#portsmouth brewing

[ltwilliammowett]

Rigging & Storm Clouds, by curly42

A storm brewing over H.M.S. Victory at Portsmouth Dockyard

[petervintonjr]

For only the second time since beginning this series in the summer of 2020, I have had to resort to drawing a much more abstract illustration --in this instance, the long-demolished President's House in Philadelphia-- as there appears to be no visual representation of the individual that I want to talk about (which in itself already speaks volumes).

Almost paralleling these last three years of this series, there has been an embarrassing (nay, alarming) uptick in the number of proposed so-called "divisive concepts" legislation brewing in various state legislatures. The (stated) intent behind such performatively-drafted law is to "protect" public school students from the "trauma" of studying American history in such a way that they won't be made to feel embarrassed or uncomfortable about the history of their own country; that the curriculum should instead focus primarily on instilling an all-pervasive sense of pride and patriotism. I think on this creeping propaganda (against which my own home state is sadly not immune), and immediately begin to reflect on the life trajectory of Oney Marie Judge (in some instances spelled Ona), whose greatest claim to fame (if one can call it that) is having been one of President George Washington's slaves. Oney Judge is assumed to have been born sometime in 1773 at Washington's Mount Vernon estate --the daughter of an enslaved mother, Betty; and a white English father who had been hired by the Washingtons as a tailor. As was so often the norm for the time, Oney's relatively light complexion promoted her to house status instead of field hand, and by the age of fifteen had become Martha Washington's personal maid. On paper, Oney and her mother Betty were considered to be the property of the Custis estate, and would pass back to the ownership of that family upon Martha's death --specifically to Martha's granddaughter Elizabeth ("Eliza") Custis.

After his popular election in 1787, Washington travelled first to New York, and then to Philadelphia, to serve as President of the new nation while a more permanent capital city was being constructed. Washington brought Judge and seven other slaves with him from Mount Vernon, taking up residence in what would become known as The President's House at the corner of 6th and Market Streets. Significantly, as befit her elevated status (such as it was), Judge was permitted to travel about the city unescorted and pay for such things as shows, dresses and other clothing, and even making social visits on Martha's behalf. Judge intermingled with Philadelphians and became VERY aware of the city's abolitionist sentiment and its markedly large population of free Black people. Philadelphia had passed an Emancipation law in 1780 (one of the very first such laws in the new nation), which included a Gradual Abolition Clause; a policy of automatic emancipation of any slaves who remained in the city limits beyond a six month time-frame. For obvious reasons George and Martha took particular care to strategically rotate out their slaves, each time sending them back to Mount Vernon "to visit family" just shy of this deadline.

On May 21, 1796, under the guise of appearing to pack for her next not-quite-sixth-month return to Virginia, Judge fled, and escaped aboard a ship called the Nancy bound for Portsmouth, New Hampshire. An advertisement went out on May 23rd asserting that the escaped slave had "no good reason for running away." By September of that year a family friend of the Washingtons recognized Judge in Portsmouth and sent word back to Philadelphia. Under the terms of the very Fugitive Slave Act that he himself had signed into law three years earlier, Washington could have forcibly kidnapped Judge back to Virginia, but undoubtedly mindful of the public optics, he opted not to take action. While he expressed undisguised annoyance at Judge's actions and wrote at length about "loyalty" and "unfaithfulness," privately his real resentment was that he would be expected to reimburse the Custis estate for lost property. After Washington's term in office ended, he made another attempt to retrieve Judge, this time asking the help of a nephew and several New Hampshire public officials to do so. Fortunately then-Senator John Langdon got wind of this attempt and warned Judge, who then fled to the town of Greenland where she eventually settled, learned to read and write, became a devout Christian, married, and had three children --even though she legally remained a Fugitive Slave to her dying day.

Judge's story would have faded into history as just another footnote to the life of George Washington, had it not been for a lengthy interview she gave many years later in an 1847 issue of William Lloyd Garrison's The Liberator. In the article she detailed the events of 1796 from her point of view, which had never before been known, though she never gave up the name of the Nancy's captain nor crew, nor the names of anyone else --including many free Black people in both Pennsylvania and in New Hampshire-- who had aided her. This very month (March 2023) a mural to Judge's bravery is underway in Portsmouth as part of the Black Heritage Trail of New Hampshire: https://www.seacoastonline.com/story/news/local/2023/03/03/black-heritage-trail-nh-seeks-to-honor-ona-judge-staines-with-mural/69957500007/

Which brings me back to my earlier point about "divisive concepts" legislation and its stated intent --and the hard, un-ignorable truths that such laws intend to erase from the public discourse. Truths such as the fact that it is not possible to study, in any meaningful way, anything about the administration of our country's literal first President, nor his time in office, without eventually bumping up against the reality of Oney Judge and what she endured. The phrase "Black history is American history" is neither hyperbole nor a trendy slogan --it is an objective fact. And even as Women's History Month 2023 draws to a close, I can assure you that this art series will continue to throw light on that fact. For as long as it needs to.

[brookstonalmanac]

Beer Events 4.3

Events

Emile Sirret patented an Improvement in Beer-Faucets (1866)

ABC Brewing Co. fled bankruptcy (Missouri;1935)

John L. Fitzsimons died (1942)

Gustave Reich patented a method of improving the quality of Yeast obtained in alcoholic fermentation (1945)

Lulu's Roadhouse opened (Ontario, Canada; 1984)

Donald Desmarais patented a Low-Trellis Mobile Hop Picker (1990)

Glove Capable of Opening Beer Bottles patented (2012)

Brewery Openings

Firehouse Brewpub (Pennsylvania; 1996)

Birrificio Italiano (Italy; 1996)

River Horse Brewery / Bucks County Brewing (New Jersey; 1996)

Portsmouth Brewing (Ohio; 1997)

Russian River Brewpub (California; 2004)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"All is Now Quiet In Penitentiary," Ottawa Journal. July 31, 1933. Page 2. ---- Guards Find Convicts Trying to Make Home Brew From Prunes. ---- Canadian Press by Direct Wire. KINGSTON, Ont., July 30 - Sullen silence enveloped Portsmouth penitentiary tonight, as prisoners sweltered in the terrific heat wave which has made even the iron bars warm. Tomorrow the trial of Convict Michael McDonald, charged with rioting last October, will continue.

There was no disturbance in the penitentiary after guards had found several convicts attempting to make home-brew from prunes and sugar they had filched from the dining rooms, Warden W. B. Megloughlin said, and generally, all was quiet in the big institution.

