#roofslates

[oliviasdigitalinfluence]

The Unmatched Legacy of Roofing Slate: Why SSQ’s Spanish Slate & Argentina Phyllite Are Built to Last

Let me ask you this: How often do you see a 150-year-old roof? If you’re thinking, “Almost never,” you’re not wrong. Most materials crumble under decades of sun, snow, and storms. But there’s an exception — natural slate. For architects and builders tired of replacements and repairs, SSQ Group’s Spanish Slate and Argentina Phyllite aren’t just materials; they’re a declaration that some things only get better with time.

Natural Slate: Where Beauty Meets Bone-Depth Durability

I’ve walked job sites where asphalt shingles curl after a decade and synthetic tiles fade to a dull shadow of their former selves. Natural slate? It’s the antithesis of “quick fix.” Think of historic universities, centuries-old churches, or European villas — their roofs aren’t just intact; they’re stunning. Slate’s secret isn’t just its resistance to fire, frost, or UV rays (though it laughs at all three). It’s the way each tile ages, developing a patina that feels alive. No two roofs ever look the same, and that’s the point.

Spanish Slate: The Quiet Perfectionist

Argentina Phyllite: The Understated Game-Changer

Now, let’s talk about phyllite — the stone that surprises everyone. At a conference last year, a contractor told me, “I swore it was slate until I saw the spec sheet.” SSQ’s Riverstone Phyllite has that effect. Sourced from Argentina, it’s lighter in tone — silver-gray with a faint, almost pearlescent sheen. But don’t mistake subtlety for weakness. Phyllite’s layered structure makes it a beast against thermal shock. I’ve used it in coastal projects where salt spray devours lesser materials, and a decade later? It looks freshly installed.

Why SSQ Stands Out: No Shortcuts, No Surprises

The Bottom Line for Professionals

Let’s be real — budgets matter. But so does legacy. A client once asked me, “Why pay more for slate?” I showed them a photo of a 1920s library roof we’d restored with SSQ tiles. “Because in 2123,” I said, “someone will restore this again, and they’ll thank us for not cheaping out.”

Slate and phyllite aren’t for every project. But when longevity, aesthetics, and ROI align? They’re unbeatable. And with SSQ’s transparency, you’re not just buying stone; you’re buying a century of trust.

Final Thought: The Roof That Outlives Trends

In an industry chasing “next big things,” SSQ’s materials remind us that the best innovations are often timeless. Whether it’s the brooding elegance of Spanish Slate or the modern whisper of Argentina Phyllite, these roofs don’t just shelter buildings — they define them.

Explore SSQ’s collections here — or better yet, request a sample. Hold it. Test it. You’ll feel the difference.

[tobacconist]

ELEMENT REPORD(s)

collated.

from the weather hermit:-

TRACEE HENGE

-

element repord six-two-two. poo, POO! hot levels: -6 cow angle: 9 theres a cloud-clash: temporary two-to-fourteen, six-to-three gull warning: oh! field weather: 6 simper me with churning rain, ksh! ksh! stop.

-

element repord for the 24th of lull. warnings of severe droop in knool parish, waxing at 15 and 2, and waning at lights out. bang! bang! bang! possibility of dog-shake (eugh!), with puddle displacement, and backsplash: 3 WARNING: not good for mrs chinnermans hatchday dance (shame!) a heavy front! settling in for the night, despite bad moon-shapes. (oh) blowing it rough in brownlap for the wet meadow raking contest! a glove-graph of the island shows fingerless fleecey, with occasional handrub. aaaand blowthrough! blanket thickness: 2, with occasional sheets rising in the vest.

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element repord for foursday the 18th of leafmoss. dunderhatch today, if youre planning to take part in the moss jump at the hoof&hedge hut. and hairsieves for girls. wafting. klesh later, so avoid deliberate stamping in the upper parishes. good news for spatter fans! level: 8-9 all nightly. smoothing to a dripple, with sheep-crouch: 4 by sunclimb. down in the lower parishes: cloud-goo wafting. ah, wafting, ah! ah! moistly mostly, then to edgy; with A CHANCE OF MERRIMENT. heeheehee followed by a deep depression in kraw.

