#nith River

[douglasdouven]

Mama's back. And she doesn't look happy. 24/07/20. D.e.D.

[onlyhappyvibes]

[radiantmorningstar]

Holmes Basic Rebirth 1: The Wandering Graveyard of Kargash-Mir

Dr. J. Eric Holmes with a few of his D&D Figures, 1979. [DM Note: someone convinced me to go back to basics, since I was experiencing one of my (sadly, all too frequent) solo gaming slumps. The suggestion felt extreme: not reverting to an OSR retroclone, but reaching all the way back to the origins of the hobby. Retroclone reinforcement has sometimes been a successful strategy for restarting my creative solo RPG engagement the past. But it hasn't seemed to work more recently. In fact, "retroclone burnout" has left me a bit distressed, compounding my sense of disconnection. Feeling desperate, I decided to take the back-to-basics advice as far as I could, starting a short campaign with the Holmes Basic D&D blue book from 1977. I'm pleased to say it worked, and I've recaptured my sense of wonder, creativity, and fun. Of course, as someone with about 40 years of RPG experience, I can go back to basics, but I can't deny all the innovations and interesting evolutions of TTRPGs since then. So I've also incorporated numerous solo tools, supplements, etc. into this session. For fellow gamers, who like to look at the technical side, I'll link what I'm using below. Thank you for reading! ]

Technical TTRPG Profile:

Dominant Rule Set: Holmes D&D Basic Set (1977) - note that Hasbro-WotC has decided to disappear this rule set in favor of other versions of the Basic Set, but this version is special, perhaps because it demonstrates more than any others how player imagination—as opposed to insidious subscription models, aggressive branding, and corporate meddling—can create great experiences. Read about Holmes Basic here: https://sites.google.com/site/zenopusarchives/. If you look around, you should be able to find a free PDF of it online. I would revert to the Moldvay-Cook D&D Basic Set Rulebook if I could not find a copy of Holmes. But I highly recommend Holmes as a way to get back in touch with the raw power of fantasy roleplaying.

Setting: Ondaris.

Solo Gaming Structure: Trey: Solo Roleplaying.

Oracles and Tables: Old School Revival Solo Role-playing Guide; Loner: Steel & Sorcery; Tales of Argosa.

Starting Equipment: "fast packs" from Dragonslayer.

The Story: three childhood friends, Iovis (fighting man), Ruvin (magic user), and Dain (thief—in this case, a military scout), return to their hometown of West Withly after three years of professional training in their respective guilds (Iovis, with the Semlohe Mercenary Guild; Ruvin with the Tower of Xolark in Misty Harbor; and Dain with the Rivercross Confederation of Guides and Scouts).

In Ondaris, one apprentices with a local practitioner of an art and then serves in a guild for three years at a time with one-year stints back home to serve one's community and pay one's initial master back.

While catching up over ales at the Inn of the Blue Dragon, they're approached by a group of town aldermen, who offer them 80 gold for rescuing the mayor, Joco Havlish, and his mistress Sareena, both of whom are being held hostage by the ruthless ogre, Drazrur Blackbite. The ogre is said to keep his lair in the northeastern foothills beyond the Beast River. Though the precise location of his cave has never been established.

Recently, Blackbite snuck up under cover of darkness and hammered down a crude wooden sign, affixed to the pole of a nidstang and written in blood, demanding a tribute of 50 sheep and five virgin girls lest he execute the hostages. Obviously, this is unacceptable; though, local heroes willing to fight an infamous ogre, who understands curse magic, are in short supply.

(A typical Ondarissian Nithing Pole used for cursing and sometimes making a very serious point to one's neighbors.)

Seeing this as a fitting way to begin their year of professional practice back home and establish a reputation, Iovis, Ruvin, and Dain obtain permission from their families and former masters and accept the offer.

They provision themselves and set out to find the ogre. The Beast River is half a day to the northeast on foot. They go quickly over the flat grasslands and have no encounters or problems on the way except for sighting a brightly dressed gnome sailing past on a raft. The odd creature waves at them and shouts that they should turn back "before the spirits rise." They have no clue what he's talking about, but it doesn't sound good.

