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hookedontaronfics · 4 years

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I’ll Be Home For Christmas - Part 1

Title: I’ll Be Home For Christmas - Part 1 Pairing: Taron x OC Rating: T Warning: None A/N: I wanted to write a sweet little 2-part series for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day as a way of saying thank you for giving so much back to me through this blog. Every like, follow, reblog, comment and ask is so appreciated. I hope you enjoy this fluffy fluff and have a happy and healthy holiday season. Love! X

Andi sat tucked up on the window seat, staring out into the wintery afternoon as swirls of snowflakes blew across the landscape, blanketing everything in white. She was clutching a steaming cup of rich hot cocoa, made the way her mam had always done on Christmas morns. She idly traced the patterns of frost on the window, leaving a couple of smudges, her fingertips going slightly numb, and sighed to herself. She’d tried to distract herself with a book, but she couldn’t ignore the nagging absence in the room.

She sighed heavily and cast a glance around the living room, lights twinkling on the Christmas tree and amongst the fresh boughs strung along the fireplace mantel. She’d worked hard to make the place feel homey for the holidays, but none of that mattered if her husband couldn’t be home to see it.

“I’ll be home for Christmas!” he’d promised her, but he was quickly running out of time. Andi checked her watch again, the clockface reading just after 3 p.m. on Christmas Eve. Another year, another promise broken. He’d kept telling her, time and again, that the next time he wouldn’t miss the big important things, that she was the priority in his life. And yet, time after time, he’s missed the birthday, the big promotion, the office party, Boxing Day, Bank Holiday, but this - this was quite possibly the worst.

She tried to tamp down the hints of anger roiling her stomach; anger wouldn’t make him come home. She had accepted long ago when they’d first started dating that sometimes his job would mean he’d miss a holiday here or there. And she was proud of all of his success. She didn’t begrudge him for what he did; only that it left her lonely on nights like these, when she wanted nothing more than to share the special moments with him.

She finally got up from the seat, tired of staring out the window and hoping. Taron wouldn’t be walking through that door no matter how long she watched for him, so she might as well get on with the rest of her plans. She had a pheasant and some cranberry sauce to prepare for dinner at her parents’ later that evening before church service.

She ground up some herbs for the dry rub, pounding them harder than was probably necessary, slapping them onto the bird and imagining if she were on a cooking show, someone might ask “What did that bird ever do to you?” But right now, that bird, not her husband, was the only thing in front of her, and so she took her frustration out on it. Once she was done dressing it, she wrapped it in foil, set it carefully in the roasting pan, and slid it into the pre-heated oven. She popped the cranberries in the sink to wash them off, tossing them about in the colander to make sure they were good and clean, and to get rid of any lingering stem bits. She dried her hands and sighed again, staring at the wall of the kitchen they had designed together, in the house they had dreamed about owning together, lost in thought.

A jiggling at the door brought her sharply back into reality. “Who’s there!” she called out, even though that was a stupid thing to say. She grabbed the cast iron skillet off the stove top and tiptoed around the kitchen to peek around into the hallway leading to the door, which swung wide open, letting a blast of snow in around a shrouded figure who stepped inside and quickly shut the door behind him, keys jangling in his hand as he lugged his suitcase around.

“Don’t you come any closer!” she gasped, holding out the skillet with both hands as if it were a lightsaber.

“What are you going on about? Babe, it’s just me,” Taron chuckled, pulling his hood down and shaking snow out of his hair. “I’m no stranger.”

“Well I wouldn’t know it as I haven’t heard from you all day,” Andi said, crossing her arms over her chest, the skillet still in her hand. “I just figured you weren’t coming home at all.”

“What? I … Of course I was coming home. The snowstorm buggered all the flight schedules up and I probably should have texted you but I guess I wanted it to be a surprise,” he replied sheepishly, taking a step toward her and watching her take a step back. “I wasn’t going to miss this,” he tried to explain. “I promised you.”