Saturday, Convict Tony Baker, testifying at McDonald's trial, declared he had armed himself with a sledge hammer on the day of the riot, smashed the lock on the mailbag department door and ordered the convicts to "get out or I'll brain you."

McDonald, he said, was among those ordered out of the room "because I wanted him to go to the dome with the others and lodge a complaint." He said McDonald did not break any machines in the mailbag room.

[the-almighty-gob-john-langley]

The Almighty Gob. John Langley Bristol.

"I Predict A Riot" - The Kaiser Chiefs Got That Right!

I fear the worst is yet to come.

So, there was I, enjoying a nice, peaceful break, away from Bristol in the Lancashire suburbs, and it all kicked off while I was living a quiet life.

Question - How did the police allow two opposing marches through the city on the same day? Not just the same day, but as one finished the other, more or less began.

If I'd have been in charge it would have been a two, or perhaps, at the very least a three-hour break in between one ending and the next beginning to at least give the cops time to head back to their station for a pee, a cuppa and a bacon sarnie before heading out again. But that's just me considering the troops, and quite rightly too.

Of course, Bristol wasn't the only location around the nation to be targeted. However, as I live in the city this is where I will focus my attention. So, what were these marches all about? Well, two entirely separate strands aren't to be conflated - although, by all accounts some already have. The initial incident happened in Southport, where young children met their untimely demise at the hands of an alleged migrant, who wasn't at all. Fact. Blunt, but true. Yes, a migrant, so social media idiots would have us all believe.

That is, of course, unless he made the perilous journey across the River Severn from Wales to England in a dinghy, and landed without documentation, which is generally par for the course nowadays.

Next, this incident caused a series of protests around the country that are in no way related to the Southport attack. More like an excuse for anarchists who were waiting for that one spark to light the tinder for mass public disorder to unfold in a plethora of towns and cities accommodating migrants.

In a country where we have the right to protest peacefully, it may not be liked at times where traffic is deliberately held up, and people aren't able to get to work, make vital hospital appointments, or, have other inconveniences imposed upon them.

Nonetheless, the right to protest is sacrosanct. That is, until, those with more pernicious intentions abuse that right. As in the case of current protests. Portsmouth, Rotherham, Sheffield, Stoke, Southampton, Tamworth, Walthamstow, Sunderland, Southend, Aldershot, Canterbury, Bedford, Birmingham, Bolton, Bristol, and Brentford, are just a handful of places targeted on a far bigger list. Everyone has been tantalised into calling those who are nothing more than anarchists 'far right' - whatever that means in the world of populist labelling culture, because it makes lazy thinking an easier option, rather than seeing idiots for who they really are when visited upon those towns I've mentioned above, and others around our nation for the purpose of civil, or, more appropriately 'uncivil' disobedience.

It feels like this current anarchic trend has been brewing for some time, and perhaps, by no coincidence, this has happened on the cusp of a new Labour government being elected. Why? Good question. If this is the case, then it's surely nothing more than a test of how weak, or how mighty this government is in relation to migration.

By all accounts, the former Conservative government, who we all miss so dearly would, perhaps, have expected to effectively deal with small boat crossings failed miserably, and in doing so made the situation far worse by failing to deal with a growing asylum backlog that sees the UK spending £8 million a day to house asylum seekers in hotels, which the government's website reveals as being between 800,000 and 1.2 million undocumented people now in the UK. Basically, a free-for-all all meleee of unknowns with good, or even with not so good intentions for being here. Of which, time will tell.

I'll be honest, it's taken a few days to complete this particular blog post as I've been monitoring allegedly 'far right' supposed, potential activities, and, in my research discovered some useful intelligence detailing all the various sites for targeting over the past weekend, of which there were about fifty in total. Including one right here on my doorstep in central Bristol. All having a direct connection with immigration, and were either lawyers or hubs.

According to the Bristol Post, somewhere in the region of 2.000 people turned up to oppose any thugs cunningly disguised as far-right arrivals who didn't arrive at all, and the entire event resulted in a whole lot to do about nothing, big non-event, with all the adult nappy wearing kidults without even a pub to retreat to as they had all been boarded up for the day. Shame, huh?

My neighbours, as with most of the people who turned up for the non-event, were all panicking like headless chickens at the thought of our normally quiet location being overrun with potentially violent, window-smashing thugs with tattoos plastered all over their bodies and faces, shouting all manner of offensive slurs. As it happened, watching the police horses pass was the most interesting thing about the entire evening before I went to bed out of sheer boredom. I later learned there were some minor incidents elsewhere in the city, but that was it.

Somehow I knew it would all come to a big fat nothing, but, no one I spoke with in my apartment block would listen. Oh no, it was panic stations all around with windows being boarded up like we were entering into a full-on war with Russia. It's probably due to the fact that I've lived through both the Brixton and Toxteth riots, and if you've seen one you've seen them all. So, I'm non-plussed, and, besides which, unlike what seems to be an overwhelming fetish for emotional incontinence nowadays, I am more of a practical and logic-driven person. I don't even panic when I have stuff going on that others would panic about. That's just not me.

So, my rational brain told me in advance that such a nationally well-organised series of protests simply wasn't going to happen. At least not here in Bristol anyway. To advertise a series of supposed 'far right’ protests around the country in advance, and in full knowledge that there would be resistance didn't make any sense at all. So it was either the dumbest plan, if ever there was one, or, it was organised as a test to gauge what resistance there was likely to be, and plan further action where there's little, if any, to counter it.

Call me a cynic, if you will, but I don't think we've seen the last of the thugs - which, after all, is what they are. Or, put another way, even terrorists, maybe? They certainly don't represent the majority of those whose politics lean to the right, of this I'm certain. This will be proven when further criminal damage, or worse, such as arson attacks are visited upon the same law centres and migrant hubs at times when, hopefully, no one is there. I fear the worst is yet to come!

© 2024 John Langley

[foodglorious-food]

Portsmouth Brewery. Diverse selection of beers, from Stouts to Ales to Lagers to Weiss's to Saisons to Double IPA's. The bathroom was first class!

[believerindaydreams]

I couldn't stand not having more crossover from hell to read and unfortunately that means I have to write it

"I miss home," Harry says, quite in his cups. They do an exotic fermented brew in the Mojave that's entirely peculiar, but also entirely satisfactory for the purposes of getting drunk.

Damn it, he deserves this. They both do.

"I don't," the Doctor says. After three ginger beers he's perhaps a little flushed, but it would be hard to tell in the Atomic Wrangler's dubious lighting. "Skaro's not half so dull. Or smug. Or- were we not talking about you? I believe we were."