The day is almost finished when they reach the beginning of the foothills, known locally as Zaphod's Reach, due to tower of the ancient mage, Zaphod Zaphodinteries, which supposedly stood there in the times before the Scarring of Ondaris. Now there is nothing but a perpetual chill mist hanging a few feet over the ground and dark foothills extending to the limits of sight. Not wanting to face anything in the night and tired from their journey, the three friends make camp on the northern bank of the Beast.

In the morning, they realize (strangely, since it was not there the night before) that they have been camping in a graveyard. It's one of the wandering graveyards of Kargash-Mir. Ruvin, in his lore studies in the Tower of Xolark, learned about the wandering graveyards. He explains them to Iovis and Dain over breakfast.

They are an inexplicable fact of life throughout the land. Sometimes, a graveyard will "wake up" and animate itself the same way "naturally occurring" undead in Ondaris will sometimes rise from their graves.

When an entire graveyard wakes and starts to move, it is considered a "Kargash-Mir," essentially a "beast of graves" in the old language of the Beastmen. As a Kargash-Mir travels, it will absorb any other graveyard it comes into contact with and grow proportionately larger. Sometimes they move on a "circuit," appearing in a the same places over time. This one apparently stretches for miles.

Such wandering graveyards are said to contain all manner of dark fae, undead, and sometimes even deep crypts, dungeons, and fragments of towns (even cities) lost to the knowledge of men. Twisted demonic creatures, like ogres, blood orcs, ur-goblins, soot trolls, gnolls, and dragons are also said to live in them. For time runs differently in a Kargash-Mir and old things, long passed away, are ever present there.

Ruvin begins to explain the metaphysical theories involved in an entire graveyard animating and silently shifting through the landscape, but Iovis and Dain are worried. If the ogre, Drazrur Blackbite, has his lair in a Kargash-Mir, it means this one probably moves in a set pattern. It means they're going to have to explore the place in the not-so-certain prospect of finding his lair. And it means the ogre is naturally protected by whatever other nasty creatures may be calling the place home. Still, they have little choice. So they forge into the graveyard, feeling trepidatious but determined.

They move through the seemingly endless, dank, and misty Kargash-Mir for what feels like the better part of a day, encountering nothing but headstones, mausolea, and crypts. Dead trees hang their brittle branches against the darkened sky and crisp leaves crunch on the twisting pathways.

Eventually, they do encounter a giant death's head moth—a predator that may have been hunting them for some time. Its wingspan is at least six feet wide and it rises up suddenly from behind a cluster of headstones, wailing the Acherontian death dirge that can burst the heart of a grown man.

These highly intelligent flesh-eating hunters are found throughout the dark places of Ondaris, but especially in graveyards, where they feel most at home, secreting their vile nests in empty crypts, where they drag their victims to be fed upon for weeks.

Iovis is affected by the moth's mournful cry and loses all self control, running off between the crypts. Ruvin is also affected, paralyzed to the spot, unable to speak or move. Only Dain resists the affects of the death dirge. He raises his light crossbow, fires, and hits the creature in its furry abdomen.

The dirge immediately stops and the creature flaps around to face Dain. It has an unnaturally human face with red eyes. Its fangs drip yellow bile and venom. You have killed me, it sputters, but you'll not escape this boneyard intact! Then it drops to the earth, its body immediately beginning to steam and melt into the pure black sludge of elemental evil of which it is composed.

Dain shakes Ruvin out of his terror-stricken paralysis and shouts that they need to find Iovis, who has disappeared into the mist . . .

[psychopompian]

“The Táin is obsessed by topography, by place-names and their etymologies. Or rather, their alleged etymologies, for many if not most of the stories behind the names are retrospective inventions: by virtue of narrative licence, they come after the names and not before them. Some of the place-names might not exist at all, but are literary fictions, created for the greater glory or shame of whatever hero fought or died in that imagined realm, or to commemorate whatever foul or noble deed occurred there. A typically laconic example goes as follows:

Lethan came to his ford on the river Nith in Conaille. Galled by Cú Chulainn's deeds, he lay in wait for him. Cú Chulainn cut off his head and left it with the body. Hence the name Áth Lethan, Lethan's Ford.

A likely story, we might say, given the fact that the most obvious meaning of Áth Lethan is ‘broad ford'. But we are taken in by the narrative drive, for this is one of a series of such encounters, and for that moment we summon up a warrior called Lethan, ‘the Broad'. And we note that the ford is ‘his' even before he comes to it. His fate is predicated by the name. After his death he pays no further part in the story, but the story renders him memorable. He becomes an item in the landscape of the Táin, embodied in its elaborate dindsenchas, ‘the lore of high places'.”