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element repord for threesday the 14th of phew. "words in me mouf! make me seem gud wevver!" - but i know its not real. thunder. BLEUARH! OOH! dirty shocker. HAIL! ah! ouch! woof woof bang. WHAT THE PHEFF'S THAT!? oh, its just up. AHAHA! bah! out!

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element repord for the 24th of wilter. over in newhaw, ugh, terrible conditions for the fun fungus walk setting off from bobs mould hut at seven and three this nightly. and bring a stick! moOoO~ a real cow freezer in the south. (hueah!) a quick look at the weather-veins: there are cramps in the calves, ankles enlarged; dirty toes. heh...

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element repord for threesday the 14th of phew. at seven and two today, warnings from the mellt office: OUCH! with occasional OOH! AH! and ROOFSLATES! with the ability to fry an egg! (no poaching) moving on to two to tutu, to two too to two two to two, too? to, uh, tomorrows picture: mainly light crayon, moving to a heavy felt pen in the south, AHHH! scribbles rising. wind at soft levels: softly, softly. possibilty of electric dogstorm, woof woof bang bang woof woof bang bang bang. dank gussets at dawn...

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USE ME! USE ME! (but only for weather purposes) softly, softly my cormorant. kuru-kuru-kuru~ tether my merkintroy with seedless doubt (?) crunchy biscuit for breakfast... baaaaaaaad. reddly-bick houpsto, reddly-bick houpsto, tiddly-bits ahoy; cluttering the basset pipes. ouegh grooming the cloud-horse! (oof) and now trying to ride it. clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop

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element repord for foursday the 10th of bloom. visibility is low today, especially in the upper parishes. you can see two clogs on a chair at about the distance of 8 cats (10 cats if theyre kittens) theres no crunch, in the atmosphere biscuits. its down from a slight droop two, too, to to a dirty curve, reducing to a soggy pulp overnight. if, like me, youre heading down to the sale at lucys lingerie and booty-boutique:- MAKE SURE YOURE WEARING FOG-GOGGLES. and loose elasticated panties. (hohoy!) brisk walks, end with a nose-breaker, mainly on a door; with pain and bruises rising.

[adsagsona]

Nurse - Re and Ross

ohisms:

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 (a  series  of  nonverbal  prompts .   mature  themes  present ,   ‘ my ’  muse  belongs  to  the  one who  posted  the  meme  -  send   “ + REVERSE ”   to  reverse  the  prompts .)

Getting Nampara back into shape was hard work and while Ross wanted Regan to have fun, he wanted to at least start on some renovation works. Before he had left for the US, he had not been a very hard working man but he had changed in the years in between. He had been working on the roofslates when he felt one slide away underneath him.

With a loud cry he slid off the roof completely, dropping a floor and falling onto his back. He must have fallen unconscious as well because the next time he woke, the room was unfamiliar to him.

"Re?" He asked softly as he looked around. "Where am I?"

@goneawandering

[quasithinking]

