#300 miles of good road

[bellemorte180]

WIP Wednesday ~ 300 Miles of Good Road Sneak Peak

The English Gazette

October 3rd, 1813

My Dear Readers,

What is spontaneity? Is it really the devil sitting on your shoulder and whispering temptation in your ear? Or is it something else? The church and society would have you believe that wants and desires of any kind were horrid and blasphemous. I disagree. Spontaneity is a gift. It is the chance at happiness, reaching and taking it. 

Pushing down those desires and following the trend, always doing what you’re told leads to nothing but misery. It's a lifetime of dancing to the tune that others set but all of that can be changed simply by making a choice. Happiness isn’t found in money or status, its found in those you love and surround yourself with. 

Happiness is found in moments of spontaneity. 

My advice, dear readers, is that when you have a moment to take a leap of faith and into the unexpected, do it. Cast aside the judgements of the Ton and fall into whatever unexpected adventure awaits you. 

Sincerely, 

Lady Davina Claire 

It was late as Klaus hurried through his home, hoping to not wake Rebekah and Enzo. Part of him hoped that they were not at his townhouse at all, having retired to their own home but he was not surprised that they had come home from some event and dined without him. So, as Klaus packed his trunk, throwing all his belongings in half haphazardly, he tried to be as silent as he could. He winced each time the floorboard creaked or silently cursed when he dropped a book to the ground. 

His heart was hammering in his chest, adrenaline pumping through his veins at an hour that should have found him in his bed. He paused for a moment, peering around his bedchamber with realization that this was the last time he would be in it for some time and the next time he slept there, he wouldn’t be alone. The reality of it did not feel real, part of him was still shocked at the turn the night had taken. Noting the way his bedding was perfectly made, his maid had done it for him and wondered if Caroline would allow them to continue doing it. He imagined it would be an argument they would have.

Klaus could not wait. 

He couldn’t help but imagine her sleeping in his bed, her long blonde hair spread out among the pillows as her head rested against his chest. He couldn’t fathom the concept of them sleeping apart. She was so close now, that once he fully had her, he did not know if he could part from her, even for the night.  A thousand daydreams fluttered in his mind as he looked around the room, peering at the curtains to the paintings to the book he had resting by his morning chair. Even now, Caroline was etching herself into every fraction of his home.

Wonder what she will want to change? Or should we live somewhere else? The unknown didn’t bother him like it had merely hours prior. Months had passed without her, a bleak image of a life alone; growing old and wondering what could have been. There wouldn’t have been anyone else. Only Caroline. A world where Elijah had gotten his wish, Caroline banished from his life and society all together, was something worse than hell.

“Mother would have a fit if she saw the state of that trunk, she would have words with you.” Klaus whipped around, seeing Rebekah standing in his doorway, a silk robe wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was down, hanging around her shoulders and in the candlelight, Klaus could see the sleep in her eyes. 

“Mother? I believe you’re confusing her with our governess. She taught us how to pack a trunk.” Klaus countered as Rebekah stepped into his room. She looked down at the trunk, bending down to pull one of his waist coasts that had been tossed in. The worry was evident on her face, making him feel guilty for his plan to slip away without a word to her or Enzo. He silently cursed himself, the struggle to be better was always far more difficult that he had realized. “It will wrinkle but I don’t mind. It's just a coat.” 

“Where are you going?”

“North.”

“You were going to go to Leeds without telling me?” There was a pitch to her tone that made Klaus wince. The weeks she had spent caring for him, ensuring that he did not fall further into the pit of depression had been living in for the majority of the season had been forgotten, as was the pain he knew he put her through. “Why? What happened? Is it Elijah-”

“No. Elijah has nothing to do with this and I said North, not Leeds. I’m not going home.” The confusion on Rebekah’s features was like an open book, it was easy to see every suspicion passing through her mind. “I saw Caroline tonight, after Stefan and Elena’s wedding.” There was a flicker of understanding but the conclusion was just out of reach. “She is coming with me. Tonight.”

“North? How far north?”

“Scotland.” Rebekah’s eyes widened and her lips parted in surprise. Words failed her but she could not look away from him. She reached for his hand and gave a squeeze before pulling him into a tight embrace. It lasted only a moment and when she pulled back, Klaus noted the smile that had overtaken her lips. “We want to leave quickly, without suspicion and get married before Elijah can get wind of anything. By the time he learns of it, it will be to late.”

“Let me wake Enzo. We’ll go with you.” Rebekah turned, moved to rush out of the room but Klaus gripped her wrist gently, spinning her back around to face him. He knew that she meant well, that it would be a privilege to have his sister there, watching him utter the vows he so desperately wanted to since the moment he laid eyes on Caroline. “Nik-”

“No. I need you and Enzo to stay here. If we all leave London at once, people will notice. No one will think twice that I left for Leeds and no one realized that Caroline had returned. I need you to remain, for a week or two at most.” He could see that Rebekah wanted to fight him, to tell him that she was coming with him whether he liked it or not; but he knew that he couldn’t risk it. “Please.”

“You’ll write to me immediately once it is done?”

“Absolutely. The second I take my vows I will pull out a quill and-” Rebekah pinched his side, causing him to laugh. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him, playfully shaking her head. “Yes. I will write to you and let you know what our plans are. I don’t know that yet. Just that we are leaving tonight. Now actually.” 

“Where is Caroline?”

“Downstairs.”

“Downstairs?!”

“We already packed her things and it wouldn’ have been-” Rebekah did not let him finish before turning around and racing out of his bedchamber. His shoulders slumped and he shook his head, feeling even more pressed to finish packing. He gathered the last remaining pieces of clothing he could shove into the trunk and shut it. Gripping the handles, he began dragging the trunk down the hall, no longer caring if he woke anyone as he was sure Enzo would know of his departure soon enough. 

Once he reached the top of the stairs, Lucian who had been waiting patiently at the bottom sprung into action, raced up the stairs to take the trunk the rest of the way. At the doorway, he could see both Rebekah and Caroline deep in conversation, the former arms were crossed while Caroline simply nodded, wearing an enduring smile on her lips.

#klaroline #300 miles of good road #wip wednesday

[reasonsforhope]

"A Ghanaian-English entrepreneur has designed an electric bike from the ground up that’s transforming short-range transportation in her home country, proving that problem-solving in Africa can be done in Africa, by Africans.

[Valerie Labi's] company, Wahu!, assembles each bike by hand, and they can travel up to 80 miles [128 kilometers] on a single charge. This means that a delivery rider for Glovo or Bolt can comfortably cover a whole day’s work without refueling.

Anyone who’s visited Accra, Ghana, in the dry season will remember the incredibly poor air quality. Poor roads mean that cars are stuck in second and third gears, and old cars traveling in second and third gears mean plenty of extra car exhaust.

Poor roads also mean exposed dirt, and exposed dirt means fine-grained dust. Combined with a lack of rain, the smog, dust, and car exhaust make the air in parts of the capital unfit for human health.

Wahu! bikes help alleviate all three of these problems, and despite her English nativity [Note: Super weird and unclear way to phrase it?] and education, the bikes were designed and manufactured in Spintex, Accra.

“By introducing electric bikes into Ghana’s transportation ecosystem, we’re not only providing a greener alternative but also offering speed and convenience,” Labi told The Mirror. “Our bikes are a testament to how service delivery can be seamlessly merged with environmental conservation.”

Valerie Labi is a true inspiration, and besides her transportation company, she got her start in the Ghanaian economy in sanitation. She holds a chieftaincy title as Gundugu Sabtanaa, given to her by the previous Chief of the Dagbon traditional area in the Northern Region of Ghana. She has three children, holds a double major in Economics and Sustainability from two separate universities, and has visited 59 countries.

Getting her start in Northern Ghana, she founded the social enterprise Sama Sama, a mobile toilet and sanitation company that now boasts 300,000 clients.

During her travels around the small, densely populated country, she also recognized that transportation was not only a problem, but offered real potential for eco-friendly solutions.

“It took us two years to effectively design a bike that we thought was fit for the African road, then we connected with Jumia and other delivery companies to get started,” she told The Mirror. “Currently, I have over 100 bikes in circulation and we give the bikes on a ‘work and pay’ basis directly to delivery riders.”

According to Labi, each driver pays about 300 Ghana cedis, or about $24.00, per week to use the bike, which can travel 24 miles per hour, and hold over 300 pounds of weight. The fat tires are supported by double-crown front/double-spring rear suspension.

The bikes are also guaranteed by the company’s proprietary anti-theft system of trackers. Only a single bike has been stolen, and it was quickly located and returned to the owner."

-via Good News Network, January 24, 2024

#ghana #africa #black excellence #black entrepreneurship #black girl magic #transportation #ebikes #bikes #delivery drivers #sustainability #air pollution #environment #good news #hope #btw want to say for the record that it is generally considered journalism best practice #to not use a person's name in the headline of an article unless they're already a public figure #partly for privacy reasons and partly because that way the title gives readers more info that they can usefully interpret #so not including her name in the article title isn't inherently a huge snub #though the fact that GNN forgot to include her name until like the 6th paragraph kind of is! #I looked into using the original article this is based on because of that but imho it wasn't as good #it was in interview format and the intro at the beginning had way less info on accra and the bikes/her company/her work

[will80sbyers]

Do you still have the list of movies that inspired ST4? I had a picture of it but I lost it and I haven't been able to find it since. Please and thank you in advance.

Yep!

Long post warning lol

300

2001: A Space Odyssey

47 Meters Down: Uncaged

12 Monkeys

28 Days Later

13th Warrior

Ace Ventura: Pet Detective

Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls

Altered States

Amelie

American Sniper

Analyze This

Annihilation

Aristocats

Armageddon

Assassins Creed

Avengers: Age of Ultron

Arrival

Almost Famous

Batman Begins

Batman V. Superman

Basket Case

Battle at Big Rock

Beauty and the Beast

Beetlejuice

Behind Enemy Lines

Beverly Hills Cop

Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey

Billy Madison

Black Cauldron

Black Swan

Boondock Saints

Borat

Bram Stoker’s Dracula

Burn After Reading

Broken Arrow

Blade Runner

C.H.U.D

Con Air

Cast Away

Congo

Constantine

Children of Men

Cabin in the Woods

Crank

Casablanca

Carrie

Crimson Tide

Clueless

Dukes of Hazzard

Don’t Breathe

Death to Smoochy

Doom

Dark Knight

Dogma

Deep Blue Sea

Dreamcatcher

Drop Dead Fred

Die Hard

Die Hard 2

Die Hard 3

Don’s Plum

Dances with Wolves

Dumb and Dumber

Edward Scissorhands

Enter the Void

Ex Machina

Event Horizon

Emma (2020)

Forrest Gump

Fargo

Fisher King

Full Metal Jacket

Ferris Bueller

Fallen

Fugitive

Ghost

Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Ghostbusters

Good Fellas

Girl Interrupted

Godzilla: King of the Monsters

Get Out

Good Will Hunting

Hackers

High Fidelity

Hellraiser 1

Hellraiser 2

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Hidden

High School Musical

Hurt Locker

Heat

Hunger Games

Highlander

Hell or High Water

Home Alone

I am Legend

It’s a Wonderful Life

In Cold Blood

Inception

I am a Fugitive from Chain Gang

Inside Out

Island of Doctor Moreau

It Follows

Interview with a Vampire

Inner Space

Into the Spiderverse

Independence Day

Jupiter Ascending

John Carter of Mars

Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom

James Bond (All Movies)

Julie

Karate Kid

Knives Out

Kingsmen

Little Miss Sunshine

Labyrinth

Long Kiss Goodnight

Lost Boys

Leon: The Professional

Let the Right One In

Little Women (1994)

Mad Max: Fury Road

Magnolia

Men in Black

Mimic

Matrix

Misery

My Cousin Vinny

Mystic River

Minority Report

Mr. and Mrs. Smith

Neverending Story

Never Been Kissed

No Country for Old Men

Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors

North by Northwest

Open Water

Orange County

Oceans 8

Oceans 11

Oceans 12

One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Ordinary People

Paddington 2

Platoon

Pulp Fiction

Papillon

Pan’s Labyrinth

Pineapple Express

Peter Pan

Princess Bride

Paradise Lost

Primal Fear

Prisoners

Peter Jackson’s King Kong

Reservoir Dogs

Ravenous

Rushmore

Road Warrior

Rogue One

Reality Bites

Raider of the Lost Ark

Red Dragon

Robocop

Shooter

Sky High

Swingers

Sword in the Stone

Step Up 2

Spy Kids

Saving Private Ryan

Shape of Water

Swept Away

Star Wars: Return of the Jedi

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back

Superbad

Society

Swordfish

Stoker

Splice

Silence of the Lambs

Source Code

Sicario

Se7en

Starship Troopers

Scrooged

Splash

Silver Bullet

Speed

The Visit

The Italian Job

The Mask of Zorro

True Lies

The Blair Witch Project

The Lord of the Rings Trilogy

Tangled

The Craft

The Guest

The Devil’s Advocate

The Graduate

The Prestige

The Rock

Titanic

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

The Fly

Tombstone

The Mummy

The Guardian

The Goofy Movie

The Peanut Butter Solution

Toy Story 4

The Ring

The Crazies

The Mist

The Revenant

The Perfect Storm

The Shining

Terminator 2

The Truman Show

Temple of Doom

The Cell

To Kill a Mockingbird

Timeline

The Good Son

The Orphan

The Birdcage

The Green Mile

The Raid

The Cider House Rules

The Lighthouse

The Book of Henry

The A-Team

The Crow

The Terminal

Thor Ragnarok

Twister

The Descent

The Birds

Total Recall

The Natural

The Fifth Element

True Romance

Terminator: Dark Fate

The Hobbit Trilogy

Unforgiven

Unbreakable

Unleashed

Very Bad Things

Wayne’s World

What Women Want

War Dogs

Wedding Crashers

What’s Eating Gilbert Grape

Welcome to the Dollhouse

Welcome to Marwen

Wet Hot American Summer

What Lies Beneath

What Dreams May Come

War Games

Who Framed Roger Rabbit

Weird Science

Willow

Wizard of Oz

Wanted

Young Sherlock Holmes

You’ve Got Mail

Zodiac

Zoolander

#stranger things #ask #st4 #st4 movies

[afanofmanyships]

Weird idea, but what if Billy, klarion, and Danny all decided to screw with the batfam by telling them a big lie about how Gotham came to be centuries ago only for it to be true in the end.