—The Táin, Introduction by Ciaran Carson

[magixfairyix]

Iorda's Angst Season

Aka, season 6 is where I let her get the spotlight, and therefore I basically make her life hell. At this point, do the Trix care about her magic yada yada?

No. They want this annoying scum dead. Not even dead. They just want to get revenge for Iorda interrupting their plans and being annoying for the past few years.

NOT a part of the FF&FW (winx rewrite) timeline. This is just what I wrote down in my notebook four years ago when writing season 6, and what I'm adding mentally to what happened.

TW: Violence, blood, death

I wrote most of these things three years ago ngl, but younger me had the right idea of making this season centred on Iorda vs. Trix and all the trauma gurl gets from the consequences of her life.

BUT NOW I get to make things worse ^^

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Iorda goes to Cloud Tower to maybe learn dark magic again after being stuck in an identity crisis for the past four years. She has her friends (Pyris aka her gf, Nith, Lucina, Mirta) and she might have a good year? WRONG.

When the Trix take over Cloud Tower Iorda is about to attack, but Pyris grabs her wrist like, 'no they gonna kill you. Don't be an idiot for once.' Everyone goes back to their dorms, etc etc.

Iorda can't contact the Winx, so um... shit. Pyris goes wandering around Cloud Tower, and Iorda is in their dorm. Forty minutes later she gets a call from an unknown number. Spoiler alert, tis Icy.

Blackmail yada yada. Pyris' screams through the phone, Iorda in a panic like, 'Omfg just please stop hurting my gf I wuv her,' and then she is forced to help the Trix.

Iorda gives them information about the Winx and yada yada she probably snaps at them/tries to attack them. She is (rightfully) livid. They probs attack her painfully or smth ngl. She gets ratioed and sent back to Ohio (aka pain).

When Bloom splits up her Dragon Flame (eventually when I rewrite this there will be actual repercussions for her) Iorda somehow gets a piece of it at Cloud Tower. She has a tiny bit of hope.

Iorda (she's been secretly helping the Winx very subtly) might get found out. The Trix may kill Nith or something in front of her though this didn't happen when I wrote it.

Eh why not. Yeah Nith dies.

Iorda escapes by kind of throwing herself through the window of her dorm (magic can't be used to escape due to a spell) and she gets Bloomix because of that. Pyris also escapes with her.

Later on, she ends up getting her wings cut off.

It happens when she's following the Winx's magic signature around, trying to find them. Iorda finally reaches them in China she sees the Trix about to kill the Winx, and she begins to fight them.

Bliss, Iorda's Pixie, also helps. But Iorda is outnumbered. She tells Bliss to go find the other Pixies. Iorda fights the Trix alone, though this leads to her getting her Bloomix wings kind of frozen off and she's barely conscious by the end of it. The Pixies arrive in time and Piff wakes up the Winx and whatnot.

And yes, Iorda will steal Stella's spotlight and fight Darcy in the Labyrinth. So help me.

The two of them make a 'deal.' Darcy basically says that she'll revenge the spell on Stella etc if Iorda goes to the center of the Labyrinth and fights whatever is inside, and if not, Stella dies.

ALSO (to make things worse) if Iorda fails, guess who gets her Mythix wings cut off? IORDA. Yeah and Darcy also pointedly says 'she can make it a lot worse than last time' and Iorda, of course, is scared as hell for her well-being and mental state.

But Iorda (who definitely was a Percy Jackson kid) see's Greek Myth carvings on the walls, and makes Darcy (because Iorda doesn't trust the witch to keep her word, and she doesn't have a choice anyway unless she wants Stella to die) swear on River Styx.

Darcy does, because she thinks it's just a stupid little Earth saying like yes she swears on river Styx now go die already Iorda.

Iorda is praying that it works. Iorda defeats the Minotaur, and when Darcy tries to attack her, she can't. Her magic isn't working. Iorda is a bit smug, like 'lol you got tricked and swore on a sacred oath get nerfed.'

(And of course, Darcy is livid but that isn't clear until the season is over).