Harry nods, very solemnly, aware he's falling back into the stiff officer dignity trained into him at Portsmouth. "And I don't even know which one I miss. I don't think I could stand 1911 again, with all that history weighing me down like a- like a..."

"Like a heavy thing," the Doctor helpfully completes.

"Quite. And then there was...there was...what year was it when we left? I've forgotten."

"You can't expect me to remember everything," the Doctor says huffily. "I've visited quite a few years, I'll have you know."

"Well, didn't you ever want to pick out one and settle down a while?" He takes a quick look around to see if anyone might be watching their anomalous conversation, but the other patrons seem equally preoccupied with their own concerns. Mostly downing drinks. He takes another healthy gulp of his own.

"Perhaps I might have tried it if I hadn't been imprisoned in yours," the Doctor says, scowling. Harry catches his breath; he's always had an eye for men, there's no denying that, but never before had it been so starkly undeniable. The way the Doctor's wry, mobile face flickers through expressions will keep amazing him every time.

"Well, one of mine. Can't say I'd have held out too much hope for England's chances if we'd had as many alien invasions at the start of the century as the end."

"You weren't interesting enough back then," the Doctor says crushingly. "Pre-spaceflight civilisations simply aren't."

Never mind defending the honour of his native era, Harry decides. He'd undoubtedly lose track of the argument halfway through. Again. "But UNIT wasn't right either. I kept fantasizing about buying out my commission and running off to some little village where they didn't have all these ghastly cars. Or supermarkets."

"We're on a planet without supermarkets or cars," the Doctor observes, crunching a piece of ice. "Does that make you happy?"

Harry gives that a serious thought. "Yes. It does, actually. I don't feel utterly out of my depth, but neither am I itching for developments that haven't happened yet."

"All of the companions I could have been stuck on Skaro with, and somehow I have the one who thinks the planet is a good idea. How perfectly incorrigible."

But he's smiling as he says it.

"And speaking of incorrigible- shall we go see how Sarah's getting on?"

[turbobuckeye]

The AMMO Portsmouth Cruise 2022 Next weekend !!! Join AMMO for an easy cruise to the Portsmouth Flood Wall. When we get to the flood wall there will be opportunities to take some great pictures with your ride at the murals on Saturday, May 28. Meet us there or cruise with the group. First we're meeting at Scioto Downs parking lot. Then, we will cruise to the Portsmouth Flood Wall Murals. 🚘🎰 Meet-up: 10:00am⁣ Scioto Downs / Eldorado, (1st lot in front of the hotel) 6000 S. High St,⁣ Columbus, OH 43207 ⁣ 🚘🖼 Rollout: 10:20am Portsmouth Flood Wall Mural 429 Front Street, Portsmouth, OH 45662 Afterwards feel free to hang out for lunch. There is the famous Ribber 🍖, Pints & Patties 🍔🍺, and Portsmouth Brewing Co. restaurants nearby. This is a weather permitting event. *The reschedule date is Sunday, May 29th.⁣ **Absolutely No Burnouts or Excessive Speed ⁣ ammocarclub.com #Ohio #ammocarclub @byersauto @hinderercdjr #HEMI @stellantisna @automedicssouth @hotshotssecret @pantherlights @toxsickcreations #OH @thetintlabusa @bpreciseautodetailing #dodgegarage @jaxwaxcolumbus @jaxwaxcarcareproducts @chrysler @ramtrucks @dodgeofficial @jeep @officialmopar @michaels_auto_and_performance @marktoeniskoetter @sco4x4 #soundinvestment #Mopar #OhioMopar #portsmouthfloodwall #portsmouth @neohiomopar @midohiomopars (at Portsmouth, Ohio) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd6dVnJlyG3/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[adamantiumdragonfly]

No Ordinary Time: Part Two “wherever you are tonight”

"...A time when the United States is what we fight for..."

The occupants of the Grisham Hall boarding house were no strangers to the war effort. Brothers, cousins, old flames, and current sweethearts have been wrenched from their grasp, the only contact to their stolen loved ones is military-grade pencils and scraps of paper.

Estelle prides herself on her mind for numbers but a usurper from her past rears his russet head and threatens to steal her thoughts every chance he gets. Bessie has been searching for a home in every patron in that cafe but she's left seeing his face everywhere she looks. Constance hears her lover's voice on the wind, finding quiet in the graveyard shift of the machine shop. Margaret refuses to admit defeat but the distance between her letters and her love grows wider each day. Jeannette has read many stories about tragic heroes. Her childhood friend has told tales of his plans for wealth and ending the war on his own. She just hopes she has a chance to do her part first.

wherever you are tonight

Taglist:  @rinadoesstuff @vintagelavenderskies @julianneday1701  @wexhappyxfew @trashgoddess600 @pilindieltheelf @sunnyshifty @rogue-sunday @thoughpoppiesblow  @pxpeyewynn @50svibes​

Norfolk, VA. 4th of April, 1944. 

While some found the adjustment to loved ones being taken from their grasp rocky, Elizabeth Ferguson had the advantage that only a select few possessed. She had already lived through it, making the sting nothing but a fond memory. It didn’t stop stinging though, no matter how many times one felt it. A dull ache would be a more appropriate term, the bruised flesh tender, and the black discoloration fading but the strain of muscles didn’t let the memory fade entirely. It was enough to make a first-timer bedridden for a week but to a repeat offender like Elizabeth, it was a mild discomfort. She had said goodbye before and did her best not to, when given the chance.

She held onto forlorn books, ragged quilts, and threadbare shirts to keep the end at bay, trying to prevent the inevitable ache. Elizabeth tried her best to limp about when the goodbyes were unavoidable. That could be said of everything she attempted. Bessie was a trier, an all-around trier and failer. She didn’t have a wall of degrees like Estelle or a self-assured flick to her head like Vera. She was just Bessie Ferguson, who had clattered and crashed her way through twenty-one years of life.  Not that she hadn’t attempted school (she wasn’t the best student) and not that she hadn’t attempted to walk with the confidence that her theatrical friend possessed (it ended in a twisted ankle and a scraped-up knee) but by god, she tried.

She liked to think that her determination was her best attribute, right up there with the dimple on her left cheek that had gotten her more than her fair share of tips when she had been employed at Charlie’s. The real Charlie had said she was one of his best workers and his gruff voice in her head still brought a smile to her lips, bringing out the money-winning dimple.