Batman eavesdropping around the corner: Phantom, Marvel, and Klarion 'recounting the old day’s':

P: “Ya know, Batman reminds of [insert name] when SHE was still Gotham”

C M: “I know right, she had people come all across the land to challenge her and kept the roads safer for travelers.”

K: “Then it’s a good thing she is gone.”

C M: “Says the one that dug a giant that went MILES into the ground and proceeded build a two story house on top of it.”

K: “Oh screw off!🖕”

P to M: “You’re just mad that she stated in her will to have ALL her possessions burned so that no one would be able to use them.”

C M: “If we’re talking about possessions, then who’s the one that made a tomestone that said 'Here Lies Gotham, You May Have Know her as [insert full name], a True Friend and Ally' in front of the house only for it to start trending everywhere.”

P: “In my defense that was how I honored many of my fellow ghosts. How would I supposed to know a passing traveler seeking refuge would come across the house, it was in the middle of nowhere!!”

K: “For decades, people were wondering who wrote those ‘strange symbols’ and if the land was cursed or not.”

Only for Danny retort to tease Klarion on how Gotham mothered him and taught him how to gain control of his powers that lead him to tleek, with Captain Marvel chiming in. Only to stop when they made sure that Batman was gone.

All three burst out laughing

P: “Y-you think he bought it?”

C M: “Probably with how he’s been trying to figure out my identity for years.”

K: “As entertaining as all of this is, who should we go after next?”

Danny (with hands calatps in front his face to hide his smile): “I know just the person.”

A few weeks later in JL Headquarters:

Nightwing, Phantom, and Captain Marvel walking side by side in the hallway, Nightwing does a stunt and Phantoms eyes gloss over with remembrance and a bit of sorrow. Nightwing then panics and asks if he’s okay only for him to say: “It’s okay child, you just remind me of my first student.”

Danny floats a bit ahead of them, trying and succeeding to not break character.

Marvel explains: “A decade after the passing of a dear friend, a traveler came across her tome. Enchanted by the symbols, the traveler spread the word of the symbols and became rich. With these riches came greed and with this greed came corruption that birthed Phantoms first student.”

Phantom continues: “Four decades after the passing of our dear friend, I decided to pay a visit to our friend and saw the most strangest thing. A four year old living inside the house Klarion built.”

Dick: “May I asked why that is strange?”

M: “After Phantom made the tomestone, me and Klarion created a spell that only allows people who have the same goal as [insert name] to walk past the tomestone. And if they do not, they would feel this overwhelming urge to not pass the tome when reaches a 100 feet of it.”

Dick: “Even if people couldn’t approach the tomestone or house, wouldn’t there be some kind of security?”

M: “The traveler had people build a small mansion 300 feet in front of the tome making people pay to just see the stone and cut down those who didn’t pay, foolishly believing that that would be enough to stop people from coming close to the stone and so he never bothered to check on it.”

P: “I decided to watch over the child for the day and found out something interesting. This child liked to soar through the trees at night, all though clumsy and falling off the trees she would always get back up the trees soar through the tree again with a smile on her face.”

M: “He then, almost, scared the ghost out of her by popping into existence and offering to help her perfect her soaring.”

Dick laughs

Danny starts to smile: “It was a fun time for both of us, soaring through the trees, unintentionally stopping a few robberies. The village folk even nicknamed her the Soaring Nightingale, she was so embarrassed and happy with that name that she never got the chance to change it. We were happy, until she turned 10.”

Phantom stops walking

Nightwing and Marvel also stop walking. Dick nervously asks: “What happened after Nightingale turned 10?”

M: “Children aging from 8-11 years of age started to disappear from the streets and homes. Only to reappear in random locations with no reelection of what happened and a new found fear of adults of who they know and don’t know.” Sighs “Phantom never seen anything like it before and called on me to help out.”

P: “Nightingale sacked him right into his sunshine smile face, tried to warn him not to pop out of nowhere.”

M: “Lier! You didn’t try to do anything.”

Dick trying to get them back on topic: “Did you find out who was behind the disappearances?”

P: “As it turns out, it was the traveler that was behind the kidnappings. He heard stories about 'The Soaring Nightingale' and wanted to know if she would be able to privately show him some of her 'skills'.”

Dick eyes widen: “You don’t mean…”

M(nods): “I have never seen Phantom wanting to murder a human being that badly in my life, before that day. It took both of us to convince Phantom to wait a month after we gather ALL the evidence to put the traveler and his associates down forever, for him to do anything he wanted to the traveler and those involved.”

P: “A month and three years later, we gathered all evidence and spread it as quickly and efficiently as we can.”

M: “It worked well with the combination of the traveler being a tyrant and the seeds of doubt that Phantom, pain stickily, sowed in the neighboring villages. Before we know it, their execution day was upon us.”

P: “That day was one to remember.”

M: “You possessed a skeleton, donned on a creepy black cloak, grabbed the biggest sith you can find, came to the execution sight, and pointed at them saying ‘I have come to collect your debt.’ Then you kidnapped them to do gods knows what, only to come back three hours later with them so that we could finish the execution.”

P: “Well I couldn’t let them off that easy after knowing what wanted from my student now can I.”

Dick, being so invested in the story, asks: “What happened after that day? Did she meet Klarion?”

P: “After that day, we slowly fell back into our old routine from before. Not without a few rough patches and changes along the way, of course.”

Marvel pretends to whisper to Dick: “When she turned 18, Nightingale met the love of her life and Phantom summoned an actual shovel to threaten her lover with.”

P: “Thank you, Cap! When she was 19, 'Gale married her lover. A year later she met Klarion and accidentally pied him in the face because she thought that it was her husband walking through.”

Dick winces: “Was she okay? Klarion didn’t do anything did he?”

M: “Contry to what you’re thinking. Klarion just stood there saying ‘You’re lucky that you have a little monster on the way or else you would have me to deal with.’”

Nightwing starts asking about the baby and if they were adorable only to be reminded by Barbra, over the comms, to get back on topic and gather more information: “Did anything else happen afterwards?”

P: “Over the years her family grew. When her children were old enough, Nightingale told them stories about her younger days and taught them how to soar through the trees like she did when she was a child.” A flash of happiness shows through his eyes. “By the time peace was once again restored, Nightingale was on her deathbed telling her children to go see what the world has to offer now that peace was upon them.”

M: “Me and Phantom decided to move Gothams gave deeper underground then buried Nightingale right next to her, made this small cave right above them, and wisely moved the tomestones underground so that that problem won’t happen again.”

Dick: “Did anything else happen afterwards?”

P: “Her children decided that they didn’t want any of their mothers possessions, except for the little gifts she gave them before her passing, saying that she’ll live on whenever they are flying,” smirks at Nightwing when he picked up that last word, “and requested us to burn down the mansion (the 300 feet one) as they didn’t want anything to do with it.”

M: “After they left, Klarion renovated the house and made it more spacious.”

All three decided to chat and walk down the hall to a meeting they no doubt missed or late to.

(M: “After him, how about we do two birds one stone or, in this case, three birds.”

P and K both agree

Billy starts smirking: “Alright! Here’s the plan-”)

A month later in Gotham (Billy wanted to wait at least 3 weeks but was out voted by two sadists who wanted to see the bats sworn in their seats):

Klarion is reported to be causing trouble around Gotham so the bats have to deal with him. Only to see Klarion and Marvel having tea and 'reminiscing' about the 'good old days'.

M: “The dynamic between Red Hood and Red Robin when they first met honestly reminded me of when the Scarlet Sisters reunited.”

K: “The amount of chaos those two created just by being near one another was incredible.”

M: “Only for you and Phantom who seemed to thrive on the same level as you. I had to do damage control.”

Klarion rolls his eyes: “That was exactly the reason why we went behind your back and created a makeshift portal.”

Marvel starts to smirk: “And because of that you gained a little SHADOW.”

Klarion slams his cup down: “IF I had known something like THAT would happen I-”

M: “wouldn’t have done anything because you cared about the kid.”

K:🖕

Clockwork behind the scenes decided: “Ah yes, let’s make this a reality.” And sends them back in time to make the stories believable.

#dc x dp #Danny phantom #young justice klarion #dc captain marvel

[sirmidezz]

Rambo head canons

Except it's just me projecting

-had a hippie faze himself up until he got drafted. After that his entire perspective changed on them.

-calling him a sad shelter dog is a understatement. He is a soggy wet rez dog that trautman found on the side of the road and gave a hot dog to.

-John's sad puppy dog eyes are not only used for looking at things, but also to secretly hypnotize any waiter lady to get free appetizers.

-he can sing he just doesn't want to. (Let this man sing a Johnny Cash song and be prepared to fall in love.)

-knows so many insults but doesn't use them mostly because he is genuinely a nice guy and doesn't like hurting peoples feelings unless the other person deserves a good word with him.

-he can be mean and not think twice about it, but he chooses not to.

-want to watch a movie with him? He will fall asleep as soon as he sits down on the couch.

-hides candy in his sock drawer to feel in control of himself. (Same)

-he buys candy he doesn't even like just to hide it. (Same)

-don't ever ask John for money. He doesn't have anything to provide and will only give you his thoughts n prayers.

-"ur transgener?" John will understand, he doesn't judge anyone. He grew up around 2 spirited people.

-John will never understand a "deez nuts" joke so please dont make them around him he will only look at you confused and stare at you after you make the joke.

-he has a pair of dad glasses he uses to read any letter sent to him. You want to show him a meme? Watch him pull out a pair of glasses and not laugh at the meme.

-he doesn't want a pet but if you get him a pet he will treat the pet like his own baby.

-when he was younger he learned how to hoop dance. He doesn't know how to dance now which is honestly very disappointing. (Same but with another dance😭)

-unironically goes "hehehe" when he gets what he wants like extra jam on his toast.

-has that generational trauma on BOTH sides. (Got hit with a double whammy)

-looks Lana Del Rey, but is actually mitski.

-almost never cries, but when he does someone probably died. Like nothing else but loss (and his talking about his past) can make this man break down nowadays.

-if he were a line in a song it would be, "cause now I'm scared that everyone I love will leave me," (family line by Conan grey)

-if someone sat john down looked him in the eyes, held his hands and said, "your soul needs peace, you need to releive your anger not with violence, but with a gentle breath, allow yourself to feel for one last time." Then he will cry. Like full on ugly cry into your shoulder and let out pained groans and whimpers typa shit.

-he has big parental issues only he distances himself away from everybody he ever gets attached to in fear of being hurt again.

-he craves physical touch, only he gets so uncomfortable when someone hugs him.

-this man can deadlift 300. maybe even more, he can go walking miles without stopping once. hell he is a whole unit, but he will not go to the kitchen to get you a cup of water no matter how much you ask him.

-hates mushrooms.

-had a pet crawdad he accidentally lost. (It's still alive somehow, he just doesn't know it.)