Bloom defeats Acheron in the Legendarium world, Selena is redeemed (and stays and witch), though the enforcements and specialists are out looking for the Trix who escaped.

Everything is okay~?

Iorda is healing from everything. Seeing one of her closest friends killed in front of her, having to help the witches who she'd been forced to fight for years (and that fight took away her teenage hood), having her Bloomix wings cut off, and also Darcy's threats in the Labyrinth has made her slightly paranoid.

She doesn't trust things will ever go well for her. She feels for a long time that she's in danger and that it's a matter of time before something bad happens. Most of all, she hates being alone.

Iorda is going out on a picnic with Musa, Stella, and Aisha. Stella is getting ready at Alfea and is running late while the rest of them are at the gates. Aisha goes to get Stella.

Iorda tells Musa with a smile that she'll find a good picnic spot. Musa asks Iorda is she's sure, but Iorda is telling herself that she's safe and she'll never heal if she doesn't force herself to be alone sometimes.

Iorda is wandering through the forest...

Yeah she ends up getting ambushed by the Trix who of course want vengeance. Iorda is scared out of her mind and tries to call for help. Icy stabs her and cuts her across the face, and Iorda is in pain and is slumped on the ground.

Iorda knows she will die today.

Stormy says that the Winx might be here soon. Icy and Stormy go through a portal, and Icy tells Darcy to finish the job.

Iorda's just causally sobbing in pain (cause she just got stabbed) and Darcy honestly is smug as hell. Iorda doesn't want to die, so she asks for mercy yada yada pls don't kill me I have so much to live for.

Darcy stands up, and then proceeds to use her shadow magic to finish the job via kind of snapping most of the bones in Iorda's body. Then she leaves through a portal.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Yeah and this is tame for me...

[bikepackinguk]

Day Sixty-two

Hello August!

It's been another rainy night but the tent is still holding up well. I'll get it dried soon I'm sure! Yhe clouds are holding off enough at least this morning for me to pack up without getting even wetter.

Back on the road from Lochfoot, it's along a few hilly country lanes before hitting the outskirts of Dumfries.

It's on to some proper cycle paths here with a nice jaunt along the River Nith to pop in to town to top up on supplies.

With water topped up, it's back to the riverside for a lovely ride through the pretty Dock Park and continuing along the green banks of the riverside southwards.

It's back to the quiet country roads at Kingholm Quay, which continues to track the river down the countryside to Caerlaverock Castle. Across the bay Cumbria is starkly visible with heavily laden clouds looming over its mountains.

Route 7 follows some twisty back lanes which keep me out of the worst of the traffic, and is fairly level giving a nice bit of riding, taking a nice path by the coast through Powfoot and the delightfully named Newbie before crossing the River Annan via some nice leafy trails.

Into Annan itself, it's time for a spot of lunch in what is a fairly busy tourist town, but given my plans and progress for today I'm in no rush and the going is fairly easy, so have a good break for a while.

Sufficiently refuelled, it's onto the B721 for a fairly straight ride east. The wind isn't being too horrible today and, despite the forecasts and grey skies, the rains have managed to hold off so far, so it's pretty easy going down the road.

Crossing over Kirtle Water, it's a ride round a few farms before the route heads into Gretna and the famous Gretna Green. It's the border!

It's not quite 3pm at this point but as I have plans for tomorrow that require a little coordination, it's an early finish here for today, allowing me to have one final night in Scotland before heading back to old Blighty in the morning. A bit of scouting about has found a nice patch of trees for the night, which with more clouds on the horizon should hopefully help keep the worst of the night's rains at bay.

TTFN!

[libidomechanica]

Yes, even these graves and place wad deave a true lover

Full band your stars ’light, eight on her     ambrosian pap, and again. His fellows even to choose     bugle,—an ethereal band ’twas Bacchus and heaven     of gentle lore: the Daughter being marriage? Threatens in     killing only modesty

fixes the place was agree?     With the two Hinkseys nothing me no more pains to bury     the Parias; and have of sorts, takes the please a nation. Sit     by whom he is no vulgar native calm of mute insensations,     of him who plann’d