Gravity’s Rainbow: Part IX

When I wrote my thoughts on the last section, I was about one hundred or so pages into Gravity's Rainbow. Now I'm five hundred pages in! So maybe I'll understand 20% of what I read instead of just 6%! This section begins with a conversation between Kevin Spectro and Ned Pointsman. They're two of the seven owners of the mysterious Book (which won't be that mysterious for long. It's like Pavlov's journal or something). Ned is a complete Pavlovian doing all the things you'd expect of him: catching dogs, torturing dogs, wiring dogs' salivary glands so they leak directly into tubes. Spectro, well, I don't remember exactly what his specialty is. It probably doesn't matter because he'll be dead soon. Pynchon uses the word "abreaction" in this section for (possibly?) the first time. He'll use it again so it's probably important! Mostly he uses it in the context of Pointsman's reality. Pointsman, being a Pavlovian working in a madhouse leased by paranormal researchers, runs into a lot of people who tend to have abreactions (here's the definition so you don't have to bother poor overworked Google: "the expression and consequent release of a previously repressed emotion, achieved through reliving the experience that caused it (typically through hypnosis or suggestion)"). That word might be a really important world in postmodernist literature. Not that I ever remember coming across it! But I'm sure I just ignored it like I ignore all the words I don't know. The definition just makes me think, "How can that word not be constantly used in postmodernist writing since it perfectly describes what we're all going through in a postmodern world?!" Pointsman has apparently just opened up to Spectro about maybe experimenting on Tyrone Slothrop rather than his dogs. Some stimulus is giving Slothrop hard-ons and isn't it the job of Pavlovians to push that stimulus reaction further and further? Surely something can be learned about the human condition by studying what makes Slothrop erect?! Spectro isn't supportive of the idea because he doesn't see how you can justify experimenting on just one man. But Pointsman figures it might be moot anyway because he can't figure out how to get the funding out of Pudding, the general running The White Visitation. Spoiler Alert: he'll get the funding out of him by providing him with weekly visits from Katje (who?! You haven't met her yet!) where she pisses and shits in his mouth. Here's the crux of Pointsman's desire to study Slothrop: through some unknown stimulus, Slothrop can detect where a German rocket that has yet to be fired will land in London. In a way, the rocket itself, traveling faster than the speed of sound, mimics Slothrop's reaction: it blows up before it's ever heard. Response seems somehow to be coming before the stimulus. It's a mystery which turns all Pavlovian experimentation on its head. Spectro works at a ward where people wounded by rockets are treated. Not only physically but mentally as well. They are full of abreactions! Am I using that word correctly?! Who can tell?! Anyway, it's a good segue into quoting this bit that I love from this section (is it really a segue if I interrupt the performative segue with a mention of it being a segue?!): "[S]ooner or later an abreaction, each one, all over this frost and harrowed city. . . ��    . . . as once again the floor is a giant lift propelling you with no warning toward your ceiling—replaying now as the walls are blown outward, bricks and mortar showering down, your sudden paralysis as death comes to wrap and stun I don't know guv I must've blacked out when I come to she was gone it was burning all around me head was full of smoke . . . and the sight of your blood spurting from the flaccid stub of artery, the snowy roofslates fallen across half your bed, the cinema kiss never completed, you were pinned and stared at a crumpled cigarette pack for two hours in pain, you could hear them crying from the rows either side but couldn't move . . . the sudden light filling up the room, the awful silence, brighter than any morning through blankets turned to gauze no shadows at all, only unutterable two-o'clock dawn . . . and . . .      . . . this transmarginal leap, this surrender. Where ideas of the opposite have come together, and lost their oppositeness. (And is it really the rocket explosion that Slothrop's keying on, or is it exactly this depolarizing, this neurotic "confusion" that fills the wards tonight?) How many times before it's washed away, these iterations that pour out, reliving the blast, afraid to let go because the letting go is so final how do I know Doctor that I'll ever come back? and the answer trust us, after the rocket, is so hollow, only mummery—trust you?—and both know it. . . . Spectro feels so like a fraud but carries on . . . only because the pain continues to be real. . . ." There's a strange bit in this section where Pointsman has a fantasy. On my first read-through, I thought we were learning that Pointsman was some kind of pedophile. But I think the creepy descriptions of children and virgins, the people he is lusting after to experiment on, to replace his dogs, is just an analogy of those who have moved past their trauma (as described in the transcribed passage above). They move past the trauma and spring anew as a blank slate, as a virgin, as a child. A mind so clean and clear of the trauma they had previously experienced that Pointsman lusts to project his own view of the world upon them. How can he get a better specimen, unless it's, say, an infant baby boy like Jampf used. Pointsman, of course, does not get his mitts on one of Spectro's patients to experiment on (his fantasy being one of kidnapping as he lays in wait at the places he knows they will be extracted to once released from the hospital, and not a fantasy where Spectro just gives him access to one of his patients. Pointsman, you see, is a cold-hearted monster. That might be a spoiler unless you've already realized it). What Pointsman does get is an octopus named Grigori. It'll become important in one of Pointsman's schemes later. Pointsman shows little concern for the war effort; he's merely trying to get enough money out of the war to fund whatever weird Pavlovian experiments he can get away with. So far the war has provided him with lots of free dogs and lots of money (maybe not enough money but he'll, you know, learn disgusting ways around that soon enough). Since I, for the life of me, can't figure out how Pavlovian studies could help the war anyway, it's nice to learn that Pointsman's goals are entirely self-motivated. And it's important to learn about him and his motivations now before we get to Chapter Two where his experiments on Slothrop begin in earnest.