“Like all the other promises you’ve made and broken? All the other holidays I’ve celebrated alone?” Andi said with a huff, returning to the kitchen and slamming the skillet back down on the burner.

“I … deserved that,” Taron sighed, shedding his coat and kicking off his boots, leaving them to make a dripping mess in the hallway as the snow melted off. “I know you’re angry at me…”

“Really? What gave that away?” she asked tersely, knowing she was being unfair but unable to keep the pent-up irritation out of her voice.

“It’s Christmas Eve, hun. Can’t this argument wait until later?” Taron asked, holding his hands out in a peaceable manner, but Andi was having none of it.

“Until when, Taron? The next time I see you, in a goddamn month? Or maybe longer? How are we even having a relationship when you’re never here?” she said, running her hands through her hair, clearly upset. “It’s been like this for years. You keep telling me it will get better, but it only gets worse the more successful you get. And I love what you do, I’m so fucking proud of you, I am. But I don’t know how much longer I can take not being the priority in your life.”

She sniffed and turned away from him, facing the sink and rocking on her heels slightly as her tears fell off her cheeks and splashed down onto the cranberries still waiting to be stewed and mashed. Their fat grey tabby, Tibbs, peeked around the corner to see what the commotion was all about, stalking into the kitchen and weaving his way around Taron’s feet, looking for attention. They’d adopted Tiberius from the shelter a year ago, mostly to fill a void they’d so far been unable to fill.

“Babe...Andi… I’m so, so sorry. I had no idea you felt that way. After this project wraps up, I’ll make changes, I promise. And I’ll keep that one. You’re the most important part of my life, and that you don’t feel that way… I’ve failed you, somehow,” Taron spoke haltingly.

“It’s fine. I’m being irrational,” Andi said, wiping quickly at her face to try and scrub the tears away.

“It’s not okay, darling, at all,” he said, stepping closer as she turned back around to face him.

“This isn’t quite the reception I’m sure you hoped for. I am happy you’re home,” she said, trying not to sniffle again. “I’ve just missed you so much.”

“And gods, I’ve missed you too,” he said nearly in a whisper. “There hasn’t been a single night I didn’t think of you as my head hit the pillow, wishing you were next to me. I love filming, and I’m incredibly grateful to be able to do it, but I’d give it all up if that meant you’d be happy.”

“That’s not… what I’m asking for, Taron. God, I’d never make you choose between me and your job. That’s just silly. All I want is more of a balance, you know? Ever since Rocketman, it’s just been project after project and we’re lucky if we get a small vacation in between. And the scripts don’t stop coming, you know. There are boxes of them in the basement with your trophies. I can’t stand to look at them because they make me yearn for you more. I know you’re kind of a hot commodity right now, and I mean, why wouldn’t you be? Look at you…” she smirked at him lightly, making a show of looking him up and down playfully. “Everyone wants you, but I’m the one that gets to keep you. And I’m very lucky. I’m just tired of only having the in-between. Maybe it’s selfish, but I want more of you.”

“And you’ll have it darling,” Taron said, stepping forward until he could wrap his arms around his wife’s waist. “Once this project wraps, I’ll take a much-needed break. I haven’t signed on to anything after that, and yeah, maybe I’m just tired of it all too. Tired of the lonely nights, taking dinner by myself, watching telly and thinking how funny you’d find it too, if only you were with me. This has affected me too, and it can, and will, change,” he said, brushing away the hair that had fallen across her face. He leaned in and kissed her sweetly, and whatever anger she had been holding onto finally faded away as she tangled her fingers into his hair which had, admittedly, gotten a little too long.

They embraced a few minutes longer until Tibb’s indignant meow at being ignored broke the silence, making them both laugh. “So needy,” Taron chuckled, bending over to scratch Tibbs under the chin. The kitchen timer dinged, and he stood back up. “When’s dinner again?” he asked, as Andi raced to pull the pheasant out of the oven.

“In an hour and a half. Can you baste the bird while I get the berries started?” she asked.