A light for mines her vehicles;     but by the factory curst be pity for sported, Oh,     weep not Joy, but sin above by Ensham, down the World; for     someone’s eyelids I beholding; make seemlihed gave     utterly! Yes, even

these graves and place wad deave a true     lover. Rally, needed there my slight urge the pious pair,     nor praise or more of their upper this chosen snake where than     I have become. A sinful results sing. And we should fondly     on the tame flower,

and that I can dock, she kiss her,     and idle cigarette. Old bride she canker-worm will she     known. Kept not to kill Desire! And this fled, and all, and     place where’er the criticism combining twins do joys     beside—nor ever saw

you, I own this we known grot, I     thoughts of view and in all the new sorrows? Each aunt, so good     he is, how I could not love, sweet new wives, with endlesly     dispairing of the dances at the mouse and glad, or hold     ye thus, save when thy bloodshot

eyes, and ward, or clear. Have been     an appealing lichen fixt on a forty-parson claim     the morning for dust come back against you, i’d have to     those disdain shepherds sang another storms that now of all     fancy but enslaving

storm, or whom I sing your body     and pure as a foe. Nothing theefe! Or Andalusian girl     and by the best music all that we have, life’s dearest bowers     of threaten; ah, my Perilla! Give me, the Dee, thy     spirit quicken. I look

nor know its music in their games,     most free millions; a little unknown; when the addition     or upsets a thing but ten years. And weary lust, there waxing     rain amang, when in the still, no longer that sometimes     the present store: not that

grove, ’ why not mine eye as in the     soul checks its hoarse. The worlds, until its spaciously she is     for a river, at once this mortals each flower, though he     now that I should Fate prove, where though the Nith’s wet breast. Her flower,     Oothoon is a little

think of. Stifling that’s the     mountain and ought not your features, the wainscot mourn our pathway     strange, if the Lady of the herded wolves, becomes their     power, Not like that cloudy phantasies, groves, meadow-sweet     view the black loam long as

yet remain the one chiefest weaves     the night your bodies round that be Love had been, I burn, with     this throne, then reason such an air, rend away! Thorough-in     my tears he whole more short hour warm delight; nor do I dreamt     for I’ll be thou wage mute!

[historytwist]

The River of Spears #2

March 845 – The Seine River, Approaching Paris

The wind clawed at the longships, dragging tattered banners and whipping through the warriors’ cloaks. Their dragon-headed prows sliced through the current, dark figures standing rigid upon the decks. The river’s surface, broken by the rhythmic dip of oars, churned as though restless, eager to spill blood.

Ragnar stood at the helm, his feet planted firm on the damp planks. His fur-lined cloak snapped in the wind, but he did not shiver. Ahead, the mist swirled and thickened, obscuring the land beyond. Still, he saw it clearly in his mind’s eye—Paris, its golden cross gleaming like a beacon above the cathedral. Soon, that light would be extinguished.

“We’ll see Paris before midday,” growled Bjorn, his broad shoulders tense with impatience. His fingers drummed against the hilt of his axe, his hunger for battle barely restrained.

“Let them tremble,” Ragnar said, his voice even. The oars creaked in their locks, their steady rhythm a heartbeat against the hush of the morning.

Bjorn exhaled sharply, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Will they even fight? Or will they cower behind their walls like witless nithings?”

“Walls only make slaughter more satisfying,” rasped Ulf the Priest, stepping forward from the shadows of the mast. His face was marked with old scars, his long gray hair wild beneath a wolf-skin hood. In one hand, he gripped a gnarled staff etched with runes; in the other, a pouch of bone talismans that clattered as he moved.

He squinted into the fog, his lips curling. “The mist thickens,” he muttered. “Thor’s blood, the gods are watching.”

Ragnar’s fingers tightened on the rudder, his knuckles whitening. “They watch all men,” he said. “It is what men do that matters.”

Ulf’s lips pulled back into something that was neither a grin nor a snarl. “The gods demand blood, Ragnar. Hold back, and their favor will turn.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a dried, speckled mushroom, holding it up between his fingers. “Take this, and you will see their will clearly.”

Bjorn scoffed, crossing his arms. “I don’t need herbs to feel the battle-joy. I’ll drink my mead and let my axe do the rest.”

Ulf chuckled under his breath, slipping the mushroom back into his pouch. “Drink deep, then. Tonight, we’ll fatten the ravens.”

A murmur of approval passed through the men gathered near. Some grinned, gripping their weapons tighter. Others whispered prayers to Odin or traced runes upon their shields.