-thugs it out on a daily. 💯💯 (I will pay for his therapy)

#john rambo #rambo #sly stallone #sylvester stallone #digital art #im so tired #i wanna kms #headcanon #bro i love him #native american #goofy ahh

[mourntheantagonist]

so they moved to california. It was rushed, sort of on a whim. it had sort of been this thing that they’d just talk about, running away to somewhere far, getting out of this town that never had anything good to offer them aside from each other. steve knew billy was serious about leaving, but he didn’t know he was serious about wanting steve to come with him. that was until billy had come to him, serious as a heart attack, grabbing him by the shoulders and telling him they should just run away. they should do it now. they graduate in a couple of days and they can run off and never turn back.

and steve, maybe a little stupidly, maybe a little bit blinded by his love for billy, just said yes.

in one day steve had packed up his closet and scrounged up every last bit of cash he had. he also made an attempt to shake his parents down for a little bit more money. successfully got an extra $300 out of them.

in two days steve had told his friends. he told dustin and nancy and asked them to spread the word for him. he told billy he had to tell max, he told him how despite what she may say out loud “that girl loves you, and she’ll miss you.” however, hypocritically, steve had no intention of telling his parents until he was an easy 500 miles outside of indiana.

in three days, just the day before they’d pack up and haul ass, steve sold the beemer.

billy had offered to sell the camaro, saying it was worth more and that steve’s car was more practical. but steve saw the way he was clenching his teeth, and the way his eyes had turned sad, and he couldn’t let him give up the camaro. steve knew how much that car meant to him. he knew it was much more than a car to him. he knew it was special.

and for that reason, steve didn’t gripe much with giving up the beemer.

with the car sold, and all of their savings combined, they had enough money for an easy six months of bills, plenty of time to get themselves on their feet, and they didn’t much mind having to share a vehicle to do that.

so much so that, by the time they’d really found their footing, the two of them finding jobs that paid the bills and moreso, making enough money between the two of them that they could finally afford a second car, they didn’t jump on the opportunity.

steve didn’t have to commute to work, not with it being just four blocks away from their apartment, and steve would be lying if he were to say he didn’t love to drive the camaro.

steve never considered the possibility of something happening to the car. he never considered what would happen if it happened to be his fault.

it was a sunday afternoon. the church crowd had finally made their way back home and the roads were mostly clear, and the grocery aisle lines were short. they had run out of laundry detergent just the other day and they liked doing laundry together on sundays. it was the day they both had off, and they loved the quality time of just sitting in front of the tv, folding warm stacks of laundry, talking about their weeks.

billy was cleaning out the cupboards, annoyed by the way he found a two year expired can of tomato soup when making himself lunch the day before. he was on his hands and knees, checking the date on every single item, so steve had been the one to offer to make the trip to the grocery store for both the laundry detergent they needed, and some not-expired tomato soup.

it was a quick trip. the store was just under a mile down the road and he knew the route by heart, so well that he could do it with his eyes closed.

unfortunately, someone else had seemed to have the same idea as he had, clearly driving with their eyes closed with the way they flew through a red light just as steve was driving through his green.

steve swerved. he missed the car.

and then he hit the telephone pole. hard.

his whole body jerked forward and the air bags deployed and within seconds he was sporting a severely broken nose and a splitting headache and his whole body started to hurt.

but as he looked up out the shattered windshield, seeing the thick wooden pole that had split the camaro’s front end in two, seeing the smoke waft up from the hood and everything else…all he could think about was the fact that he destroyed the camaro. he destroyed something that was special to billy. and that hurt far more than any broken nose ever had.

the crash had happened only fifty feet from their apartment. which meant billy heard it. he had to have. he could probably see the state of the accident from the view of their window.

steve didn’t even try getting out of the car. he just sat there and cried, half hoping the car wouldn’t explode, half hoping it would.

it felt like a long time, but according the the clock that still somehow worked, it had only been a matter of two minutes before he heard sirens outside of the car, and flashes of red and blue refracted off the broken glass.

It took the same amount of time for them to show up as it took billy, who had run directly from the apartment to the driver’s door, pulling it open. he was out of breath, but he still managed to get the words out.

“steve!” he was crying, he could hear it in his voice. he wouldn’t look at him. he couldn’t face him. “hey, baby! hey! fuck are you okay?! please look at me baby!”

reluctantly, steve did, and he was terrified to see the sad look on his face. he was bracing himself for it. bracing himself for the sight of a completely shattered billy, looking just like the state of the camaro’s windshield.

steve sniffled, feeling the mixture of blood and snot drip down the back of his throat. “I’m sorry.” steve said, sobbing through the words.

“what?” billy asked, just shaking his head as he reached his arms inside the car and undid his seatbelt.

“I’m sorry,” steve said again, “I destroyed your car.”

billy’s eyes went wide and his hand retreated from where it was just on steve’s lap, reaching up to his face to wipe the tears from his eyes. “hey hey hey hey no.” he said, his hands coming back inside to car to gently cup steve’s bloody face. “It’s just a car. It’s just a car it doesn’t matter.”

steve could barely see billy past his own tears and the blurred vision as a result of the concussion, but he still could tell that billy was serious. “but it’s the camaro billy. It’s special to you.”

“you’re special to me!” billy cried, “I can replace a car! I can’t replace you!”

steve hadn’t had the chance to react to that, because just a second later the paramedics were pushing billy out of the way and helping him out of the car.

they wound up having a long conversation at the hospital. steve finally realizing he was being silly for once thinking that billy would be mad about the car. but steve coming to that realization didn’t stop billy from curling into that small little hospital bed with him and telling steve just how special he really was.

#steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #stranger things #mandi writes tresh #ficlet

[mountrainiernps]

Autumn is not normally the time to see waterfalls at their biggest and best. In the Pacific Northwest, we don’t tend to get much rain through the summer, so waterfalls get smaller and smaller as the snowmelt finishes and rivers rely more and more on glacier melt. This summer was quite dry with barely a few traces of rain. So far, autumn has not yet brought its rains and storms to replenish the lands.

So why think about waterfalls and hikes? Because this is a great time to scope out possible trails for next spring and early summer. Those are the time of year when waterfalls are at their best. Planning now can put you on the trail next May or June for some good waterfall hiking.

One of the park’s eastside gems is Silver Falls. It can be hiked as a loop starting from the Ohanapecosh Visitor Center (now closed for the winter). Roundtrip the loop is about 3 miles with 300 feet of elevation gain. Starting from behind the visitor center in the day use parking, you can follow the trail up the Ohanapecosh River on the east side, hiking through the gorgeous, big trees that have found shelter in this valley. You’ll cross Laughing Water Creek a short distance before reaching the view point for Silver Falls. After crossing the wooden bridge over the Ohanapecosh River (with a great view), the loop continues south down the west side of the river. Returning through the campground, you cross the road bridge back to the day use parking.

Did you hike Silver Falls trail this spring or summer? When is your favorite time to visit Ohanapecosh? ~ams

Facilities at Ohanapecosh are already closed for winter. https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/hours.htm Please check before going to see what is available. The park and Washington DOT close State Route 123 during the winter at the park’s southern boundary. Check road conditions in the park https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/road-status.htm and with WSDOT https://wsdot.com/travel/real-time/mountainpasses before you leave home. For more information on the Silver Falls Trail https://www.nps.gov/mora/planyourvisit/silver-falls.htm.

NPS/C. Roundtree Photo. Hiker on dirt trail through forest near wooden bridge over Laughingwater Creek on Silver Falls trail. June, 2018. NPS/Spillane Photo. View of Silver Falls during snowmelt from Silver Falls trail. May, 2019. NPS/E. Brouwer Photo. Ohanapecosh River running between rock-lined sides. June, 2014.

#encuentra tu parque #find your park #Ohanapecosh #waterfalls #trail #hiking #forest #national parks #mount rainier national park

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I always enjoy posts about women explorers and travel. Can you recommend travel books written by women or about iconic women explorers? I think you would be better qualified than most armchair enthusiasts since you are well traveled, conversant in several languages, and a rugged mountaineer and hiker. 

I don’t know about being qualified more than any anyone else. Traveling and exploring isn’t quite the same as hiking or mountaineering of course but I understand your sentiment.

I can say reading about pioneering women explorers and travelers has only inspired me to get off my arse and just go and do it. Perhaps it’s being raised overseas in several cultures and exploring those fabulous countries and regions that has always left with a travel itch to scratch.

Perhaps it’s the Norwegian or the military DNA on my Anglo-Scots side that I have a strong passion for hiking and mountaineering. These days if I do any serious hiking or mountaineering, I tag along with ex-army friends who are incredibly fit and accomplished climbers and hikers.

There are many books and each is a worthy recommendation but here are a few. It’s not an exhaustive list but a good start. I only hope they give you a sense of wanderlust as they continue to inspire me.

Eight Feet in the Andes: Travels with a Mule from Ecuador to Cuzco by Dervla Murphy (1983)

Dervla Murphy’s adventures are mind boggling, and she makes it sound so easy. Even in the mid ‘60s cycling alone through Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan was a bit dodge apart from the fact that there are mountains i.e. uphill cycling. This book is not her most famous one but it’s still worth a read. I put here because it brings memory of my time traveling with my father and elder brother and sister as a 10 year old in the Andes. In 1979 Dervla Murphy and her 9 year old daughter walked with their mule Juana from Cajamarca (northern Peru) to Cusco (far to the south) following as much as possible the Camino Real (the Inca Royal road) along the spine of the second highest mountain range in the world. It took them just over 3 months. Eight Feet in the Andes is a day by day journal of that incredible journey with all its splendour, risks and adventures. The Murphys travel light, most often camping in their small tent and not always sure where their next meal will come from. They endure blizzards, precipitous paths, bogs, heat, theft and find help when most needed and generous (if often taciturn) hospitality.

Reading the book years after I had done a similar trek I realised just how more luxurious our travel was in comparison to Dervla and her daughter who were more rustic in their trekking and hiking. That’s not say we weren’t hiking rough and hard (both my father and eldest brother did their stint in the army as officers) and so I had to keep up. But still, looking back I remember I had a comfortable bed to sleep in and I was well fed. I did have similar experiences of meeting amazing Andean people who are so different from urban Peruvians. The other thing that sticks out in this book is how prescient it is to realise that trekking 15-25 miles per day with the world's most uncomplaining 9-year old in tow would be considered child abuse today. I remember crying, getting blisters, and then toughing it out because I didn’t want to let the side down. So chapeau to Rachel Murphy for being so stoic and brave. As rough as the terrain was for them, there is undoubted warmth and humour in this book.

The Virago Book of Women Travellers, edited Mary Morris & Larry O’Connor (1994)

The Virago Book of Women Travellers captures 300 years of wanderlust. Some of the women are observers of the world in which they wander and others are more active. Often they are storytellers, weaving tales about the people they encounter. Whether it is curiosity about the world or escape from personal tragedy, these women approached their journeys with wit, intelligence, compassion and empathy for the lives of others. Because it’s a collection of women and their wanderlust, it’s not the kind of book you can read cover to cover or even in one sitting. It’s a good book to dip into as the mood pleases. As such it serves as a good introduction to how varied the experiences of women travellers and writers has been. I didn’t feel guilty about skipping certain parts because I found the writing turgid and boring, but that is the nature of an anthology, some you like and others less so.

In the introduction to this anthology, Mary Morris writes that “women’s literature from Austen to Woolf is by and large a literature about waiting, usually for love”. The writers selected here are the ones who didn’t wait: they set out, by boat or bicycle, camel or dugout canoe, and sought their own adventures. The collection covers some 300 years of travel writing, beginning with the extraordinary Lady Mary Wortley Montagu (1689–1762), who had just - scandalously - made the journey from London to Constantinople alone, and finishing with the American writer Leila Philip, an apprentice potter in early 1980s Japan, learning the art of harvesting rice by hand with a sickle. The range, in terms of location, style and mood, is vast.

So we meet independent travellers and those on the road with family, women on long epic journeys or more focussed trips, famous names and obscure, mountaineers and motorcyclists, aviators and anthropologists, those treading well-kept routes and brave pioneers, young women and old, but all intelligent and good writers. Many of the women were traveling alone during times when traveling wasn't very easy and certainly wasn't something many women did on their own, and they were traveling to places all over the world. The majority of the essays are about Africa, Asia and the Middle East. Many of the women travellers are familiar such as Dervla Murphy, Rebecca West, Beryl Markham - and the other usual suspects.