Even when goodbyes were said, Bess found ways to hold onto the people or things. She still frequented her old place of work long after she was employed in the noble service of her country. Every Friday, like clockwork, she was in the second to last booth, the red vinyl striking against the blue of her uniform.

I look like the American flag, Bess thought, examining herself in the reflection on the glass of the window. Red booths, white mugs, and a blue uniform. How was that for patriotic?

She looked different, hair sleek and uniform pressed. Was this really Bessie Ferguson who knew every waitress and cook’s name in Charlie’s Diner? Or was Bessie older now, with the WAVES blue wool on her shoulder, finer and warmer than anything she had owned in her twenty-one years. 1941 seemed like a century ago, not three years.

“Hiya, Bess,” Angie was still there, her bouffant of pin curls still perched precariously on her brow. “You got a letter from your boy, I see,”

Bess came in every Friday, with a new letter or to write her own. The grease-stained walls had brought her luck and good memories. She thought that she could imbue them into the stationary, sending them across the ocean to him.

“Yup,” Bessie said, smiling.

“About damn time,”

She had been sat without a letter for some two weeks now. The patrons and the staff of Charlie’s had been concerned, fretting more than Bessie had herself.

“He was a dear thing, that Powers boy,” Angie said, tucking her pad back into the apron Bess was all too familiar with. There was no need to take her order, Bess ordered the same thing every time. “Two sugars, right?”

No matter how tenderly she tried, the bruise was liable to be bumped or brushed. She tried not to wince at the words.

“I saved you a seat,” He would say, even though she was working. He knew full well she shouldn’t sit during her shift but he would say it anyway and she could never say no, either. His smile had seared itself into her mind, a soft glow that warmed her better than any cup of coffee ever did. He would pour her a cup anyway, from the pot she had brought to refill his own mug. “Two sugars, right?”

That had been before rationing. That had been before the war had been set to boil when it was brewing like the dark roast that soaked every inch of this diner. It had been percolating, slowly dripping and staining their country. He had been a machinist at the shipyard’s graveyard shift and she had been a waitress at his favorite diner, that served coffee with “the prettiest smile I ever saw”. It had been a romance sweeter than any baked good in the case and more poetic than Jeannette’s Shakespeare.

She had been a different person then, just a little girl in her third house in three years. Bessie hadn’t known Mrs. Grisham’s motherly touch or the soft smile of her beau. Bessie had only known how to try and try she did.

the ‘30s hadn’t treated Bessie’s family well but she knew they weren’t special in that aspect. The world had been gripped by the choking thorns of financial strain and the vines had pulled the last strains of life out of her parents. When her father had died, Bessie had thought things would be okay. The farm she had grown up on and the family she had been surrounded with was invincible, or so she had thought. She would grow up under the bows of that oak tree that towered in the yard, swatting the swarms of yellow flies and raking up the leaves in the fall. It was her home.

But Bessie watched her family home disappear from view in the backseat of a second cousin’s car, eight years old and she had never seen her new home before. Her oldest brother, Arthur, was sent some twenty miles to the west, only twelve, to provide labor to yet another distant relative’s floundering farm. Eight years old and Bessie would never see home again.

Elizabeth Ferguson hadn’t been raised to admit defeat. As the Depression stretched on and her bags were packed and unpacked, Bessie kept trying. She made her peace with every attempt, trying hard to be useful, helpful, and liked. Her name provided a blank slate, quickly covered in her current caretaker’s preferred nickname. Elizabeth. Beth. Bess. Bessie. Lizzie. Liz. Eliza. She answered to them all and she didn’t mind, truly she didn’t. She would try her best to be what that family wanted, what that home demanded but she’d end up with the suitcase in her hand and a new route to a new home.

Elizabeth had parted ways with the last relative, the last attempt at home, at the age of eighteen. April had dawned cold that year, 1941. She had found employment with the sticky floors and chrome edgings of Charlie’s, turning up on the Grisham’s doorstep. It had been Carrie, Vera, and Estelle back then. Before the war.

Before the war. She worked hard, shoes wearing thin and bones aching when her head hit the pillows. Elizabeth had worked hard and tried to cling to what she had left, the friends she had gained, and the home she had made. Maybe if she clung to them, the one god thing wouldn’t slide away from her, finding a home in some other harbor.

She hadn’t been looking for him or anyone and yet, they had found each other. Drawn towards each other, blending and blurring in watercolor of perfection. Maybe the best pieces of art were the ones that weren’t intended.

“Has anyone seen to you two?” She had asked, whirling around on the slick tiled floor. They were a grease-stained pair, smelling of oil and sleepless nights like every machinist who crossed the line from Portsmouth for a cup of coffee after work.

“No, ma’am,” The tallest, a thin, rake of a boy who didn’t seem much older than Bessie said. His voice was soft, not loud and course like the usual Shipyard folk. “We are fine to sit for a spell-”

“Nonsense,” Elizabeth shifted the bus bucket of dirty dishes to her hip, bracing it with her arm so she could retrieve the pad and pen from her pocket. “What can I get you two?”

“Ma’am, do you need a hand?” The soft-spoken one made to reach for the bucket but Bessie raised a hand to stop him.  

“It’s not heavy.  I’m stronger than I look.” She smiled. “Now what can I get you two?”

Faces came and went in that little diner on the corner of College and Duke, there were the regulars and there were the strangers. Elizabeth had treated them all the same, a bright smile and a warm plate. It was the least she could do and she knew what it was to need a smile from a stranger or two. These two machinists weren’t the only blue collars who sat in the vinyl booths but she fought to keep her eyes on the paper and not straying towards the one who offered her help. The orders were taken and the niceties exchanged, Bess turned on her heel, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

As she marched towards the kitchen, his companion jabbed and teased, the blush creeping up the soft-spoken boy’s face, settling into his hairline. She

These two machinists quickly became regulars, coming back every Friday. Small talk was made and a rough sketch of their characters was established. Elizabeth had never been one to chase but it seemed the work was being done for her. Mr. Wynn and Mr. Powers returned week after week. As the months dragged by and April came and went, Mr. Powers would linger.

“Where are you from, Mr. Powers?”

“Clincho, ma’am,”

“I’ve got family out that way,” Elizabeth had said. “How long you been in the area?”

“I’ve been in Portsmouth for about a year now, I reckon,”

“I’ve an aunt in Portsmouth. Over on Bains Creek,”

“Where don’t you have family, ma’am?’

“The moon,”

He had smiled, bright and warm. Elizabeth felt like she had taken a warm cup of coffee and held it tight to her chest, fingers warming on the ceramic. The dimple on her left cheek appeared in response.