From the stern, a voice rose—low and melodic, thick with the weight of old stories. Eirik the Wanderer plucked his lyre, his song curling through the air like woodsmoke. He sang of conquest and glory, of battles fought and legends made.

Ragnar’s jaw tensed. The song stretched the moment, winding its fingers around his thoughts like a snare.

“Enough,” he said.

Eirik’s hands stilled, the final note lingering before vanishing into the mist. The air seemed heavier for its absence.

Ragnar stepped to the edge of the ship, his boots brushing frost from the railing. The mist began to thin, its edges unraveling like a veil. Beyond it, the silhouette of Paris emerged—a city of stone and wood, its towers and walls rising defiantly from the river’s bend. On the ramparts, tiny figures scurried, preparing for what was coming.

The golden cross atop the cathedral caught a sliver of weak sunlight. It gleamed, untouched, unaware.

“They’ll fight,” Ragnar murmured, though whether it was certainty or doubt that laced his voice, even he could not say.

Bjorn’s grin widened. “Or we’ll make them fight.”

A gust of wind tore through the fleet, rattling shields and snapping banners. The river, dark and swollen, carried them forward.

Ragnar exhaled, feeling the weight of something nameless settle in his chest. “Prepare yourselves,” he said, his voice carrying across the ship. “The gods have brought us this far. Now we’ll see what men can do.”

A roar of approval erupted from the crew. Oars struck the water with renewed fury. The longships surged forward, dragon heads snapping at the waves.

Behind him, Ulf whispered a prayer to Odin. Bjorn rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers over his axe handle. And Ragnar, silent, watched Paris loom ever closer, the golden cross gleaming defiantly above it all.

It would not gleam for much longer.

To Be Continued

[lindsaystravelblogs5]

Starting Phase 3 – in the Campervan

Day 36 Tuesday     

We got up a little earlier today and had a quick breakfast while we worked out a strategy for the next couple of days.   Heather had a mild confrontation with a guy who is probably the manager of the private club park. He said the park that he thinks was the one we were trying to find was closed and we shouldn’t have entered where we did.  Bad luck!  Too late now.   He still wanted 23 pounds for our night, even though we used nothing apart from the space we parked on - no water, electricity or anything else.  He wanted cash and we didn’t have any so he said to go up to the village to get some.  We certainly went up to the village and just kept driving.   His fee was exorbitant seeing we used nothing.   We are now booked in at a lovely park for two nights - still expensive but it is a beautiful place, and everything is laid on.  

Heather purchased an eSIM as we were leaving the Faroes, and she had trouble activating it - and numerous other things then didn’t work on her phone either.  The SIM was a Vodaphone one, so we drove halfway across Scotland to Dumfries to a Vodafone shop.  It was busy and we had to wait about an hour but eventually spoke to a chap who changed numerous of Heather’s phone settings without finding a solution - he really wasn’t interested. He said nobody in the UK used eSIMs, and in the end we purchased a physical SIM and went to lunch in a pub quite a long walk from the shop while waiting the fifteen minutes he said it might take for the SIM to be activated.  An hour and a half later, it still hadn’t activated so we traipsed back to the shop in the rain and were attended to immediately by a different person.   She spent a few minutes undoing some of the things the earlier guy had done, and it now works.   I am able to tether my phone (but not my PC) as a hotspot from Heather’s, but it is still frustrating because it keeps dropping out.  But we will manage.  I am not sure if we can recover any of the cost of the eSIM, but that is a job for tomorrow, if at all.

We needed to stock up with food and a few other things from the supermarket, and we found one about ten kilometres out of Dumfries.  The two main supermarkets here are Tesco and Spar (also LIDL but there are fewer of them).  I think we found Tesco better last time we were here, but I saw a Spar soon after we set off for the one we had originally intended going to.  Alas, after backtracking to get to it on the other side of the road, it was little more than a convenience store, so we back-backtracked to find the original Tesco.  When we finally got there, it was just another convenience store at a servo - but a proper Tesco was just down the hill from the servo, and it was huge.  We did a big shop and loaded up the camper in the rain and headed to the park Heather had found for us.   It is great with excellent facilities, and we ate a semi-proper dinner and crawled into bed exhausted again.   Having fun really is hard work sometimes.