There were a few about traveling to colonial America and one about traveling to the wilds of Ohio written by Anthony Trollope's mother that was hilarious. An extract from Frances Trollope’s Domestic Manners of the Americans (1832) demonstrates a satirical eye her son clearly inherited: “She lived but a short distance from us, and I am sure intended to be a very good neighbour; but her violent intimacy made me dread to pass her door”. Some other pieces are les scathing and more lyrical: M. F. K. Fisher brings Dijon to life through the battling scents of the city’s famous mustard, gingerbread and the fragrant altar smoke billowing from a church door; Vita Sackville-West conjures the fading light of a picturesque Persian garden at dusk.

Many of the women faced sexism along the way and had to fight to go certain places and some even face sexual harassment on their travels. But mercifully these experiences are few and far between. There were a few many wonderful writers I stumbled across of whom I’d never heard – such as Flora Tristan, Frances Trollope, Isabelle Eberhardt (whose packed and tragically short life is worth reading up on), and many others. Maud Parrish writes exhilaratingly about adventures in Yukon and Alaska, the intriguing Mrs F D Bridges (about whom we know little as she travelled in the shadow of her husband) describes nineteenth century Mormonism compellingly. Emily Hahn, I did know about as her writings I was familiar with when I was growing up in Shanghai. Hahn writes vividly about her opium addiction in China (one of a few women to focus heavily on addictions).

However uneven anthologies can be, they still can serve as a good starting place to discover further a favourite writer and traveler. And if it can do that then an anthology will have served its purpose.

Travels With Myself and Another: Five Journeys from Hell by Martha Gellhorn (1978)

Although Martha Gellhorn was principally a war correspondent but seems to have travelled widely for most of her life. Her book was originally subtitled Five Journeys from Hell, which provides a not very subtle clue about her travel experiences. It describes her journeys in China with the unnamed other (1941), the Caribbean (1942), Africa (1962), Russia (1972) and Israel (1971). She says that this is not a proper travel book – ‘I rarely read travel books myself. I prefer to travel’. And it’s clear that she spent most of her life travelling, with an impressive list of places she has visited. It’s a difficult book to categorise, and that’s perhaps also true of its author. She clearly had a strong spirit of adventure, and as someone who covered every major conflict from the Spanish Civil War to the American invasion of Panama in 1989, she cannot have lacked courage or determination.

The writing is excellent, with lots of very funny, self-deprecating, black humour, and witty observations about the pitfalls of travelling generally. Many things infuriated Gellhorn - injustice, cruelty, stupidity - but on a personal level, nothing made her more incensed than having her name linked with that of the man she was married for less than five of her almost ninety years, Ernest Hemingway. Although Travels with Myself and Another is subtitled as a memoir, the most famous of her three husbands appears in just one essay under the initials of U.C. (Unwilling Companion), probably only because he provides extensive comic relief for a writer “who cherishes...disasters” and is immensely fond of black humour.

The only trouble is that her accounts of her journeys focus largely on her feelings of boredom, fear, exhaustion, hunger, anger and so on, with rare uplifting moments between. She also seems to have little fellow feeling for the people she comes across, and there are flashes of racism and intolerance. As her companion in China says, ‘Martha loves humanity but can’t stand people’. Still Gellhorn relishes mishaps in her journeys because that is where the story lies--and since her journeys are invariably far off the map, mishaps are always there, waiting for her acerbic descriptions.

Of all the travels that she has chosen to relive, her journey to China in 1941 is easily the most hair-raising and hysterically funny. As someone who grew up in Shanghai as a girl, China in 1941 is still firmly etched into Chinese history and culture. The legacy of the Japanese war - the sheer brutality of it which many Europeans have blithely ignored - remains a ghost in the collective memory of the Chinese and is a regular staple as a setting for its many television soap operas.

Anyway, in this book, Gellhorn is determined to witness the Sino-Japanese War first-hand shortly after Japan joins Italy and Germany in the Axis. “All I had to do is get to China,” she says blithely, and as part of her preparations for this odyssey she persuades U.C. (Ernest Hemingway) to go with her. Embarking from San Francisco to Honolulu by ship, a voyage that “lasted roughly forever,” Gellhorn and U.C. then fly from Hawaii to Hong Kong, “all day in roomy comfort”, landing at an island where passengers spend the night before arriving in Hong Kong. “Air travel,” she says, “was not always disgusting.”

As a war correspondent for Collier’s, Gellhorn insists upon getting as close to the war as she can. Traveling by plane, truck, boat, and “awful little horses”, she and U.C. find the troops of the Chinese Army and their hard-drinking generals (who almost vanquish U.C. in their alcoholic prowess), Chiang Kai-shek and Madame Chiang  (“who,” Gellhorn fumes, “ was charming to U.C. and civil to me”), and, through a cloak-and-dagger encounter in a Chungking market, Chou Enlai (“this entrancing man,” Gellhorn confesses, “the one really good man we’d met in China”). Although she and U.C. barely escape cholera, hypothermia, food poisoning, and the hazards of drinking snake wine, by the end of their journey Gellhorn contracts a vicious case of “China Rot,” an ailment resembling athlete’s foot that’s highly contagious. U.C.’s commiseration is heartwarming: “Honest to God, M., you brought this on yourself. I told you not to wash.”

On their last night, hot and steaming in the humidity of Rangoon, Gellhorn is overwhelmed with gratitude that U.C. has stuck with her through “a season in hell.” She reaches out, touches his shoulder, and murmurs her thanks, “while he wrenched away, shouting “Take your filthy dirty hands off me!” “We looked at each other, laughing in our separate pools of sweat.” “The real life of the East is agony to watch and horror to share,” Gellhorn wrote somewhat melodramatically to her mother. Years later, she concludes “I was right about one thing; in the Orient a world ended.” From Gellhorn’s sharp-eyed and sharp-tongued point of view, that ending was nothing to mourn. Gellhorn is captivating, bold, reckless, romantic, and deeply, powerfully, and hypnotically inspired to help the world despite her own personal flaws.

How to Climb Mont Blanc in a Skirt: A Handbook for the Lady Adventurer by Mick Conefrey (2011)

I had second thoughts about including this book but it is easily the most readable and therefore the most accessible introduction to women explorers and travellers….and yet it’s written by a man. Hmmm. Bear with me. I was given this book as a birthday gift and dutifully I read it and even I was surprised that there were some women explorers I hadn’t known about in amongst the usual suspects of Freya Stark, Gertrude Bell and Jeanne de Clisson. The book overviews female explorers and adventurers from the 1800’s through the 2000’s. It is a collection of short anecdotes, ranging between one paragraph and three pages in length.

There aren’t traditional chapters, but the book is sectioned off by different questions. The arrangement of the book makes reading straightforward and simple. I suppose there is no correct answer to questions like “why do women adventure?” and “how do women adventure differently to men?”. Conefrey is visibly careful not to generalise. However, he does compare them a lot. Some women appear only in tandem with their husbands, some feel like an offshoot of their husband and there’s an entire chapter comparing women adventurers to either their male expedition partner or the man who did the most similar expedition or adventure, usually before the woman did it. I did find myself wondering if we needed quite so many men in a book that’s supposed to be exclusively about women.

The majority of the women who appear were doing their adventures a couple of centuries ago, when vast swathes of the world were mysterious and unknown, when it was acceptable to hire or occasionally coerce fifty locals to carry your luggage or occasionally to carry you in a bath chair, when people routinely carried an entire arsenal with them, and yes, when women were doing this kind of adventuring in all sorts of skirts.

These are not then full biographies. Some names appear again and again. Freya Stark, Gertrude Bell, Mary Kingsley as well as other ones like Rosita Forbes, Mary Hall, Ella Maillart, Annie Smith Peck, and Jeanne de Clisson. Clearly bigger stories to tell about them. They went off to places women just didn’t go to in those days and did things women just didn’t do. But the book does serve as a jumping board to explore further any explorer that captures your attention. In the end it’s something to read on an idle rainy day and can be read in bedtime-reading sized chunks. Rather than a deep trek, it’s the equivalent of a well written jog through a brief explanation of the journeys and personalities of some rather interesting women.

The Living Mountain: A Celebration of the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland by Nan Shepherd (1977)

If you’re Scottish then you have no excuse not knowing who Nan Shepherd was - her face has been on the Scottish five pound note. As strange as it sounds, being Anglo-Scots on my father’s side, I first heard her name when living on the other side of the world. Only when I came home to see my family clan we would walk in the Cairngorms and her spirit would be invoked with reverence and awe. For a long time in Scottish arts and letters she was known only as a minor writer of the early 20th century Scottish Renaissance. Between 1928 and 1935 she published three modernist novels – The Quarry Wood being superlative - and one book of poetry. From then until her death in 1981, she published only one more, The Living Mountain. It was written during the latter years of the World War Two but, following advice of novelist Neil Gunn, left in a drawer. No publisher would take a punt on such an unusual book, he argued. In 1977, it was unearthed and Aberdeen University Press published it. This prose-poem about the Cairngorms quickly became a cult classic among wanderers and mountaineers, as important as anything written by WH Murray.

In this masterpiece of nature writing, Nan Shepherd describes her journeys into the Cairngorm mountains of Scotland. There she encounters a world that can be breathtakingly beautiful at times and shockingly harsh at others. Her intense, poetic prose explores and records the rocks, rivers, creatures and hidden aspects of this remarkable landscape. Reading it has become a rite of passage for anyone wishing to understand the Scottish mountains, the literary equivalent of a hillwalker spending the night under the Shelter Stone at the head of Loch Avon. Both pursuits are likely to keep you up all night. From its first sentence, "Summer on the high plateau can be delectable as honey; it can also be a roaring scourge”. The Living Mountain draws you in with the feyness of its vision, the lucidity of its prose and Shepherd’s refreshing philosophy that mountains are more than peaks to be scaled. In writing the book, her aim was to uncover the "essential nature" of the mountains, and understand her place in them.

Nature writing these days is as much about the person as the place. Refreshingly, Shepherd is not there as a personality, rather a human presence in the landscape, complete with roving eye and senses wide open. She understood nature’s ultimate indifference (it doesn’t care who you are), yet also how much she was a part of it. She had a keen sense of ecology, an understanding that to "deeply" know a place was to know something of the whole world. Her chapters, for example, move through every element of the mountains, from water to earth, on to golden eagles and down to the tiniest mountain flowers, like the genista or birdsfoot trefoil. Robert McFarlane, one of my favourite writers today, has argued that is why she is a truly universal writer.

Nan Shepherd spent a lifetime in search of the ‘essential nature’ of the Cairngorms; her quest led her to write this classic meditation on the magnificence of mountains, and on our imaginative relationship with the wild world around us. It is a very short book at around 100 pages but it can feel like a thousand when you immerse yourself in the beauty of her prose and wisdom. Bonus tip: the edition with has Robert Macfarlane’s introduction and an afterword written by Jeanette Winterson. What I love about this book is that you don’t have to travel to exotic far flung places to appreciate mountains or nature in general. For most of us it can be in easy reach from our door steps.

Gertrude Bell: Queen of the Desert, Shaper of Nations by Georgina Howell (2007)

If you follow my blog then you know I have made a lot of posts about one of my heroines, Gertrude Bell. I’m not going to rehash all that I’ve posted here. Just type in ‘gertrude bell’ into the search box.

Gertrude Bell is commonly referred to as ‘the female Lawrence of Arabia’ and that really explains in a nutshell how she’s been screwed over by history. If we could be more fair minded and reasonable, T.E. Lawrence would be called ‘the male Gertrude Bell’ and Gertrude would have the four-hour Oscar award-winning biopic that everyone would watch at Christmas time. But always no, and because of this, T.E. Lawrence is a household name and Gertrude Bell is a footnote in his story. To this day it ticks me off that Gertrude Bell gets no mention in David Lean’s magisterial Lawrence of Arabia. It’s one of my favourite films of all time but it grates that she didn’t even feature in one scene.

Suffice it to say, Gertrude Bell was one of those rare figures for whom the expression “larger than life” is too small. In an age when women were expected to stay close to husband and hearth, she explored uncharted deserts and ascended previously unclimbed mountains…in Edwardian skirts. Bell was full of firsts. She began marching to a different drummer at Oxford University, which was scarcely comfortable with women in the 1880s. A professor asked Bell and the few other female students for their reaction to his lecture. “Green eyes flashing, Gertrude retorted loudly: `I don’t think we learned anything new today. I don’t think you added anything to what you wrote in your book,'” Howell says. She was the first woman to get a First in modern history at Oxford.

As a highly respected archaeologist, she made important archaeological discoveries in an era when the methodology involved bribing local nabobs and packing a gun lest the natives not be friendly. A linguistic polymath, she translated the love lyrics of medieval Persian poet Hafiz. She was friends and colleague of T.E. Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia). She was every inch - and more - her colleague and friend’s equal in intellect and action. Bell was to achieve seniority in the British military intelligence and diplomatic service. The in-depth knowledge and contacts she acquired through long and arduous travels in then Greater Syria, Mesopotamia, Asia Minor and Arabia, shaped British imperial policy-making. More successful than Lawrence, she shaped the making of the modern east after the First World War. Indeed she ran Iraq when Britain, which won World War I, cobbled together that country out of bits and pieces of the Turkish Empire, which lost the war.