“Of course. I’ll baste this bird within an inch of its life,” he smirked as she handed over the baster.

“You do realize it’s already dead, right?” she grinned, shaking her head at him. She dumped the cranberries in a saucepan and mixed in a cup of sugar and a couple twists of orange zest before setting it on the burner over low heat while Taron got the pheasant properly basted. He’d stuck his tongue out slightly as he concentrated, looking up and catching his wife gazing at him slightly.

“Yes?” he smiled at her, his eyes fairly twinkling at her.

“Oh, nothing. You’re just adorable, you know,” she couldn’t help but grin.

“In my travel clothes and everything?” he asked, raising that eyebrow she so loved again.

“What wife wouldn’t love seeing her husband helping out in the kitchen, hmmm?” she grinned, tossing the kitchen towel at him and making him just chuckle. He slid the pheasant back in the oven before going to get himself cleaned up and dressed in something more appropriate for a Christmas Eve dinner and service.

Andi busied herself with the cranberry sauce, watching the skin of the berries bursting, stirring occasionally and making sure it got to the right consistency. Taron returned, hair freshly combed, in black slacks and a grey pullover sweater, looking every bit as handsome and stealing her breath away.

“Your turn, love. I can finish up here,” he grinned, pulling her to him and giving her a sweet kiss before gently pushing her toward the stairs.

“You sure?” she asked.

“Just go,” he laughed. “I think I can handle a few cranberries.”

Andi smiled to herself before running upstairs. She dashed some makeup on and ran the hot iron through her hair before pulling on a nice green sweater over her grey skirt. She smoothed it down, her hands pausing slightly over her stomach. She pulled on some warm winter leggings because of how cold and snowy it was outside, and fastened one of the many sparkly necklaces Taron had gotten her over the years around her neck. She deemed her appearance good enough for her family and returned downstairs to find that Taron had already packaged the cranberry sauce in a bowl covered in foil and had transferred the pheasant to a nice baking dish.

“Everything’s ready to go, my love,” he smiled in that charming way he had. “We should probably head out if we’re to get there on time,” he said, checking his watch briefly.

“In a minute,” Andi said, sounding nervous for a moment. “I wanted to give you something first, before we go. Something that’s been waiting for you to get home.” She grabbed Taron’s hand and pulled him along to the Christmas tree in the living room, it’s white lights twinkling merrily among the pine boughs, red poinsettias offering a contrast of color against the silver bulbs. “Here,” she said, handing Taron a rectangular wrapped box and biting her lip.

“You want me to open it now?” he asked, and she nodded enthusiastically. He pulled the ribbon to undo it, dropping the string to the floor, where Tibbs pounced on it with gusto.

Taron slowly opened the hinged box and gasped slightly at the grainy black and white picture taped to the inside lid, and the positive pregnancy test nestled lovingly in tissue paper inside.

“Andi! You are… We are ... ?” he said, tears already springing into his eyes.

“I am,” she nodded, her eyes bright in the glow of the lights. “About 10 weeks now. I just had the ultrasound last week. I heard its little heartbeat. It’s really real this time, babe,” she said softly as he gathered her into his arms and peppered her face with kisses. “It’s why I needed you home so badly. I’ve very nearly told you on the phone every day this week,” she said, giggling along with her own tears.

“I’m going to be a dad,” Taron said, in total awe of his wife, pride shining in his eyes.

“There’s still a risk, of course, you know… We’ve lost the last two so quickly,” she said, both of their faces darkening at those painful memories. “But the doctor said everything looked perfect this time. So I’m daring to hope.”

“I think it’s high time that we were able to dream a little,” he agreed, inspecting the grainy black and white image more closely, tracing the little blob that was their baby with his fingers and looking completely overwhelmed.

“I wanted to tell you first, so I could surprise my mam and papa too,” she smiled.

“And tomorrow, my folks,” he grinned back at her, and she nodded excitedly.

“One step ahead of you, dear. I’ve already made them up surprise gifts,” she grinned, holding up the wrapped gifts as Taron chuckled, wiping at his eyes. “But we really should go now or everyone will start eating without us.”