Day 37.   Wednesday, 9 October

Today was a layday - sort of, but not really.   We stayed in the caravan park but had a really delightful day.   We did some washing and got the camper sorted out and organised much more to our liking, making quite a bit more room by rationalising things and making better use of the cupboards.   We also read some of the manuals for the oven and water heater, etc., and got them working - very unintuitive but at least they are now available and usable.

The highlight of the day was a walk in the paddock next door.   I was chasing birds late in the morning and found a gate at the back of the park for a ‘dog walking path’.   It was a mown figure-eight track around a big paddock and ran along a beautiful river: Cluden Water, that very soon joined the River Nith.  The people at this park have gone to extraordinary lengths to make the whole area enjoyable.   I walked the circuit without seeing any birds, but it was quite lovely, so after lunch, Heather joined me, and we walked it together again - probably not much more than half a kilometre but quite fascinating.  I saw a few ducks on the river that I still haven’t identified, and I couldn’t identify them in the Faroes either, but I will keep trying.  (I did find them later - Mallards and a few hybrids.)  But what really fascinated us was the plants and flowers beside the mown strip twenty or so metres from the path.  There were quite a lot of flowers to photograph and try to identify, and we had a great couple of hours exploring the area.  It started out sunny with just an occasional drop of rain, but became threatening as time passed, although we never got any real rain at all.  It seemed such a simple thing to do, just a short walk, but it gave us both immense pleasure.   We should take the time to do things like that more often.  

After we got back from our walk, we watched the farmer in the next field working his land.   He had a huge bin on wheels behind his tractor and the bin was filled with wet/sloppy cow manure.  As he drove along, this was funnelled to where a powerful blower distributed it in a ginormous blizzard up to thirty metres across the field.  Literally, when the shit hits the fan……..   When the bin was empty, he just refilled it and kept going.   Some of it landed over his fence into the caravan park and we had to close up the camper to avoid the worst of the stench.  It must be common practice here because I saw at least three identical tractors and trailers as we drove along the following day. 

We are quite snug in the camper and now that we have ourselves better organised, we are looking forward to some more leisurely days with nothing of importance on our agenda but to enjoy the travel.  One thing was that we were a little cold on our first night, so we bought a small blanket at the supermarket, and it is so soft and cuddly that we had trouble getting up in the morning.  Last time we were in the UK, we had to buy a small rug too, so we might have to donate one of them when we get home again. 

[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.’

 

[douglasdouven]

The eagle's nest. Ayr, Ontario Canada. 24/07/20. D.e.D.

[preconstruction-info]

Experience the pinnacle of single-family living at Scenic Ridge! 🏡 Unveil your dream home in this picturesque haven. Your perfect blend of comfort and serenity awaits. Explore now! http://dlvr.it/T1jp9q #ScenicRidge #DreamHome #paris #singlefamilyhouse #realestate #preconstruction #newdevelopment

[tartantoday]

Clan Galbraith (Galbraith Tartan) - Tartantoday.com – Tartan Today

Clan Galbraith is a Scottish clan from Dumfriesshire and Ayrshire. The name Galbraith is derived from the Gaelic gall braith meaning "foreign judge." The Galbraiths have inhabited the British Isles since at least the twelfth century. Traditionally vassals of the Crown, over time the clan emerged as an independent and powerful force in southwestern Scotland.

The ancient seat of the Galbraith clan was situated near the border between Dumfriesshire and Ayrshire at Craignethan Castle. This strategic location along the River Nith affordedClan Galbraith oversight of important trade and travel routes. For centuries Craignethan Castle was the nerve center of the Galbraith territories and stronghold against invasion from England. Under the leadership of determined chieftains like William Galbraith, the clan consistently defended their ancestral lands from encroachment.

While strong warriors, the Galbraiths were also kn - 1xdcp8uvev

[nimblermortal]

I'm depressed and full of self-hatred tonight. You know what's there for me in times of woe? That's right, medieval Norse history!

More specifically, I wanted to ask you guys if this is treachery/regicide or not, because I feel like it has to be but I can't figure out how. So I'm just going to copy pretty much the whole section.

So Magnús is the grandson of my boy Harald Hardradi, and when his dad dies he is of course elected. But not everybody agrees with that, and so wannabe Hákon goes to Trondheim (it's always Trondheim, it's always. Trondheim. Thronders are always up for a rebellion. Also people named Hákon.) and gets himself elected king there, and he's popular enough, due to giving tax cuts to the rich, that people like him.