A daughter of the English industrial class, she fell in love with the parched landscapes of the Middle East and went native, albeit loading her caravans with fine china and formal gowns. She so mastered the language and culture of the Bedouins that members of the Beni Sakhr, a tribe not well-disposed toward outsiders, saluted her as one of their own. “`Mashallah! Bint Arab,’ they declared - `As God has willed it: a daughter of the desert,'” Georgina Howell writes in Gertrude Bell: Queen of the Desert, Shaper of Nations.

I could easily point you to her own book, ‘Letters of Gertrude Bell’ which are cherished part of my library. But that might not be the best entry point into the extraordinary life of Gertrude Bell. To date Georgina Howell has probably done the best biography of this amazing woman - Janet Wallach’s Desert Queen: The Extraordinary Life of Gertrude Bell is another one but Howell’s is better. Bell was constantly writing letters about her adventures, and Howell quotes them extensively throughout the book - which makes Bell much more dynamic. The scope of Howell’s book is also wider - while Wallach’s book focused mainly on Bell’s work in the Middle East later in her life, Howell seems to be trying to give equal attention to all the phases of Bell’s life

So my reservations about Howell’s book should be taken with a pinch of salt. Howell’s book certainly delves into the primary sources more head on. It’s a good book but the pity is that Howell’s literary skills are not always up to those of her subject. Yet such was likely to be the case no matter who her biographer might have been.

Howell doesn’t help herself by fretting about marginal issues like why Bell wasn’t more of a feminist. Honorary secretary of the Anti-Suffrage League, Bell organised a massive petition drive, which netted 250,000 signatures, against giving women the vote. Since Bell set so many firsts for her sex, why shouldn’t she also have been the Emily Pankhurst of her era?

Early on, Howell’s narrative gets bogged down in a recitation of Bell’s ancestors and social-set contemporaries. Many have hyphenated names bound to be lost on readers without ears trained since childhood for such aristocratic nuances. The great love of her life was Maj. Charles Hotham Montagu Doughty-Wylie of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. Friends called him Dick. When they met, he was married and she was a virgin,“For Gertrude, intrepid as she was, sex was the final frontier,” Howell writes. In her mid-40s, Bell couldn’t bring herself to cross that border with her beloved, though furtive attempts were made. He went off to serve and die in Britain’s ill-fated Gallipoli campaign, carrying only a walking stick into battle against Turkish gunners. Howell also doesn’t really address why Bell would want to take her own life. Also missing from the Howell biography is Bell’s early disdainful attitude for the Middle Eastern locals she encounters.

Overall Howell’s obvious fondness for her subject hampers her ability to construct a more objective and nuanced portrait of Gertrude Bell. Readers are, however, indebted to Howell for her decision to allow Bell to speak for herself by including quotations from many of Bell’s letters. Summing up the state of Iraqi affairs in spring 1920, Bell admits that events on the ground have overwhelmed British intentions. “We are now in the middle of a full-blown Jihad . . . Which means that it’s no longer a question of reason . . . The credit of European civilization is gone . . . How can we, who have managed our own affairs so badly, claim to teach others to manage theirs better?"

Passionate Nomad: The Life of Freya Stark by Jane Fletcher Geniesse (1999)

Like Gertrude Bell, I’ve posted a lot on Freya Stark (1893-1993). Again, one can search my blog for her posts. It has to be said that Freya Stark, much like Gertrude Bell, was not the most cuddliest women one could warm to. Both could be demanding and dominant with others by having an iron will determination that their way was best. And both were friendless with other women whilst also having the most tragic luck in their romantic lives. Needless to say both were fascinatingly complex and complicated women of renown. Ex-New York Times writer, Jean Fletcher Geniesse, makes a fine stab at giving us a biography worthy of Stark’s amazing life, warts and all. Her book is excellent and offers a psychologically astute chronicle of the adventurous life of this intrepid traveler of the Middle East.

Freya Stark lived a truly remarkable life. Born in Paris to an English father and an Italian mother of Polish/German descent, she was raised in Italy, chafing under the impositions of her vain, rather selfish mother who had left her husband to his bourgeois English life. Freya was largely self-taught, learning Arabic and Persian for fun, always fascinated by the Orient. Which was just as well as she had a miserable family life. her overbearing mother had left Freya’s father for an Italian count, who would later marry Freya’s sister. Geniesse describes this suffocating domestic atmosphere in vivid detail, arguing that it helped trigger Stark’s desire for a life of picturesque adventure.

At age 13, Stark was disfigured in a horrible industrial factory accident. Stark began studying Arabic in London and in her mid-30s. By 1927 she was on a ship bound for Lebanon. Stark immediately fell in love with the Middle East, becoming “fascinated by the ancient hatreds among” the region’s different tribes and religious sects. As an Arabist proud of her British heritage, Stark was in the difficult position of justifying British colonialism to the freedom-loving natives. During WWII, she worked for Britain’s Ministry of Information in the role of propagandist. She collaborated with native groups in Egypt and Iraq, drumming up support for the Allied powers. She quickly found she was very good at her double vocation, as intrepid explorer and eloquent letter-writer, then pursued and built on these skills through two glorious decades, achieving stellar literary fame, and moved effortlessly in the company of the high and mighty.

Stark would travel on foot, by donkey or camel into some of the most inaccessible regions of the Middle East, places that scarcely saw Westerners, let alone single Western women. She would infiltrate mosques and harems, climb mountains, uncover ruined cities, live amongst the simple people of the deserts, sleeping under the stars or in Bedouin tents. When Freya traveled, she liked to stay where the local people stayed, and ate their food, drank their water, and talked to them. She learned many different languages and dialects throughout her travels.

She was a mountain climber, scaling the Matterhorn, and other peaks. Since she didn’t take any precautions with food or water, she was constantly ill, and she survived many different diseases: typhoid, dysentery, and malaria, to name a few. Contrary to what many might think she wasn’t the best organised of travellers. She would often plan haphazardly and rely on her skill and luck to be at the place she wanted to be.

She wrote numerous travel books, becoming one of the foremost experts on Islamic history and peoples. Her early books on Yemen and the ancient cult of the Assassins won her plaudits from the public and the Royal Geographic Society. Indeed the published accounts of her travels quickly became the most popular reads of the day, not only for the thrilling adventures she undertook but also for her incredible writing. Freya Stark kept meticulous notes about her travels and the lands she explored, and these were instrumental in updating the maps used by the Royal Geographic Society and the British Government. Freya was also plagued by the same concerns as her contemporary, Gertrude Bell, and wrestled with contradictory feelings as a proud British citizen regarding the government’s policies toward a region she admired and even loved.

Despite her growing fame, her personal life remained unfulfilling. She fell in love with a British colonial officer who “brusquely rejected” her. After the war, at the age of 54, she married a minor colonial official who, after their wedding, revealed he was a homosexual (or rather, she could no longer pretend not to see it). Because of her factory accident as a child, she had a desire for love and to be beautiful, which lead to intense jealousy of younger and prettier women.

It’s a captivating book about one of the great English-language interpreters of the Middle East, and one in which draws on the huge and expressive bulk of Freya Stark's letters to paint a personal and professional portrait of rare accomplishment. This biography is no hagiography, exposing Freya warts and all - her bravery, independence, sense of adventure and fun is all laid out alongside her tendency to imperiousness, her habit of using people who could be helpful to her, her neediness and desperate longing to be loved. Geniesse successfully explores Stark’s fascinating psychological makeup, her mixture of insecurity and total fearlessness. Throughout, the author skilfully details the people, places, and ideas that shaped her subject’s life. Although Stark could be amazingly kind to Iraqi Bedouins or Druze tribesmen, she took the smallest slights to her dignity as personal affronts.

Freya Stark comes across as a fascinating person, a woman who never let convention stand in the way of what she wanted, a true traveller keenly interested in everyone she came across, but somehow a woman who, whilst comfortable in any kind of surrounding, was never truly comfortable in herself. In all, the evocation of a world only sixty years back but so removed from ours in its rhythms and its concerns - with the intense letter writing, the extended visits to country houses, and the imperatives of empire - will keep the attention of the reader.

Overall it’s worthwhile, stylish, and thoroughly researched biography of a fascinatingly complex, often exasperating woman. Dame Freya Stark started traveling at the age of 22 and didn't quit until she was in her 90s - perhaps no finer example of wanderlust.

Space Below My Feet by Gwen Moffat (1961)

Gwen Moffat is little known amongst the general population but to the wider mountaineering community she has a rightful place as one of Britain’s foremost female climber in the post-war world. She has the distinction of being Britain’s first female professional mountain guide and also a prolific writer of over 30 books. This entertaining memoir roughly covers the years 1945-1955, when Gwen was in her twenties. Gwen Moffat is unorthodox, uncompromising, honest, charming, and a born rebel. Moffat was an Army driver in the Auxiliary Territorial Service, stationed in North Wales after the end of the Second World War, when she met a climber who introduced her to climbing in the Welsh Hills and a bohemian lifestyle. As a conscientious objector she found the army was not her cup of tea. She especially found army life too stiff and constraining the more she climbed around Wales, where she was stationed.

From that moment her entire life unfolds against a background of mountains, and she takes us with her. We follow Gwen in her hobo existence in a shack in Cornwall, in cottages in Wales and Scotland, on a fishing boat or when the money ran out, she worked as a forester, went winkle-picking on the Isle of Skye, acted as the helmsman of a schooner, and did a stint as an artist's model. To keep alive and support her little daughter in the meantime she has followed a number of other trades, all with a mountain background except for a job in a theatre: running a Youth Hostel in Wales, driving a travelling store on lonely roads in the Scottish Highlands, acting as a maid of all work in a hotel in the British Lakes.

There is no deeper truth for Gwen, just a frugal, bohemian life singularly devoted to climbing crags and mountains. Most of the action is situated in Wales and Scotland and it helps to have a rough idea of the topography as the narrative is littered with exotic toponyms referring to the innumerable cliffs, buttresses and arêtes climbed by Moffat. A few chapters deal with her climbing adventures in the Alps (Chamonix, Zermatt, Dolomites).

She is a skilled writer as she is a climber. Anyone reading her will experience a novice’s thrills during her first climbs, bare-footed, on the Welsh slabs; we go through hairbreadth escapes, and the climbing goes on: difficult, severe, very severe. When we finally part from her and her husband on the summit of the Breithorn after 12 hours on the Younggrat, she is a fully qualified guide. From time to time we are taken for exciting adventures on the Continent, to Chamonix, Zermatt and the Dolomites. To this reader however, the most fascinating parts of the book are the descriptions of the mountains Gwen Moffat knows best, the Welsh and Scottish Hills, and the enchanting island of Skye. People of all sorts come and go in the pages, but they are secondary to the main theme of a human being and her endeavours in high places.

The great attraction of Space below my Feet is the writer’s power to conjure up mountain scenes, moods and weather and her own reactions to them. This is an intensely personal book and may be frowned on by those who like their mountains to be viewed objectively. Mountains are her passion: through them she found freedom and her true self, and she feels she can best express herself climbing among them. The objective mountain worshipper is often personally inarticulate; he or she dwindles into insignificance beside the beloved object and is rather guilt-stricken about obtruding their own feelings in descriptions of climbs. Gwen Moffat though can articulate the unspoken onto the page. It’s her searing honesty and vividness as a writer that makes this book well worth reading.

Thanks for your question

#ask #question #explorers #exploration #travel #travellers #women #femme #nan shepherd #martha gellhorn #gertrude bell #freya stark #gwen moffat #dervla murphy #books #reading #wanderlust #mountaineering #hiking #trekking #personal

[pikipekarmy]

double fisting

So I spent a month in a more remote rural area working on my sister's farm, and in preparation for that, for not having a local crew really, I had created a second account. Not just for me to use; my sole local PoGo friend by the farm agreed to share it, and since they're red and I'm yellow, I made us a blue guy we could both log in to. Because what sometimes happens in really remote areas is you find a gym that's your color and you're like ah sweet and yeet your guy in there and then a month later you're like there was an open space in that gym because nobody ever goes there and now your guy is stuck and you can't get him back. So what you need is for someone of a different color to go knock over that gym. But out here where it might well be 20 miles round trip for your buddy to come help you, that's not real realistic. So what you do is you get a second account, log in as that one, and boot yourself.