They grabbed the food and gifts and loaded the car before heading across town, Taron driving carefully now that he had a precious baby to protect as well. They were welcomed into her family’s home, the smells of delicious homemade food wafting out into the evening air. They were both embraced with many hugs, from her mother and father, her sister Hannah and brother-in-law Jude. Andi’s sister was a mirror opposite of her, as naturally blonde as she was brunette, ice blue eyes to Andi’s deep chocolate brown ones.

“Let me help with those!” her father said, grabbing the bowl of cranberry sauce from her as Taron carried the pheasant into the kitchen. Her mum and sister helped with putting the gifts under the tree, and soon they were seated around the table, filling their bellies with good food and their hearts with plenty of laughter, reminiscing about past family Christmases and stories from when Andi and Hannah were little girls.

They went to Christmas Eve service next, and even if Taron wasn’t particularly religious, he didn’t mind sitting through the service with her family. It was important to her, and he supported that. Once they had retired back to the house, Andi and Taron’s secret nearly got spoiled when her mum ladled up cups of mulled wine for everyone. Andi took her cup hesitantly, realizing that if she declined her mam would instantly be suspicious. She shrugged to Taron, and set her cup on the sofa end table, where it would remain untouched for the rest of the night.

They gathered around to open presents, and Andi insisted on going first. Taron tried to stuff his nervous excitement down long enough to not spoil the surprise when she handed her parents both a gift. She’d explained on the car ride over what was in them, and they both waited in anticipation as her parents opened the gifts.

“What do I need this for?” her father asked, holding up a bib in a confused manner, but her mother instantly squealed when she held up a sippy cup. Hannah joined in the squealing and rushed over to hug Andi, as her dad was still utterly confused.

“She’s pregnant, dear!” Andi’s mom laughed, wiping happy tears away as her dad finally joined in with the celebration.

“I just thought this meant you all thought I was messy!” he chuckled, as they all excitedly talked over one another, her mother of course wanting to know a full run-down of all the details, some she hadn’t even managed to share with Taron. But he didn’t mind, just happy to see her excitement over it all; it was infectious, and everyone was just beaming over the good news.

They eventually got around to opening the rest of the gifts, though her sister quipped that there was no way to top that gift this year. The evening was a lovely time, but eventually it was time to say goodnight. They’d be driving to Aberystwyth in the morning to spend Christmas Day with Taron’s family, so getting some decent sleep was probably the best idea. Plus, Taron was fighting some serious jet lag at that point, hiding his yawns behind his hand and fooling no one.

“Best get you to bed, lover mine,” Andi giggled softly once they were seated in their car and headed home.

“Only if you’re right there with me,” he grinned, but kept his eyes on the road.

“No place I’d rather be, T,” she replied sweetly, running her fingers lightly over her belly. “So is it too soon to start thinking of names?” she laughed softly.

“I think we still have a little time for that,” he smiled in reply.

“But you’ll still have to return to the film again, and that’s going to be months before you’re done. This is why I told you how I felt, because things are really going to have to change now,” she added.

“And they will change. And I will be here for this little one, and for you. You’re not going to go through this alone. And if you need me to come home, at any point, I will, and the film schedule is just going to have to understand. I don’t want to miss these moments either,” he said, squeezing her hand. “We’ll figure out our way through it, I’ll wrap that film, and then you’ll have me for as long as we can stand before you send me off packing to work again,” he teased her.

“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, but seemed happy with this commitment. They settled into a comfortable silence, Christmas tunes playing low on the radio until they gratefully parked at home. They unloaded their gifts and the dishes and made sure to refill Tibbs’ food and water dishes before heading upstairs to bed.

They brushed their teeth and changed into jammies and crawled in under the covers together. Taron pulled Andi sweetly to him, wrapping his arms around her, their legs intertwining, but they were both far too tired to do anything else even if the want was there, pulled tight like a string about to burst. Taron’s eyes were already drooping shut as he kissed his wife, both sweetly and passionately, the spark that had originally ignited in them years before still burning strong, steady and sure.