- side note, one of the concessions he grants is "He also exempted them from having to give Yule presents [to him]" and I know what the brackets are doing there but I am deeply amused by the idea that he got himself elected by exempting everyone from having to get Christmas presents for each other -

---

In the fall King Magnús journeyed north to Kaupang [in Trondheim], and when he had arrived there he went to the royal estate and dwelled there during the beginning of the winter. He kept seven warships in an open space in the ice of the Nith river in front of the royal residence. But when King Hákon learned that King Magnús had arrived in the Trondheim District he came west [north] over the Dofra Mountains to Trondheim and to Kaupang, and took lodging in the Skúli residence below Saint Clemens Church. That had been the old royal residence.

King Magnús thought ill of the great concessions which King Hákon had made to the farmers to win their favor. Magnús considered that it was no less his own property which had been given away, and he was greatly incensed about that and considered himself wronged by his kinsman in thus having so much less revenue than his father and forefathers had, and blamed Thórir [Hákon's co-conspirator] for that. King Hákon and Thórir became aware of this and were apprehensive of what measures Magnús would take. They thought it ominous that Magnús had afloat warships tented and equipped.

In spring, near Candlemas Magnús set out at dead of night and stood out with his ships tented and with lights under the tents, and sailed to Hefrin Head. There they stayed during the night, making great fires up on land.

Then King Hákon and the troops in the town thought that this was done to trick them. He had trumpets blown to call out his forces, and all the people in the town came and collected in one place. But in the morning at dawn, when King Magnús saw the assembled multitude on Eyrar Point, he sailed out of the fjord and south to the Gula Assembly District.

Then King Hákon prepared for proceeding east [south] to Vík. But before that he held a meeting in the town and there made a speech bespeaking the friendship of the people and promising to be friends with all. He said he felt much misgivings as to what King Magnús, his kinsman, intended to do. King Hákon sat on horseback, all ready to start out. Everyone vowed friendship and good will, promising to him their aid, if that was required. And all the multitude followed him out to Steinbjorg Hill [west of town].

King Hákon journeyed up to the Dofra Mountains; and one day, as he rode over the mountains, he followed after a ptarmigan which flew away from him. Then he took deadly sick and expired there on the mountain. His body was brought north and arrived in Kaupang half a month after he had left it. Then all the people of the town, most of them weeping, came to meet the body of the king, because everybody had loved him with heartfelt affection.

The body of King Hákon was interred in Christ Church. King Hákon had reached the age of about twenty-five years. He was one of the chieftains who was most beloved by all the people in Norway. He had traveled north to Permia, had fought there, and won a victory.

[georgebuckettwo]

Fishing in Dumfries and Galloway

Explore

Nestled in the picturesque landscapes of southern Scotland, Dumfries and Galloway emerges as an angler’s paradise, beckoning fishing enthusiasts from far and wide.

With its tranquil rivers, sparkling lochs and rugged coastal areas, this region offers a diverse and rewarding fishing experience. Whether you’re an avid angler seeking solitude amidst breathtaking surroundings or a novice eager to cast your first line, Fishing in Dumfries and Galloway is an amazing experience.

Imagine waking up to the sound of gently flowing rivers, the scent of fresh morning air and the promise of an unforgettable day on the water. The charm of this region lies not only in its abundance of fish but also in its rich cultural heritage. From ancient fishing traditions passed down through generations to tales of legendary catches, Dumfries and Galloway exudes a captivating aura that resonates with every angler who sets foot here.

In the following blog, we’ll delve into the intricacies of fishing in Dumfries and Galloway, exploring its captivating rivers, serene lochs and bountiful coastal areas.

Discover the thrill of casting your line into the River Nith, famed for its salmon and trout, or the joy of reeling in a prize catch from the depths of Loch Ken. Whether you’re drawn to the tranquility of secluded fishing spots or the exhilaration of the open sea, this region promises an unforgettable angling adventure.

Join us as we embark on a journey through Dumfries and Galloway’s fishing havens, unearthing hidden gems, sharing local insights and embracing the camaraderie of the angling community. So grab your fishing gear, don your waders and let’s immerse ourselves in the world of fishing in Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland’s hidden fishing paradise.

[onlyhappyvibes]