a settlement at Durness, was demolished just a few years ago with a new property built by the owners.

Parkes also recalled:

John never forgot those times at Durness. They were among his happiest memories. He loved the wilderness. John was nine when he started coming up with my family to the croft in Durness. The croft belonged to my stepfather, Robert Sutherland, and John just loved the wildness and the openness of the place. We went fishing and hunting and John loved going up into the hills to draw or write poetry. John really loved hill walking, shooting and fishing. He used to catch salmon. He would have been quite a laird. In the last letter to me before he was killed he quoted a famous Scottish saying that says ‘It’s a braw, bricht moonlicht nicht since I last had a word’.

John later took his to Scotland, but his visit was tainted by an accident he had in his Austin Maxi car.

He, Ono and Kyoko sustained cuts to the face and Ono’s back was injured.They were taken to Golspie’s Lawson Memorial Hospital where Lennon was given facial stitches, Ono 14 in her forehead, and Kyoko four. Julian Lennon was treated for shock but was otherwise unhurt. He was taken to stay with Lennon’s Aunt Mater in Durness, around 50 miles away, before his mother Cynthia took him back to London the following day.When she arrived at the hospital to demand an explanation from Lennon he refused to see her.Lennon remained in hospital for five days and famously told reporters: 

“If you’re going to have a car crash, try to arrange for it to happen in the Highlands.“The hospital there was just great.”

Lennon was never a confident driver and gave up driving after the accident, hiring a chauffeur to take him wherever he needed to go and reportedly having the old car’s carcass mounted on a pillar at his English estate.

This 1969 crash wasn’t John’s first brush with danger on Scottish roads; Ken McNab, author of The Beatles in Scotland, revealed that the Beatles had an accident during their first tour in 1960, when they were backing up singer Johnny Gentle as the Silver Beetles.

As McNab put it, “John Lennon began the ’60s with a car crash in Scotland and managed to end the decade with another car crash in Scotland.”

There is a wee memorial garden to Lennon’s memory in Durness, other memorials in the country include a bench in Edinburgh’s Princes Street Gardens and a plaque  in Durness.