Local Friend had a semi-broken phone with no SIM card that they could load Blue Guy onto, and after a while of that, they gave me the old phone. I forget why now, as I've been so tired I haven't been paying attention well, but now I've got Blue Guy on a separate phone and have brought him back to Buffalo with me. He hasn't existed long enough to really level up in friendship; I've traded him a few things, like a machop to beat Giovanni with, paying forward the favor paid me when I was at his level, but trading is hit or miss when you're not ultra friends etc., so I haven't done that much of it. The idea, though, is that if we get him a reasonable squad of raiders, then between the three of us we could do five-skull raids.

We tried it. We failed. But it was Tapu Lele, and apparently that one's extra hard. I'm going to figure out when we can try again, and set a time/date for it, and prepare proper counters if I can figure out how, and hopefully level up in the meantime. Not that I can even figure out a time to coordinate a single friend coming by, but that's just the full-on farm season for ya.

Anyway I drove back to Buffalo, the normal boring 300-mile drive, and at one point I was absently holding my phone in my hand and tapping the beat of the music I was listening to on my leg, and I remembered belatedly that the activity monitor in the phone counts that as steps and so when i opened the app i'd hatched an egg. So in my boredom at the long drive I then exited pogo on both phones, stuck a microfiber cloth between them, and then drummed on my thigh with the combined phones for two more albums, and when I got to Buffalo I'd hatched several eggs apiece. Well so, good I guess? It kept me very mildly entertained while not taking my eyes off the road, so it's win-win. I hate that long boring drive, if only there was a way to actually be exercising that whole time... I wish I took a 10km walk for real!!! but. Oh well. According to the app I did, so we'll just pretend that was how I spent that five hours of my life instead of The Thruway. While we're at it let's pretend I was horseback riding on a beach or something. Yeah. Oh that'd be sweet. Yeah okay. (I have no idea how my phone would count hoofbeats. Are those steps? I'll have to experiment someday. No I don't have a horse. But maybe someday.)

Yeah so-- I'm aware that having an alt account is technically against the TOS so don't turn me in. Literally everything about this game is hostile to rural players so I don't feel bad about occasionally being hostile in return. It's a game, I'm just trying to make it so I can actually access some of the features without resorting to other apps specifically designed for cheating.

Anyway apparently there was an event yesterday and I had my phone out and was playing during that event but I did not buy a pass and so I did not so much as see a single event-related thing the entire time, that was a new low for me! Usually there's some indication that something's happening, but no. That was not exciting! I hope that's not going to be typical, going forward. I guess I'm glad I hadn't gone to any trouble to try and play during this event, that would have been so frustrating.

#pokemon go #pikipek army #adventure sync #long car rides

[beantownbrownie]

When this Mustang rolled out of Dearborn in 1988, people were rocking out to the latest singles from George Michael, INXS, and Rick Astley. The Sega Genesis was laying the groundwork for the next generation of gaming (and the Bit Wars that quickly followed). Folks toiling away in the corporate cogs of business were unwrapping the very first versions of Microsoft Office. Stephen Hawking’s bestselling A Brief History of Time was expanding minds one page at a time. Television sets were still dialed into NBC and ABC for The Crosby Show and Roseanne, respectively. Gas cost an average of $0.90/gal. A typical worker pulled an annual salary of $19,238. A car like this would cost $12,745.

In 1988, the Mustang GT made all of 225 HP, 300 lb-ft of torque, and could reach 60 in 6.1 seconds.

Needless to say, times have certainly changed.

The Fox Body may have been a reserved, simple, and - dare I say - normal car relative to its other Mustang counterparts, but it’s one that has stood the test of time like no other.

After spending 3 years with this one, it’s easy to see why; it’s a charismatic little gem. A real charmer on the road, with manners and character far forgotten by today’s inflated sports coupes, big numbers muscle cars, and tech-centric arrangements.

While a modern sports car it is not, the Fox Body represented a clear departure from the build-it-bigger and “no replacement for displacement” mindset that had fueled American car production for so long; it was a relatively compact, lightweight, nimble, and tossable design.

Steps were taken to refine the drive with a well-tuned MacPhearson strut front suspension, and Ford’s innovative QuadraShock system that damped movements in multiple directions to mitigate wheel hop, bounce, roll, and ungainly weight transfer.

It was a collected car that could be thrown into a corner and be expected to pull its way out with minimal effort. Oversteer was far more controlled. Ride height was lowered, engines breathed better and fueled more efficiently, and there was little fuss all around.

But the real kicker is that it did all of this in a decidedly analog way - there were still no electronic limiters, governors, traction or stability programs, drive-by-wire, or intrusions of any sorts. It was very much a WYSIWYG type of deal, and it was all the better for it.

For the folks that have driven them, and for the people that have driven with me, they’re often unexpectedly delighted with just how much fun they can have with so little numbers and creature comforts! And indeed, even with far more “special” cars in my corral, including Jags, Maseratis, AMGs, MGs, MINIs, and more, this Mustang still stands out as one of the most entertaining drivers, period.

Hey, it may be my bias talking, but if it’s ever in the books for you, nab yourself a good Fox, take it out on some lovely mountain pass at night, maybe pop in some Tears for Fears in the tape deck, and go for a nice cruise. I promise you will walk away with a smile a mile wide :3

#ford #mustang #ford mustang #mustang gt #fox body #fox body mustang #cars #cars of tumblr #muscle car #pony car #sports cars #classic cars #retro #throwback #80s nostalgia

[bellemorte180]

300 Miles of Good Road sneak peak

For WIP Wednesday.

Not for the first time, Rebekah and Enzo drove Klaus from his own home. They meant well, but their piercing looks of both pride and concern nearly did him in. The news that he ended his courtship with Lady Camille spread quickly through the Ton. While the reasons why were not openly discussed, something Klaus was certain Elijah had a hand in, there were whispers as to why Lord Mikaelson, the second son of a duke, would set aside a woman who would be considered a suitable match. 

As he sat in his club, the cup of tea turning cold in front of him, Klaus ignored the looks of the gentleman around him. Instead, he scanned the paper, searching for a byline that belonged to Caroline. He couldn’t go to her, and even if he did, he knew that there was a chance she would refuse to see him. He has seen or heard very little from her, but he knew that Caroline was attempting to distance herself from him, to seal her heart from him in a way that he knew must be causing her pain. 

At least she isn’t engaged to Lockwood. Klaus thought idly, reading through the latest article by Lady Davina Claire. Not for the first time, Klaus wondered if Caroline knew who the woman she allowed to write such radical notions in her paper was.  She claimed that she didn’t but then, Caroline was always about putting others in front of herself, even if it meant being slightly dishonest. Knowing her, there was the chance that she just was protecting whomever the lady was. 

Klaus could feel the eyes on him, watching as he turned the page of his paper and yet he couldn't care less. The news that he broke off his courtship with Lady Camille traveled quickly, the furious vile spewed from Elijah that moment he learned that Klaus had no intentions on marrying her. All of Elijah’s carefully laid plans for him were tumbling down and there was something rather joyous about it. While the pain of losing Caroline still felt heavy in his chest, there was something free about denying Elijah. 

Yet the whispers persisted. Since Kol’s banishment from the family, the Mikaelsons have not had such a scandalous season, although Klaus wondered if it could be considered scandalous at all. They were men. If the roles had been reversed, their actions would cause such an uproar but Caroline was already painted as someone undesirable by the Ton and he would happily play the villain society’s eyes if it meant Camille had a chance to heal. He never wished her any harm, she just wasn’t Caroline.

So Klaus let them talk. He endured the whispers, caring very little for what was said between men because he no longer cared. What did their opinions matter in the grand scheme of everything? It was as though a veil had been raised from his eyes, the reality of the man he had been and who he surrounded himself with was becoming clearer with each passing day. When he looked in the mirror, peering into his unshaven face with his haunted eyes peering back at him, the society he had kept no longer seemed appealing.

#klaroline #300 miles of good road #work in progress wednesday

[aaronburrdaily]

October 22, 1809

Couche at 12. Rose at 7. The coverture¹ of my bed last night was a down [duvet] bed, very light, but so intolerably hot that I was obliged to dismiss it and get a blanket. Our friend came punctually at the appointed time. We were at breakfast, and he joined us, not having breakfasted.

Went to see the church. The interior is Gothic excessively surcharged with ornament of all colours. The pictures in a very coarse style. Yet there is a solemnity in those lofty arches which renders it the best style of architecture for temples. The sexton could tell nothing of the history of the church. Saw no date older than 300 years. Went up into the cupola. The fog prevented seeing anything, and we had the pleasure of coming down again a dark, steep stairway, and sometimes a ladder.

Thence went to see the Commandant, in which I had several views, one of which was to get rid of the vexatious ceremony of presentation at the police on my arrival at Copenhagen. Was, of course, stopped by a centinel² at the outer gate. Sent by a soldier my card, together with a message that I was waiting admission to see him. Was admitted and courteously received. Asked indirectly, and with apologies, to see the apartments in the castle. He informed me that the whole was now a barracks, and the chapel a magazine; that all the furniture and pictures were removed to Copenhagen. He walked with me through two or three rooms, but with evident reluctance; so, pretending that my curiosity was quite satisfied, and having obtained the promise of a letter, which, being shown to the police at Copenhagen, would exonerate me from personal attendance, I took leave.

One circumstance, however, did not quite please me. When I was yesterday at the custom-house to exhibit my baggage, the officer asked if I had any sealed letters. I told him I had one of introduction from Baron Engerström to M. Didelot, the French minister at Copenhagen. He made no further inquiry, nor did he ask to see this letter; but, having accidentally shown it to the Commandant, he said he was bound, by his orders, to retain it, and to transmit it to the King; but assured me that it would be forthwith delivered, unopened, to its address. I had scarcely got home when a Sergeant brought me the promised letter from the Commandant, an open letter to be shown to the police.

We had engaged a carriage; a long wicker wagon, with seats on springs, for 5 dollars. The distance is about twenty-six English miles. These 5 dollars are equal to about 1 1/2 of your money. It was near 12 before we were ready to set off, and our young friend thought we had better eat a beefsteak, to prevent delay on the road, and he ordered it. With the steak (which was very good), potatoes, and porter, we made a hearty meal, and he had the goodness to join us. Our bill at this house was 22 dollars and 3 marks. At 12 we set off. The road is broad, straight, elevated, turnpiked, and requires toll; very small, however, about 8 sti.³ for the whole distance.

The fog and mist prevented the enjoyment of distant views. There is generally cultivation on each side. Some heaths. Rather deficient in wood. Generally thin soil, of sandy loam. Everywhere piles of turf dug up for fuel. The fences generally of sod, with a small ditch on one or both sides. In some places a substantial bank, like those on your rice-plantations. No rocks or ridges; few stones. Few houses worthy of notice. Gentle swells and hills; none lofty. Frequently in view of the ocean on the left, and several small lakes.

At half way, a small town of about sixty houses in one street; generally of one story and very low, called Amsterdam. Passed two manufactories, one of cotton spinning, weaving, and printing. A palace of the King a little this side of Amsterdam. It was dark before reaching this city. At the first gate our passports were examined. At the next the custom-house officer visited our baggage. It was done with courtesy, and did not detain us two minutes. Arrived at Rau's Hotel, in the Grand Square, at 7. The approach to the city is very pretty; for notwithstanding the fog, the moon (nearly full) gave light enough to show us something. About a mile before reaching the walls of the town, on an extensive plain, you are presented with three avenues through rows of trees. The middle one was our road.

1 For couverture. Coverlet. 2 So in the MS. 3 Stivers. The stiver was worth perhaps 2 cents.

#apparently tumblr has a characters per block limit. huh. hence: took the liberty of making paragraphs again #aaron burr #the private journal of aaron burr

[darkeldritchdepths]

₂ Transcript:

THE MARBLE CAVE OF MISSOURI

A very large protion of the State of Missouri is honeycombed by caverns to such an extent that the underground drainage in many places deprives the surface of small streams. For many years, the existence of a large cave in the extreme southeastern portion of Stone County, Mo., has been known, but the inaccessibility of the locality has kept travelers, with but few exceptions, from attempting to visit it. Within the past year, however, such remarkable accounts of the wonders and extent of the cavern have appeared in the local and metropolitan newspapers that the Missouri World’s Fair Commission and the State Geological Survey determined to investigate the cave thoroughly and see what there was of truth in the stories which had been so widely circulated. Consequently, our party of three, representing both organizations, besides our photographer, Mr. C. E. DeGroff, of Warrensburg, Mo., left Aurora, a live mining city of Lawrence County, about 270 miles southwest of St. Louis, on the “Frisco” road, one charming day last fall, to explore the new wonder of the world. The 40 mile drive over cultivated prairies and through fine open but almost uninhabited forests might be dilated upon, but the limits of our space compel us to hasten on to the description of the object on our journey. Stone County lies for the most part on the southern slope of the so-called Ozark Mountains. Three mountains, however, are merely hills and ridges which have been formed by the erosion of the plateau which is known by geologists as the “Ozark Uplift” and would (continued on page 70.) [transcription continues after images]

(Continued from first page.) not to be called such by one familliar with the Alleghanies, the White Mountains, or even the Catskills. No railroad has yet touched the county, the forests of oak, with sycamore, elm, and walnut in the valleys, are for the most part in their primeval condition, and thousands of acres of fertile land may still be taken up under the U. S. homestead laws. The forests are free from underbrush and much grass grows under the trees, giving the scenery a park-like aspect.