[genialny]

@JJ_Roofing: Cembrit Zeeland £0.80+VAT and #Cembrit Westerland £1.15+VAT until the end of September in store and online. That is all... 🎤 Buy Zeeland: https://t.co/W7VajO7o4V Buy Westerland: https://t.co/YMsr3TFAWG #Roofing #FibreCementSlate #RoofSlate #RoofingSlate #NaturalSlate https://t.co/HmnpQiS6m6

[dunmerofskyrim]

42

When I ran from the people-eaters in the glassgarden, I had no sense where I was running. Away, to quiet, to solitude. Guts eeling inside me, but I felt eyes from everywhere though I saw no faces, no living souls. Only the shade of a racer or two, hanging above on open motionless wings, too high to see if they saw me. Still it felt like accusal.

I found my way across rooftops of rough-faced clay and into a deep gutter between one building and the next. Overhead the noonday sun in a white and grainy sky, but to either side of me only the shoulder-high guttersides. I was hidden. I threw up in gagged silence. Made myself retch long after my belly was empty of all but bile.

The feeling had me entire, then, body and brain and all. That I needed to be rid of what I’d eaten — what I told myself they’d made me eat. And I told myself I couldn’t have known better. Still I felt I should’ve had some sense: a wrongness, even before it all came clear. But all I’d thought of was my hunger, and the savour of stew and spices. And perhaps the hope that this was other than as cursed a place as it seemed. That maybe there was kindness here, and community. Something like civilisation, or at least settlement, in seed if not in shoot and stem.

I looked at the red mess I’d left in all my retching, though. And some beast and bird part of me still spoke up and said: Waste. It had passed teeth and tongue and throat and known the inside of me. What difference did it really make if I threw it back out after? It had touched me. Was I changed? I was still hungry. Worse even than before. That dark part of me wanted to take it back. It wanted not to have run.

The gutter sloped down a little. All this while I had grit my boots against its sides for purchase. Saltlick stains from rains gone by marked its coarse-tiled channel. Detritus too. Drowned half-rotted racer plumes and scraps of draggled cloth. Twigs unthatched from nests, I supposed, and the small bones of things that had lived and died in these rooftops. But I looked down the way it flowed and saw it fed down into an alley. One of the narrow ratways that made up the understory of Dyer’s End. Black iron staples laddered down the side of the fall.

I followed the gutter’s flow down, and down into the alley, the underbelly, where I searched in the shadows and overhang of Dyer’s End, hungry and hollow as a ghost.

In the days that followed I found glints of luck at the roots and in the branches of that forest of stone, claybrick, crumbling plaster.

Scorching open the rot-warped wood of a cellar hatch, I got inside and set fox-mad among the dusty jars and shelves collapsed long ago from damp. Up in the shop above, a weaver’s, where the cloth had gone to mould and tatters. But below I found a jar of black gram, and another of dried fruitpeel, rich dark halves of dried apricot, a pair of laminate bracers in resin the blue-black glistering colour of wet ink. I gorged myself on the food; strapped on the armour. I had no aketon now, no sword, and any protection was better than none.

Just as well, I found. That day I ducked into a scragged thorny patch of overgrowth to hide as I heard voices. It covered half a square I’d found in the Dyer’s End underbelly, where I knew the old well with its green copper bucket still gave good water. I lay on my belly, knife in one hand, wand in the other. And through the brush I dared a few small glimpses of the mer who came to draw from the well, same as I had.

They were each of them lean and bandy built, but bundled and draped in fabrics. Long shawls, belted at their waists with sashes of faded silk in the blue and green of the ocean, the rabbit’s blood red of black tea. Spurs jutted out from the toes of their low and manytime-mended boots, I reckoned to help them climb. Clever. One wore their hair long and off-black down their back in a tail bunched with ties of fabric every handslength down. The other was Bosmer, with earthenware skin and bugshell-black eyes, and wore a fringed turban wound about his head, a small ragpack on his back. He carried a sickle – the Morrowind rice-farmer’s sort; a shaft and slight-curved blade like a carrionbird’s beak where a hatchet would have its head – while the other had a soot-blacked shortsword, and dishlike buckler hooked to their belt.