“It’s Elizabeth,” She said. “Elizabeth Ferguson.”

“Darrell Powers,”

Elizabeth had never thought that sharing a smile could be something so special. She had smiled at hundreds of patrons, offering a grin here and there until the muscles in her face hurt, all for a few extra quarters thrown on the table. Elizabeth had never expected a tip from Mr. Powers, or Shifty, as he said the boys called him. Mr. Powers, he remained to her, even on their tentative agreement to a show at the cinema on some Friday night. Mr. Powers, he would be, until he walked her home from her shift, offering her his jacket in the rainstorm that sent them racing towards the nearest porch. There, standing on a stranger’s porch, in the April rainshower, Elizabeth wrapped his jacket tighter around her disheveled uniform, breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke and oil. There, the rain beating down around them and his hair slick against his blushing face, he asked her if he could call her Elizabeth.

“Liz, Bess, I don’t care,” She said.

“Which do you like better, ma’am?”

“My brother used to call me Lizzie,” She admitted.

His eyes studied her like she was some fine painting he had spent hours perfecting and the name on his lips was the signature at the bottom, declaring the work as his. The colors could run and the ink would fade but Elizabeth Ferguson would cling to that coat in its smokey comfort. She had worn it as the rain had lightened up enough to begin their route to the Grisham front door. She wore it on the front porch and burrowed her hot face into the leather as Vera pounced on her, pounding her with questions and squeals.

Elizabeth Ferguson knew what it was to lose thing but Lizzie was willing to try and hold onto this boy as tight as she could. Lizzie was going to try her damn near hardest. This boy with his soft words and bright smile would be taken from her kicking and screaming. She allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of security, taking the two sugars in her coffee and his offered hand too. Lizzie was all bright paints and newly sharpened pencils and Shifty Powers was all steady hands and fresh paper, the perfect medium for this new home Lizzie dared dream of. She was ready to start something new, something untouched by the inevitable goodbyes.

Then the bubbling brew of Europe had overflowed into the spitting flames. Steam rose and Pear Harbor shattered like a ceramic mug on hard tiled floors. Vera left, caught up in the theatrics of secrets and intelligence and Carrie joined up, bringing her soft words and soothing hands to the wounded. Estelle left her school and allowed her talented mind to be lent to the Navy, putting together pieces of puzzles and breaking codes like they were the Sunday crossword. Lizzie wasn’t brave or smart or soft like her friends. Elizabeth Ferguson was a stumbling, bumbling trier and she grasped for the remaining pieces of that home she had searched for. She had spent years searching for family in the faces of strangers, reaching for that oak tree and rope swing in houses that would never be her home and she wasn’t about to lose it. Not to war, not to an Army, and most definitely not now.

“Don’t worry about me,” he had said, gripping her hands in his own calloused ones. He had volunteered, given himself up willingly. Lizzie could have screamed. The Airborne had terrified her, the planes and the silk chutes were terrifying. Their kiss on the Grisham Hall’s front porch had tasted like possibility and tears. He left for Georgia that morning, leaving her in Norfolk with only a pen and an empty hand.

She had told him she wouldn’t if he promised not to worry about her. She had tried not to be worried but maybe he had every reason to be worried about her.  

“Bess?” Angie said again, snapping her fingers. “You good, sugar?”

“Yes, sorry,” Elizabeth said, smiling sheepishly. This diner could pull her back when she didn’t have a thought for the present.

Angie shook her head. “Baby, I think they are working you too hard over there,”

“There” was the mailroom on base. “They” were the WAVES, summoning Bess to their cause. She had joined up in April of ‘43. He had been gone for a week and Bess couldn’t stare at the booth where he had once sat for hours. She didn’t mind the work, and she told Angie so. Being surrounded by all those letters and being the reason soldiers and families heard from their loved ones was the only thing that kept Elizabeth sane. She could try and offer some peace to the fellow fretting wives and friends who longed for a letter, a word, or even a telegram that told them that he was safe.

Angie wandered back to the counter, Elizabeth’s order safely scribbled in the confines of her mind, leaving her with her thoughts and her pen. Staring at the traffic that passed outside the window, her fingers gripped the pen, sketching out the twist of his head and the twinkle of his eyes as she remembered it. As his face burned into her mind.

She didn’t draw him as often as she wanted to. Elizabeth’s sketchpads were filled with the same sketches over and over, page after page, burned into her memory. She didn’t have to look at a reference anymore, the oak trees and the slopes of the house never changed. The smiling faces and the bright eyes as she remembered them didn’t shift. Every so often, a new face would grace the pages but that wasn’t a usual occurrence and was a great honor when a stranger or new face caught her attention. Flipping through the sketchpad, Elizabeth saw his face etched into the pages. She only put pen to paper and chronicled his features on the days she missed him the most. He haunted her more than she drew, hours spent with her finger on the desk tracing out his smile.

“They said you’d be here,” Jeannette Edwards stumbled through the door, arms full of books as she slid into the seat across from Bess. In the few weeks that Jeannette had lived in Grisham Hall, she had slowly acclimated herself to the Norfolk streets.

“Jeannie,” Bess smiled, closing her sketchpad. “Estelle still working?”

Jeannette nodded. “She said to meet you here and that we’d take the bus home.”

Bess folded her letter, sliding her belongings to the side so that Angie could place her order on the sticky tabletop. The mug of coffee, two sugars carefully rationed and dissolved, and the apple pie. Offering Jeannette the fork, she encouraged her to take a bite. Bess was passionate about oil pastels and pastries, making it her mission in life to share those passions with her friends. When a pie or a drawing was offered, Bess’s trust soon followed.

“Why do you rank pie, if you don’t mind me asking?” Jeannette asked, using the side of the fork to cut a piece off of the wedge of glistening golden pie.

“Every home is the same but the apple pie is different everywhere you go.” Bess explained.“Mrs. G’s is third best, this is the second-best apple pie.”

“Who is the first place?”

“Mine,” Bess smiled.  

“You are multi-talented then,” Jeannette said around the mouthful of second-best pie, dipping her head towards the sketchbook she had abandoned.

“I just doodled,” Bess shook her head but she offered the book to Jeannette all the same. Watching her thumb through the pages, Bess’s heart was wedged firmly in her throat, not daring to hope for any kind words or critique.

“These are beautiful,” Jeannette said, her fingers tracing the lines that intricate leaves that had first taken hours and now took a matter of minutes. “Where is it?”

“That’s my family’s farm.”

“You must visit often to sketch it so much,” Jeannette said.