Mr. Truman S. Powell’s claim occupies Echo Glade and the neighboring hills about a mile and a half from the mouth of the cave and about 300 feet below it, and is the best headquarters from which to visit the cavern. Mr. Powell is the editor of the Stone County Oracle, published at the county seat, Galena, 18 miles from his farm. He says that he has explored fifty caves in Stone County. He is a firm believer in the future of the county and is an ardent admirer of Marble Cave. His eldest son, William T. Powell, is the good-natured, efficient guide to the cave. He is strong and active and a keen observer whose judgement is very reliable.

Climbing this hill, which is known as Roark Mountain, we saw in its top a large sink hole about 200 feet long by 150 feet wide and 55 feet deep, the bottom of which had dropped out, leaving a yawning chasm opening into the chamber below. Descending a series of log steps in the side of the pit, we came to two short ladders which led through the opening to a platform, from which we descended a large, strong wooden adder into what seems to be a bottomless pit. This part of the journey is fraught with many imaginary dangers to those unaccustomed to ladders, but our party had received considerable training in entering mines in different parts of the State, and consequently we hastened down without fear, anxious to see what was in store for us. The bottom of the ladder rests upon the top of a mound of debris, about 45 or 50 feet below the platform above mentioned. Climbing down this cone of earth and slabs of limestone, we reached the bottom of the vast room which is called the “Grand Amphitheater.”

Some light comes through the great rift in the roof, which is the bottom of the sink hole, and as soon as our eyes become accustomed to the semi-darkness we could see something of the really grand dimensions of the immense dome in which we stood; but when the room was illuminated by red fire, its full g r a n d e u r was revealed. The dimensions as given in the newspaper accounts are greatly exaggerated, but the truth is sufficiently grand. The room is about 150 feet wide by 200 feet long, and the roof rises in a magnificent arch to a height of 165 feet from the floor. Some stalactites were seen on this broad expanse of roof, but the beauty of the scene lay chiefly in the symmetry of the arch and the variations produced by the differences in the limestone strata.

Two beautiful examples of drip formations occur in this great amphitheater. One is the “Great White Throne,” a magnificent stalagmitic mass of pure white onyx about 50 feet high, 50 feet in extreme width and 12 or 15 feet in thickness, showing all the beautiful forms which one might imagine to be caused by the freezing of a fountain. It is hollow and one can climb more than half way to the top inside.

A few yards from the Great White Throne rises the “Spring Room Sentinel,” a beautiful fluted column of combined stalactite and stalagmite about 20 feet high and 2 to 3 feet in diameter with swelled base which stands near to the opening leading from the Grand Amphitheater to the Spring Room and to the Animal Room. This passage is a long, straight, gradually converging one following a “joint” in the limestone, which lends to a large low room of unknown dimensions which contains the mummified remains of hundreds, even thousands of animals, mainly, if not entirely, of carnivorous species. Admittance to this room is positively forbidden by the owner of the cave, but the assistants to the Smithsonian Institution at Washington have had access to the material from it and are now at work upon their identifications. A specimen from this room which was shown to me consisted of the skull and jaw bones of a cat-like animal to which portions of dried skin and fur still clung. It had a very ancient appearance. The continuation beyond the Animal Room of the joint leading to it seems to emerge in the side of a ravine outside the cave. What was once apparently an opening here is now filled with earth and debris.

Mr. Will Powell thinks that this is the place where the much desired horizontal entrance to the cave can be made with comparatively little trouble and expense.

Opening out from the passageway to the Animal Room is the Spring Room and beyond this lies the “Shower Bath Room,” the latter being a perfect example of a conical dome some 30 feet high, down the roof of which the water trickles down and flows over a low precipice to the spring room. This water showed the remarkably low temperature of 48° F.

Behind the Great White Throne, in the Grand Amphitheater, is a passageway which leads to the waterfall and to the other portions of the cave, which will be described as we gon on. The first room to which this passage leads is called “The Registry Room” because the walls are covered in places with firm, damp, red clay, in which numerous visitors have inscribed their names with finger or staff - an unstable method of gaining celebrity. Here our guide called our attention to the fact that the atmosphere had become much warmer than it was in the first great chamber. There is, in fact, a difference of six or eight degrees. Then pointing to a great black hole in the floor of the room, he said “Listen!” and taking a huge rock cast it into the abyss. After some seconds we heard the sound of the rock as it fell into water below us. The abyss is called the “Gulf of Doom.” Actual measurement proved this precipice to be 88 feet in height!

Turning to the left and descending a slippery clay bank and a narrow ladder, we reached a point at which the cave divides, one arm going past a great slab of limestone standing on end, known as “The Lost River Sentinel,” in a direction S. 30° W. to “The Lost River Canyon,” a journey which we reserved for another day. Taking the other arm, leading in a directly opposite direction, and clambering through two passages like the “Corkscrew” in Mammoth Cave, we soon reached the top of the waterfall. The edge of this fall is about 20 feet across, and the water passes through a series of beautiful little pools with projecting rims of calcite crystals before it takes its final plunge 50 feet into the darkness. The top of this waterfall is about 285 feet below the top of the hill at the entrance of the cave.

Retracing our steps for some distance from the top of the waterfall and turning on our track again at a lower level, we reached the bottom of the pit (8) into which we had cast the stone from the Registry Room above, and then passed on down a narrow defile by the aid of ladders and over slippery clay banks until we stood at the foot of the beautiful waterfall. Half way down the precipice a projection has caught the spray from the water, and the deposits of ages have formed there a beautiful bowl of carbonate of lime. Pointing to a 25 foot slope of miry clay and water, which lay just beyond us, Mr. Powell Said: “That’s the way to ‘Blonde’s Throne,’ the prettiest thing in the cave.” We looked at the prospect in dismay, and anxiously inquired whether there were no other way to get there; being answered in the negative, we left him behind, as he said there was no need of a guide, and plowed our way through the miry mass, which came to our knees. After toiling up this slope and through a narrow cleft in the rock, we reached the beginning of what they called “The Dry Crawl.” We wondered what the wet one was going to be. Down we went on our hands and knees and began the toilsome journey. One hundred and fifty feet of this, most of which was too low even for this method of locomotion, brought us to the “Midway Rest,” a small room, out of which a passage leads upward to several small chambers, in which were phantastically carved shapes in the limestone. We suggest the name of “The Temple” for one of the chambers, which contains fine Doric capitals. But Blonde’s Throne did not lie in that direction. As soon as we had gotten our breath and adjusted our surveying instruments we started on the “Wet Crawl,” and wet it surely was! We were pretty careful about the first pool, and tried to keep out of the water as much as possible, but when we reached the second pool we saw there was nothing to do but plunge in and work our way across. After thirty or forty yards of this kind of travel on hands and knees in the water, or worming our way through comparatively dry holes in the rocks, we reached a room a the base of the ascent to our destination. Further progress on the level on which we had come was stopped by a pool of water of unknown extent, known as “Mystic River,” spanned a the beginning by a low symmetrical arch of limestone.

A short, steep ascent led us to a great narrow cleft in the rocks about 100 feet high. Following this a short distance, we came to a steep incline of wet, slippery limestone, up which we climbed 25 or 30 feet, then pushing our way through a hole in the wall, barely large enough for our bodies, we were in Blonde’s Throne. This is a small room, only about 15 feet in diameter, but it is a gem. It is almost completely filled with beautiful and curious stalactites and stalagmites. Some of the stalactites were in sheet-like folds, and a sufficient number of them gave forth musical sounds when struck to enable a skillful musician to play simple tunes. The stalactites here are in all stages of growth, from narrow, hollow tubes, like pipestems, to solid pillars several inches in thickness. A small opening in the side of the room revealed the existence of a room which has never been explored. Rockets fired into it show that it must be a room of large dimensions.

Returning from Blonde’s Throne, and slipping and sliding down by the aid of the slimy rope which had helped us up the steep ascent, we reached the bottom of the incline all to soon for some of our party, Lighting up the cleft by magnesium ribbon, we could see weird drip formations filling the crevices and projecting from the walls far above our heads. The return journey to the bottom of the waterfall was made much more expeditiously than the advance, because, being thoroughly wet, muddy, and cold, we did not stop for scenery or surveyor’s measurements.

Another day was spent in exploring the windings of the “Lost River Canyon,” which, as stated above, lies out to the southwest from the Registry Room. Climbing over huge blocks of limestone which had fallen from the roof, or threading our way between slabs standing on edge, we soon came to the beginning of a much longer but drier crawl than the one just described. After worming our way along for some 200 yards, we came to a beautiful stream of water flowing swiftly through the underground channel which it had carved for itself in the l i m e s t o n e. This was the “Lost River.” In several places tortuous passages led out from this canyon, which are barren of interest, and serve merely to confuse the traveler and add to the length of the cavern. Somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from the Registry Room we ascended a steep slope and arived at “Springsted’s Throne.” This is a room about as large as Blonde’s Throne, but with a smaller amount of drip formation in it. The special feature of this room is a small recess, which is separated from the main portion by a lattice of stalactites. The cave has been explored for about a fourth of a mile beyond this room, but nothing of interest has been discovered in that direction.

The explorations thus far described have been along galleries opening out from only two places in the grand entrance dome. On the north side of the Grand Amphitheater another series of chambers opens out, most of which are comparatively small and devoid of drip formations. The first of these is the Mother Hubbard Room, in which an isolated waterworn pillar of limestone stands which has received the name “She” from its suggestion of Rider Haggard’s weird descriptions. A dry crawl of 70 feet from this room takes one to the “Battery,” a dome which is 60 feet in greatest diameter and 50 or 60 feet high. Here the bats congregate in vast numbers, whence its name. From one side of the battery a series of rooms, one of which is known as the Dungeon, and low dangerous passages extend to the Grand Amphitheater again. A low narrow passage leads from the Mother Hubbard Room to the northwest to a series of barren rooms two of which are said to rival the Grand Amphitheater in size. This part of the cave is dry. The second room reached contains considerable amounts of epsomite, MgSO₄+7H₂O, and therefore is called the Epsom Salts Room. The passage to these rooms is called the Windy Passage on account of the strong current of air which sweeps through it.

As there were no means at hand of exploring this passage and the dangerous route beyond, we did not undertake to visit it.

In addition to bats the living animals to be found in the cave consist of crickets, newts, and eyeless fish. Plant life is represented by a peculiar white fungus which grows on the rocks in the Grand Amphitheater. Vast numbers of bats make their home in the cave, especially during the winter season, and the floor is covered to a depth of many inches with bat guano. Mr. [Page 71 begins] Powell has distinguished five kinds of bats here, none of which, however, are of unusual size or appearance.

That the cave was known to the early settlers and explorers of this region is shown by the notched poles which were found in the cave when it was first rediscovered, and which evidently served as ladders for entrance into the cave. Two of these are now to be seen in the Mother Hubbard Room. Local supposition is that these notched trees were used by the Spaniards, as it is known that they occupied the land in this region before the English settlers took possession of it.

The cave as thus described is of considerable extent and possesses variety in scenery and interest. It is well worth a visit, and when the projected railroads from Aurora and Springfield pass near it, it will undoubtedly become a summer resort; but the estimation of the distances, heights and depths which have appeared in certain usually responsible papers and magazines are very wide of the truth. Its unexaggerated beauties are enough to recommend it to the popular fervor. The accompanying map represents, as accurately as the circumstances would permit, almost all of the cave that has been explored. It is certain, however, that the cave is by no means fully explored and that further investigation will add largely to this map. At present even Blonde’s Throne and Springsted’s Throne are practically inaccessible to the average visitor, but a not excessive amount of work would materially lessen the most serious difficulties in the routes.

My special thanks are due Mr. J. D. Robertson, assistant on the Missouri State Geological Survey, and Mr. H. D. Card, draughtsman for the Missouri World’s Fair Commission, for their painstaking assistance in making the accompanying map and measurements and the thermometric determinations that are given herewith. To Mr. Powell and his family is due the credit for almost all the exploration that the cave has received.