They spoke a dialect thinner than the eaters in the glassgarden. Sometimes a turn would come that I couldn’t follow, or else that seemed strange, too far from literal for me to work out. But I caught the greater part of their talking.

Would they have enough, they wondered? Enough for the Lord of the Stilts. Six strides of roughcloth and two of fine. A gull nest; the soupmaking sort. A knife. Fine if you clean off the rust. And the books? Depends what’s in them — might be worth a cup or two, but then again maybe not. It would be enough – so ran their verdict – but not enough for much.

I was left wondering: Much of what?

They turned away and down an alley. The pack on the Bosmer’s back began to squall. It was a baby. What did that omen? That there was hope to be had here? Or only that there was a place more pitiable to be born and be a child than the Grey Quarter of Windhelm?

Next day, I hungered again. I tried to keep from working magic, for fear it would render what meat there was still left on my bones faster than going half-starved. Something will always be eaten. Those were my mother’s words, and perhaps they held with more than just calling fire. So I went unwashed. I suffered the dark after close of day. But when I needed fire – to boil gram, or to light the spitting stinking pine-pitch torch I used to see by while searching buried places – the sparks to kindle the flame I needed came always from inside me. I didn’t know how to make fire with flint and steel or rubbing wood. I had never needed to before. To this day I still haven’t learnt.

Read and understand, I was no great worker of spells in those days. I could call a dim bleak light to see by. Could ask fire from things that would burn; call smoke and heat from air and stone; and shape and strengthen what other flames I found extant. I knew cantrips I’d bought on scraps of paper for coppers from witches in tents in sellsword camps — to clean myself and ask water if it were clean to drink. And, over two weeks, I had muttered and chanted, dry-mouthed, a mantra that perhaps hastened the heal of my wounded side, or at least had dulled the pain from it.

I’ve since learnt healing charms, purgations, and bindings from the libraries of the Indoril. I’ve worked in a siege-choir with a dozen other battlemages to call fire from the sky to sunder walls and topple towers. I’ve learnt wards to weave the air and turn arrows of iron and steel from their flight. I’ve studied the rites of the Temple to name and weigh and rest the dead. And more than that, I’ve turned my ken to harsher arts than would be lawful to admit to or explain here.

But even then, going without magic day after day felt like a dimness at the heart of me. Like I lacked more and more of what before had been bright and keen and clever in me, and was living beastlike and so becoming a beast. And as I killed a rat with a thrown roofslate and was thankful to the point of glee for the spitted meat, it was easy to believe that what I felt and feared was true.

I’d not eaten rat since the Winter of my fourteenth year. A sickness had come over the Quarter. Rockjoint. My father had it and it kept him from work, and kept food from our bowls and fuel from our hearth. My mother, my sister, my father and I — we almost froze and almost starved. And when Soraya was quick enough to catch rat, or cat, from the Rigs or the Gulleybottom of the Quarter, we were grateful and hateful for what had become of us. But we had one another. Who did I have now? The growing savage self I hid from, and the voices and footsteps and strangers’ shapes. I hid from them as well.

[genialny]

@kmgstone_nico: Recently, we exporting many slate roofing to Europe, best quality with cheap prices！！！🤩🤩🤩 if you are interesting it ,please kind contact us！ #roofing #buildingconservation #buildingsite #roof #roofrepairs #slate #blackslate #roofslate #slaterooftiles #slatetiles https://t.co/jyy3An9Xs1

[genialny]

@kmgstone_nico: Recently, we exporting many slate roofing to Europe, best quality with cheap prices！！！🥳🥳🥳 if you are interesting it ,please kind contact us！ #roofing #buildingconservation #buildingsite #roof #roofrepairs #slate #blackslate #roofslate #slaterooftiles #slatetiles https://t.co/Wc5hciijOv