Bess smiled, taking the sketchpad back and tucking it into her bag. Reaching for the cup of coffee, she stared into its dark depths. Maybe Jeannette knew the words to describe how she felt. Jeannette was better at words than Elizabeth.

“It’s hard to forget,” She admitted.

A knock on the window beside their booth made both women jump, the fork clattering on the shared pie plate. Estelle’s face pressed against the window as she beckoned them out, her lipstick faded after the long day hunched over the papers and codes. Estelle Tran was rarely seen with a hair out of place, much less with her signature red lipstick anything but striking against her pale skin. Bess insisted she looked like a real version of Snow White, something that Estelle had always shake her head at. Disney’s princess hadn’t been college-educated, she reminded them.

Bess dropped the money on the table and gathered up her purse and hat, waving goodbye with her fistful of gloves to the cooks and the regulars who still knew her name.

“See you next Friday, Bess,” Angie called as the door swung shut behind them.

“How was work, Stell?” Elizabeth asked, looping her arm through her friend’s as she tugged the gloves over her graphite-smudged hands.

“Heinous,”

The disheveled appearance of the usually put-together Estelle was indication enough. Bessie nodded.

“Let’s go home,” she said.

It was, in moments such as this, when rest is most needed that the world decides to test you.

The bus pulled up to its spot, just as it always did. It was a route that Bess was familiar with, a routine that she welcomed. Fridays were spent at the diner until Estelle got off of work. They would then walk home or, if particularly exhausted, take the bus. Bessie hopped inside without hesitation, ready to sit in a seat and watch the world pass by while she finished the letter she had drafted in her mind. The bus driver, a new face, said nothing as she entered. But, on the days when rest is most needed, inconvenience is the Devil’s worst weapon.

“We don’t let your people on,” The bus driver said, the passengers peering over the edge of the nest, not daring to disagree.

“I beg your pardon?” Bess looked back, seeing that he was not referring to her in her American blue uniform but Estelle. Dear Estelle with her features nothing like the usual faces of Norfolk, Virginia.

Jeannette’s mouth hung wide and Estelle froze, foot perched on the step. Her face fell and Bessie could almost hear it shatter on the pavement. The Grisham girls had been informed that Estelle’s family hailed from the Indochina islands in the Pacific and had been in America since Teddy Roosevelt’s days. She was most ardently NOT the enemy. Mrs. Grisham would sniff indignantly at such a mention and Vera, before she had left, had been known to glower at anyone who dared say such a “fucking disgusting thing”.

Bessie stepped forward, ready to give the man the facts but a hand encircled her arm, pulling her out of the bus and back on the pavement before the doors swung open. Swearing so loudly and vehemently that Mrs. Grisham would have been sent to an early grave, Bessie aimed a kick at the tire of the bus before it sped off, sans three passengers.

“It’s fine,” Estelle said.

“You aren’t Japanese!” Elizabeth growled, her shoes stomping on the pavement. Bess was a trier and she was a fighter. She was ready to try fighting for Estelle, even if that meant throwing a fist at this burly bus driver.

“It’s fine, Bess,” Estelle said.

“That was a despicable thing to do,” Jeannette fumed.

“Let’s just go home,” Estelle muttered, squashing her hat more firmly over her brow and leading the way down the street.

What good was it, Bessie grumbled to herself as she followed Estelle, to serve your country when you were still considered the enemy?

Estelle worked harder than any man and she had been working hard for many years. She had been a teacher and now fiddled with codes that boggled even the male mind. And yet, she was only seen as the enemy. Estelle Tran, by seniority or by necessity, had taken the unofficial role of den mother among the women of Grisham Hall. On the third floor, nothing went on without Estelle knowing. She guarded the girls like they were her own, a grim mother hen who warded off broken hearts and bruised feelings with wise words and her own experience. Bessie loved Estelle like she was a sister and she would have gladly punched that bus driver if she wasn’t wearing the uniform of the US WAVES. Women’s work in the war was precarious enough as it was.

Elizabeth didn’t say a word, as she slipped her hand into Estelle’s, gripping it tightly as they marched through the streets of Norfolk, their heads held as high as they could manage. She knew she couldn’t fight to change every mind or man in this country but Bessie Ferguson was a trier, through and through. Home may not have looked like that oak tree or the face she had sketched so often but she’d hold onto it as long as she could.

[brookstonalmanac]

Beer Events 6.1

Events

1st written record of Scotch Whisky (1495)

The disbanded Virginia Legislature, defying the Royal Governor, met in a tavern and declared they would no longer "import from Great Britain ... beer, ale, porter, malt" thus setting the stage for the American brewing industry (1774)

Thrale Brewery, co-owned by Dr. Samuel Johnson, offered for sale (1781)

Louis Pasteur published Studies on Fermentation: The Diseases of Beer, Their Causes, and the Means of Preventing Them (1876)

Otto Zwietusch patented a Vent for Beer-Barrels (1880)

Prohibition of Alcohol in Manitoba, Canada Went into Effect (1916) Moerlein Brewing stopped production due to the impending Prohibition (1919)

Supreme Court ruled the 18th Amendment constitutional, which allowed Prohibition to proceed (1920)

Weber Brewery reopened after Prohibition (Waukesha, Wisconsin; 1934)

Frederick Siebel patented a Brewing Process (1937)

Superman debuts (1938)

Schaefer Brewing patented a Design for a Holder for Beer Foam Scrapers (1943)

Labatt introduces the six pint carton (1948)

International Cheese Treaty signed (1951)

1st issue of CAMRA’s newspaper What’s Brewing published (1972)

West Bend Brewing dissolved (Wisconsin; 1972)

Heimlich Maneuver introduced (1974)

Hoppy Brewing's Sacramento brewpub opened (1999)

Brewery Openings

Latrobe Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1939)

Capitol Brewing (Wisconsin; 1986)

Olde Heurich Brewing (Washington, DC; 1986)

Cherryland Brewing (Wisconsin; 1988)

Gordon Biersch (Palo Alto, California; 1988)

Highland Pub & Brewery (Oregon; 1988)

Les Brasseurs Du Nord brewery (Quebec, Canada; 1988)

Santa Fe Brewing (New Mexico; 1988)

Algonquin Brewery (Ontario; 1989)

Bohannon Brewing (Tennessee; 1989)

Market Street Brewery & Public House (Tennessee; 1989)

Etna Brewing (California; 1990)

Atlantic Brewing (Maine; 1991)

Burkhardt Brewing (Ohio; 1991)