An exceptionally low temperature, 48 F°., was observed at the lowest point of the Grand Amphitheater and in the air and water of the Spring Room. Throughout the rest of the cavern the temperature seemed to be about that usually found in caves, 54° F.

In considering the scientific value of this cave, the fact should not be overlooked that this is the first cavern reported in this country containing mummified animal remains in large quantities.

#nonfiction #speleology #1890s #geology #cave #caving #long post

[leahsfiction]

Song of the Bronze Immortal Leaving the Han - Li He

Foreword: In the 8th month of the 1st year of the Qinglong Era (237 AD), Emperor Ming of Wei ordered his palace official to move an immortal of the Emperor Wu of Han (d. 87 BC) south by cart. This immortal, holding a dew-plate, had been installed in front of the palace hall.

The immortal started its journey once the palace official dismantled and removed the plate, whereupon it shed silent tears.

Upon which Li Changji, scion of the Tang royal house, composed "Song of the Bronze Immortal Leaving the Han." [1]

--

In fall the youth Liu came lightly by his flourishing mausoleum[2], One heard his horse whinny in the night; he left no trace at dawn.

The rich scent of autumn is hemmed by osmanthus[3] and balustrades, Thirty-six palaces, all, mossing over jade-green.[4]

The procession begins its thousand miles, led by the man of Wei, Out the East Gate, a sour wind like arrows to the eye.

The Han moon was lured outside the royal walls in vain; Our tears turn to drops of lead in imperial solemnity.

Fading orchids in mourning garb[5] line the Xianyang road, If the heavens too could feel, the heavens would grow old.

Bearing our plate of dew alone through moonlit desolation, River and city[6] far behind, the voice of waves grown small.

--

Li He, Tang superstar "demonic poet", wrote this poem en route from Chang'an to Luoyang -- the same route the statue was taking. (The statue, in actual history, never made it to Luoyang and got left in Ba City, due to the troublesome size or manifested tears, who knows.) The poet was leaving the capital bc he had to quit his post due to chronic illness. (You can see more of my research notes in my tumblr tag for this poem.)

1: I've inserted the corresponding Gregorian dates, but this is all Li He's own foreword contextualizing the poem.

There are 3 dynasties, 3 nested layers of history, at play here.

Emperor Wu ("martial") - birth name Liu Che - the Han dynasty flourished under his rule due to all the conquering and wealth; like many emperors before and after him, he became obsessed with attaining immortality. hence the poet calling his statue "bronze immortal". According to the commentary in my 1983 Chinese-lang Tang anthology by one 朱世英 Zhu Shiying, the statue this emperor commissioned of himself was enormous: 20m (丈) tall and 10m (围) in circumference. The "dew-plate" is a dish designed to collect morning dew as an offering to the heavens (in hopes of exchange for immortality?) - they're found on top of some Buddhist pagodas also.

Emperor Ming - birth name Cao Rui, grandson of the Cao Cao - 300 years later in the Wei dynasty, he ordered people to remove many Han artifacts from the imperial palace to Luoyang, an expensive and dangerous affair, replacing them with his own commissioned statues, etc etc. The "palace official" refers to a court eunuch - not sure if this is meant to be a specific person.

Li Changji, scion of the Tang royal house - the poet himself (Changji was his courtesy name). i wasn't able to find a genealogy but i do know his was a minor branch of the Tang dynasty founding line; he was quite poor and unsuccessful at getting a good court position (poets is the same). You can read more wild facts about his life on his wikipedia page.

The Tang poet is imagining the statue in the Wei remembering the living Han emperor. History repeats. Rulers grow dissolute and wasteful. Dynasties break, unite, then break again.

2: This first couplet seems unmoored from the rest of the poem. Is it a ghostly vision? a memory? The youth Liu, Liu-lang, is a ballsy way of referring to Emperor Wu. He's visiting his own royal tomb, Maoling Mausoleum (it's on wiki - highly rec the satellite photos, it's still standing), literally translated as "flourishing mausoleum". He started constructing it in his 2nd year of rule - he was 16 years old.

3: 桂树：Commonly mistranslated as "cassia" (chinese cinnamon) due to its prominence in traded goods, but in poetic context usually means 桂花 osmanthus - the smell is peaches, not cinnamon. The blooms are associated with the much-vaunted imperial examinations in eighth month (around September); sort of the equivalent to the greek laurel.

4: 三十六宫 土花臂：A difficult line to fit in english metre, because "thirty-six palaces" takes up the entire first half of the original line. And then the second half is an odd phrase probably coined by Li He - "earth flower jade-green".

5: I know my friend has explained this one already but I just need to yell again about how many images are packed into two characters, 衰兰 "withered orchids". (a) 衰 pronounced shuai, "frail," "old." The flowers are withering because it's autumn. (b) shuai, "reduced." There are few flowers left, and the flowers represent the crowd seeing the procession off. Barely anyone cares about the statue in this new dynasty. (c) pronounced cui, "mourning garments." Now this is a bit of a stretch, but I'm imagining the orchids as white with brown edges (the withering) - as in white and sackcloth mourning clothes. They're symbols of mortality they're the last few loyal mourners they're moved by emotion and thus are able to age, unlike the unfeeling heavens in the next line.

6: Originally says 渭城 "Wei City" in the poem, i.e. city on the Wei river, i.e. Chang'an. Both the Wei and Jing are famous rivers - Chang'an sits near where they touch. There's a nice parallelism b/t the sound of the waves growing small (or faint) and the heavens not growing old in this stanza that not many existing translations point out.

#poetry #translation #my translation #gushiwensday #li he #金铜仙人辞汉歌

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Japs Launch Offensive,” Border Cities Star. December 1, 1932. Page 2. ---- Determined to Recapture Part of Manchuria Which Rebelled ---- Northwest Area ---- Chinese Taken by Surprise As Nipponese Take Field Again ---- By Associated Press CHANGCHUN, Manchuria, Dec. 1 - Japanese forces set out on the frozen, snow-covered plains of northwest Manchuria today in an announced effort to wipe out the Chinese rebel forces under General Su Ping-Wen, even though the lives of 150 Japanese hostages may be jeopardized.

JAP OBJECTIVE THE objective of the Japanese will be the recapture of almost one-fourth of Manchuria, lying against the Soviet border, and the annihilation of forces allied with General Su, numbering probably 30,000.

The Japanese vanguard of cavalry and infantry rode over the frozen terrain in motor trucks northward from Taitsihar, the famous outpost city that sheltered the late Chinese general, Mah Chan Shan, so long in 1931. 

The advance contingent reached Chalaneun last night. 90 miles northwest of Taitsihar. The main body of troops was some distance behind, bivouacking for the night at Chantzushan. 

SURPRISE CHINESE The first fighting occurred just before dawn yesterday near Pulaerchi, north of the Chinese Eastern Railway, when the Japanese guards surprised the Chinese force under General Chang Tien-Chu, one of General Su's lieutenants. 

The Japanese said in every brush so far they had emerged victorious, the Chinese retreating. The advance was facilitated by the frozen roads, but the sub-zero weather common to the Manchurian winter worked hardships on the troops. 

General Su last fall renounced his allegiance to the new Manchurian state of Manchukuo, and defied the Japanese army to come and get him. He entrenched himself west of the great Khingan mountains, and took over the city of Manchuli, the Chinese Eastern Railway's border city leading into Soviet Russia.

CAPTURED 300 The Chinese general captured more than 300 Japanese. He has released all but 150 through the good offices of the Soviet Government. Although the Japanese said General Su had agreed to meet then and negotiate differences, they lasted his "stubborn attitude" compelled them to take steps to punish him, even though the action should endanger the lives of hir Japanese hostages..

#changchun #manchukuo #manchuria #invasion of manchuria #manchurian incident #anti-japanese resistance in manchuria #kwantung army #imperial japanese army #chinese eastern railway #interwar period #sino-japanese war #sino japanese war

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Thursday 10 March 1836

8 ½

11 20

no kiss fine but dull morning F38° at 9 ½ and breakfast in an hour - out at 10 ½ having been ¾ hour looking over Journal - with Mark Hepworth with carts and men + 2 fillers (Robert Mann’s men) as yesterday - then with Robert Mann + 4 at the hollow till Mr. Freeman came to me bringing his nephew from Kent with him - came to look at the new road as I had told him at the rent day I should like him to see the road and give me his advice - took him along the road to the Lodge - he was against lagging and advised cutting up the thorns and branches and laying them (on new cart stuff) as a foundation for the rubble - mentioned the Landymere stone - thought perhaps it was fast in water - the stone of Mrs. Lancashire and Brooke sold - did not know at what price - but some stone near sold at 3/6 per yard - wages and rents must alter or stone could not be sold at the present prices - the best customers in the country - In London the stone most sold at any price - for it cannot lie in the vessels and some are obliged to pay 6d. per ton per day for ground for the stone to lie upon and stone has been hawked about in carts in London streets and in the country 10 miles from London - took Mr. F- to the rock-work - explained - he said it would be rather inconvenient to let me have men and tackling, but he would do it for me - I said then I was equally obliged as if he let me have the men, but that I could manage another way on this he said oh! no! he could manage for me - and it was agreed (he said he would do it for me as cheap as anyone) that he should come next Monday week he finding men and tackling for getting and loadening the stone at the quarry and Nelson to let me have Hinton and men to manage at the rock-man - Mr. F- to speak to and arrange with N- told F- I had had an application for the stone in Joseph Hall’s land, and asked him (F-) to value it for me - had F- and his nephew in the north parlour till near 2 - before going away F- said he had a favour to beg of me to change the stone-road in yew trees wood or have more time - to get the stone the stone in - in fact, this was the real reason of his coming however little he might think I should find this out - said I had often congratulated myself on having Mr. F- to deal with instead of anybody else - that I grieved over the spoiling of the wood and would rather change the road than give more time but that I would do the best I could but could never give more time -A - had Parkinson in the hall - brought him into the North parlour - he wished to have a new public house built in the tan-house garden - 4 rooms on a floor - 5 yards x 5 yards and 1ft. and the back rooms would do 5 yards x 4 yards with 4 good chambers and brewhouse and stable - less would not do - could not afford to pay more than £30 per annum pays £20 a year at present - the building he has would make 5 cottages - thought a new Inn would be built for £300 then when I said no! said well for £400 but could not pay than £30 per annum - A- to consider of it, and give him an answer in a few days - he said he should not stay where he was - then A- had luncheon downstairs - sat with her there and then upstairs till she went to Cliff hill and I to the workmen (Robert + 4, and Frank and my own cart) plant at the meer-head - keep Wood and Samuel Booth planting till 6 when rain came on and from 4 to then sent Robert + 2 to the stubbing at the hollow open drain - came in at 6 ¼ - wrote about a French or German lady’s maid ‘speaking English not essentially necessary’ and sent my letter this evening to ‘Madame Lecomte 11 Bryanston street Portland Square London post paid’ - dinner at 6 ¾ - coffee - A-‘s French as usual - we dined on Pork - too rich for us - it disagreed with both of us so bilious we could not see a letter of A-‘s French book - A- 10 minutes and A- ½ hour with my aunt poorly tonight - came upstairs at 8 55 - tea - rather better for it - but very bilious - wrote all the above of today till 10 10 at which hour F40° fine day but dull till rain at 6 and afterwards for some time - Mr. F- told me the union cross would be sold on young Mr. Thompson’s (of chapel of Briers) coming of age in a year from this time - Messrs. Rainer and Beaumont, brother-in-law to Mr. Jonathan Akroyd, bidding against one another for it - they had already got it up beyond Mr. Mitchell’s valuation - asked F- to get to know for me what it was valued at - F- said the buildings were very bad repair - all the roof would want taking off and the timbers renewing - I said all that would not be done for nothing - F- said it was an excellent situation of which I agreed but made no further remark thinking to myself I see whence the opposition to Northgate will come - F- had said Carr was the fittest man for it - I merely said I thought he had neither capital nor character but, in fact, he had never named Northgate to me - But thought I, I must mind what I am about there will be opposition anyway with Carr or without him  - I had best have a man who would be more difficult to oppose than Carr - A- would not take luncheon till I got her persuaded at last told me she had been unhappy the last two or three weeks had not pleasure in anything never felt as if doing right would not take wine was getting too fond of it afraid she should drink was getting as she was before afraid people would find it out and began to look disconsolate oh oh thought I I see how it is cheered her up said we would get off in May would go to Paris first this made me stay with her so inconveniently long  on leaving her thanked god as I walked along for all blessings to myself and fervently begged his help and felt comforted and my spirits good and my head clear