Portsmouth Brewery (New Hampshire; 1991)

Beach Brewing (Florida; 1992)

H.C. Berger Brewing (Colorado; 1992)

Hazel Dell Brewpub (Washington; 1993)

Old Bear Brewery (England; 1993)

Redondo Beach Brewing (California; 1993)

Red, White & Brew (California; 1993)

Riverside Brewing (California; 1993)

Spring Street Brewing (New York; 1993)

Vino's brewery (Arkansas; 1993)

El Dorado Brewing (California; 1994)

Estes Park Brewing (Colorado; 1994)

Saint Arnold Brewing (Texas; 1994)

Valley Brewing (California; 1994)

Backwater Brewing (Minnesota; 1995)

Carlsbad Brewery (California; 1995)

Dave's Brewpub (Kansas; 1995)

Downtown Brewing (South Carolina; 1995)

Front Street Brewery (North Carolina; 1995)

Mill Street Brewing (Minnesota; 1995)

Old Raleigh Brewing (North Carolina; 1995)

Rockford Brewing (Delaware; 1995)

Twisted Pine Brewing (Colorado; 1995)

Brewers Union (California; 1996)

Butte Creek Brewing (California; 1996)

Flossmoor Station Brewing (Illinois; 1996)

FMI Brewing (Kansas; 1996)

Gluek Brewing (Minnesota; 1996)

La Brasserie Aux Quarte Temps (Canada; 1996)

Lakes of Muskoka Brewery (Canada; 1996)

Lawler Brewing (Arizona; 1996)

Microbrasserie Bas St. Laurent (Canada; 1996)

Moab Brewery (Utah; 1996)

Sleeping Giant Brewing (Montana; 1996)

Stone Brewing (California; 1996)

Sunrise at the Oasis (California; 1996)

B.O.B.'s House of Brews (Michigan; 1997)

Brewery Creek Brewing (Wisconsin; 1997)

Copperhead Ale Co. (California; 1997)

Cottage City Brewing (Massachusetts; 1997)

Flying Pig Brewing (Washington; 1997)

Globe Brewery & Barbecue Co. (Arizona; 1997)

Kappatsu Brewing (California; 1997)

Local Color Restaurant, Brewing & Distilling (Michigan; 1997)

Mackinaw Brewing (Michigan; 1997)

Sacketts Harbor Brewing (New York; 1997)

Sausalito Brewing (California; 1997)

So Yo Brewing (California; 1997)

Glasscock Brewing (Texas; 1998)

Mount Nittany Brewing (Pennsylvania; 1998)

Propeller Brewing (Canada; 1998)

Scotch Irish Brewing (Canada; 1998)

Uncle Tucker's Brewhouse (Maryland; 1998)

Bragdy Ynys Men brewery (Wales; 1999)

Hoppy Brewpub (California; 1999)

Ice Breakers Brewery & Restaurant (Georgia; 1999)

Ketchikan Brewing (Arkansas; 1999)

Komanosato Brewery (Japan; 1999)

Moon River Brewing (Georgia; 1999)

Buntingford Brewery (England; 2000)

Goldthorn Brewery (England; 2000)

Slout Brothers Public House (Wisconsin; 2000)

Ramapo Valley Brewing (New York; 2001)

Greenland Brewhouse (Greenland; 2006)

[cloveroctobers]

MARISOL PÉREZ —

Ig info/bio: @/marisolrez | 500k followers | law student who will argue with you in the comments, you’ve been warned👩‍🎓 + 🇪🇸+ 🇬🇧 + 🏳️‍🌈

24 (25 if we’re counting it by this year)

law student — leaning towards international law

born in Alicante, Spain, moved to Portsmouth, England at the age of 14 with both of her parents

Father is a longshoreman, while her mother works at the dry cleaners as a seamstress

only child

Virgo? Due to her being very observant + driven to go after what she wants?

Loves crime & mystery documentaries

Enjoys Harry Potter (this is already canon) she’s RAVENCLAW! but jk Rowling can fuck off honestly— what a tosser

Bobby has remained one of her best male friends and they always FaceTime on Tuesday’s for whatever reason, it’s usually when one of Bobby’s fav bakery shows are on and encourages Marisol to watch at the same time if she happens to be home

They visit each other every other Christmas & New Years with her going to Scotland and him to hers

Finally decided to move off campus to a small modern apartment that’s only ten-fifteen minutes tops away from uni so she’s still able to enjoy the night life college provides when she wants

Usually has a good balance between fun & work but there are moments when she gets side tracked...however she always seems to pull through with cold brew or espresso & a Tylenol, amazing old roommates of hers

Since she’s a full time student, she chooses to settle for a part-time job tutoring for a family of 2 off campus

Often has caffeine crashes but tries to avoid them by getting at least a 8 minute nap in. It always has to be 8 minutes exact.

Still dating Graham even though Rocco is in her DM’s sending her traveling pics & positive affirmations. At first it seems harmless to Marisol but Bobby AND Gary think otherwise, graham knows nothing of this

They live 2/3 hrs apart & are doing a long distance thing for the time being. Graham offered to move in with Marisol but she didn’t ask him to move in when she got her new apartment? He brushed this off since he didn’t find a job in her town that he liked just yet. Every other Saturday or two Saturday’s they crash at each other’s places

She doesn’t have a car right now but has a license. She likes the train more than busses and cars though. Likes being driven around.

Gary is her second best guy friend—which low-key bothers graham since you know there was something there once before but it’s evident Marisol doesn’t look at Gary like that anymore

Best girl friends? Surprisingly? Priya. She’s also the one who did some background checking on her apartment before she put down a down payment. S/o to mates in high places! & Elisa

Makes the best dragonfruit magaritias even though she’s not much a drinker herself, coffee IS her drink

Massive fan of Tinashe, little mix, little dragon, bad bunny, & Christina Aguilera

Her anthem? Mabel — bad behaviour

Celeb crush? Charlie hunnam, Charlize Theron, Becky g, & Mac Miller rip

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Sent to Portsmouth," St. Catharines Standard. June 22, 1933. Page 5. ---- GUELPH. June 22. - Everett Kelso, a fugitive from the Ontario Reformatory for three months, was yesterday sentenced to two years in Portsmouth Penitentiary when he pleaded guilty in police court to a charge of escaping from custody. Kelso's sentence is consecutive with another two-year term he received at Lindsay yesterday for theft of a motor car at Bobcaygeon.

[Kelson had been sentenced December 1932 to Guelph. Kelso was born in Bobcaygeon, Ontario, in 1906. He worked mostly as a lumberjack in the north of Ontario, settling in Cache Bay.. Kelso had two previous penitentiary sentences at Kingston, all for break and enters or theft in North Bay, Sudbury, and Cache bay. During the one between 1927 and 1929 he was also caught with several other prisoners making home brew from supplies in the Kitchen. This time around he was convict #3102 and was assigned to a number of hard labor areas - excavation, stone cutting, stone breaking. He was reported ten times for minor infractions. He was released July 1935 back to Guelph, but would return again in late 1935 and 1938.]

[lakesregionbeerreview]

Have you started your Keep NH brewing trail yet? Loaded Question is one of 18 breweries participating in this event until the end of September. This beer was crisp and well balanced, perfect on a late summer afternoon. • Keep NH Brewing Collaboration Loaded Question Brewing Co Portsmouth, NH (at Loaded Question Brewing Co.) https://www.instagram.com/p/CSrlsLslN_m/?utm_medium=tumblr

[normally0]

8m

Open Call

AA Alumni Stories

The AA showed me how to fight and overcome obstacles. From a shaky beginning coming through from Portsmouth to sit the diploma I was recommended to enter Intermediate; a shock after two years in professional practice. I had no ideas, just guidance, taken to make beautiful and instructive drawings. Got caught up with ‘Masonic’ theory that led me down the road of being misunderstood by all and failing my diploma. Unperturbed I went external and moved to Berlin to work on my own and prepare an appendix. Alongside this I was working, getting to submit for the competition to redevelop the SS barracks of the concentration camp of Sachsenhausen. Both this and my developing appendix grew into an envelope of creative drawings exploring the shadow of the soul. It was passed by the AA this time; used for the forthcoming graduate prospectus, and I returned to Berlin.

Perhaps foolhardy I continued with the trappings of a student lifestyle simply ignoring the professional aspect of architecture. I worked in offices seeing schemes built and produced drawings, but I maintained an existence in the club scene offering projections, drawings and music to expand the horizon of our collective culture. Maybe it did work or it didn’t but it was not apparently appreciated as there was a counter argument brewing about the identity and lifestyle of the perfect architect. There was magic afoot and I took the brunt of the spell.

Returning to London after the millennium i returned to my former practice of SOM and finally sat down with a computer to draw, that I had simply ignored in Berlin. Challenged by the corporation the bare bones of my former projects was exposed as an imaginative threat in the workplace. I was to be subject to an alternative viewpoint and work accordingly. There was progress on my side. I found the time to construct a set of drawing compasses that no longer relied on a centre point; returned occasionally to Berlin to give thanks; sat at my desk for nigh on twelve years until redundancy came my way. Yes, there were projects that got built and colleagues to collect friendship, but the ideas of the AA seemed so distant and the benefits to my idea of carrying architecture as a career seemed hampered.

I had recently thrown myself into marriage and while looking for work set about renovating our family home. It was a well conceived plan, utilising a smaller property while the construction took six months. The result was very accommodating and proved to be the stepping stone to find work. In 2013 I started work as a document controller at ACME; a studio of worth and a change that was going to make my life extraordinary. I could say more but the results that you can all see proliferated in publications show that the work and buildings we have produced are exemplary and a force to be reckoned with. Thank you AA and thank you Friedrich.

https://www.aaschool.ac.uk/

[sussex-nature-lover]

August 2021

My Friend’s Vacation - a Holiday Shared

My friend across the Ocean, Elle, has had a few days away in Rockport.

I know Rockport’s a seaside destination of course, but mostly to me it means casual shoes, as both me and Crow have a pair. His shoes are classic leather deck shoes, not sure what mine are, some kind of suede and canvas confection in hot pink, white and orange with yellow and white striped laces and I tell you what, they’re light as air, super comfortable and washable. I’ve had them for years and love them to bits. They’d be perfect for a day out wandering at leisure with Elle.

Instead of a day out I’ve amused myself spotting English names on the map, so far, just on the bit above, I’ve got:

Dover, York, Epping, Portsmouth, Manchester, Peterborough, Northampton, Enfield, Leominster, Shrewsbury, Worcester, Marlborough, Gloucester and Plymouth 

Quite a few! I wonder how Americans pronounce Leominster/Shrewsbury etc.? especially given that British are conflicted over Shewsbury just the same as the dreaded scone/scon debate.

Elle has an eye for a story and we’ve been wondering if this pair know each other? If they do. it looks like words have been had between them. Or, perhaps they’re just two people taking time to be alone with their thoughts and a lovely view.

Nothing to wonder about here, just a very pleasant composition. Same as Elle, I really like this combination of the Box, the stone wall and the varied succulents below. When we see succulents here they’re usually just a small part of a rockery garden, or as house plants. I guess it’s a climate thing.

See the blue pin in the map for Good Harbor Beach. Thatcher Island is just below the sun

One of the holiday jaunts Elle and her sister have taken is a 20 minute boat trip over to Thatcher Island, home of iconic twin lighthouses - more of them below. Here’s Elle on Good Harbor Beach with Thatcher Island in the background, I’ve put some yellow lines to estimate the lighthouses’ location. If only she hadn’t posed behind this tree you’d have seen her too 😂

Landing at Thatcher Island

The ramble to the Lighthouses

Lighthouse Keeper’s House

Inside the parlour with a view of the twin Lighthouse through the window

Twin Lighthouses on Thatcher Island (link)

Now the story isn’t mine to tell, I wouldn’t even attempt to precis it here, so if you’re interested, follow that link up above, it’s a good read.

This track was used to transport goods

See aerial footage of Thatcher Island on You Tube at the bottom of this page.

To good not to include, here also is a tiny clip from the harbour, it’s so sweet and holidayesque, I almost feel I’m there.

*Note: 

English -v- American English 

holiday = vacation, not a fixed event on the calendar like Christmas

The last time I saw little boats being brought in was from the Boathouse Bistro at Bewl Water while we were having lunch. A storm began to brew and they had to be rescued. It’s a great venue for a meal with views, but sadly has closed during the pandemic. Fingers crossed it reopens because fish and chips there for Friday lunch were a great occasional treat.

Enjoy Thatcher Island from the air

Hope you enjoyed that little getaway from my foreign correspondent, it looks like she had a lovely time and there may yet be more to come.

♦ Important Notes 

None of the photos are mine, obviously, apart from the Bewl Water rowing boats, but they are shared with permission

Elle is a pseudonym to preserve anonymity 

Other nature photos and brief notes are on my Tumblr page HERE.

[bostonluxorlimo]

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