“I love you so much,” he murmured gently, their foreheads nearly touching as they laid on the pillow, gazing tiredly at each other. “Today couldn’t have been better, truly.”

“Aside from that part where you were running really late and I got pissed off and nearly threw a skillet at your head,” Andi joked lightly, and Taron cracked a smile.

“Nope, even that part was perfect because it was so painfully and utterly my strong-willed, independent, spirited wife. And those things I fell madly in love with you for, hook, line and sinker.”

“You’re such a romantic, babe,” she said dryly before giggling.

“And you know you love it,” he grinned, as she nodded and then yawned herself.

“Sleep?” she asked plaintively.

“Sleep,” he agreed with a nod, kissing her a couple of last times before they settled into their normal sleeping positions, feeling happy and over the moon with each other all over again. Andi couldn’t wait to see what tomorrow had in store for them, as she genuinely loved his family as much as her own. Though they didn’t spend a ton of time together over the year because of the distance, they still welcomed her in every time, and she absolutely adored his sisters. Seeing Taron interact with them had always made the part of her that wanted children ache a bit inside, but now, well, now things were about to change.

Taron was already softly snoring next to her, and she relished the sound, the warmth of his body next to hers, the way the bed leaned slightly so she’d sometimes roll into him, the way his arm would sometimes drift across her body even in his sleep, the sleepy smile and messy bedhead in the morning, even the kisses before either of them had brushed their teeth in the morning. He was perfect to her in every way, though he wasn’t perfect in and of himself. No one was, but they made each other stronger in their union, and that was what truly mattered.

Tibbs scratched at the door slightly, so she tiptoed across the hardwood and cracked the bedroom door open, letting him in. He jumped onto the bed and settled at their feet, maybe sensing things in their lives were about to change, maybe not. Andi sent a little Christmas wish up to the stars, hidden somewhere beyond the clouded sky, that everything with this pregnancy would go well, that this little miracle would be theirs to keep and cherish forever, as she slowly drifted off to sleep, ready for what Christmas Day would have in store for them.

Part 2 on Christmas Day - Read it here!

#taron imagine #taron egerton #taron fluff #christmas fanfiction #taron x reader #taron fanfiction

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sunken-standard · 5 years

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Sherlock Rarepair Bingo Fic #1: Decorations

(This is my bingo card from @sherlockrarepairs)

Ship: Mummy Holmes/ Daddy Holmes

A/N: No, they're not named in the fic. And Mummy does refer to her husband as Daddy, which is kind of gross and creepy to me, but also something I grew up hearing—a close friend of the family had six kids, all born in the 60s into the early 70s, and they referred to each other in conversation as Daddy and Mother even to people outside the immediate family. It seems like a very midcentury thing to do, so I'm going with it. Takes place during HLV.

They hadn't gone all-out for Christmas in years. She always did some greens on the banister and the mantel and wreaths on the doors; lights, of course, but only just enough to be festive and still tasteful; a small tree with very generic, timeless ornaments and an antique mercury glass tree-topper that some Holmes toff generations before had nicknamed 'The Spear of Destiny' for its resemblance to a spearhead. Dinner was never anything special, usually a nice joint from the butcher's (turkey was nice, but too much for just the two of them), mash, sprouts, mince pies from the baker in the village, box wine. No gifts; they were coming up on fifty years and there wasn't anything either of them wanted that could be wrapped up under the tree.

This year was different. They were getting a present in the form of their adult sons (and friends!) coming home for Christmas dinner. It had been over a decade since they'd been together for a holiday; she supposed there was always something about Sherlock when he was fresh out of rehab that made him long for the comforts of home and family. Or maybe his brush with death had made him re-evaluate things a bit, made him realize he wouldn't have that much more time with them. And of course he had a bit of an ulterior motive, too, he always did; John (who they'd only just met when Sherlock was in hospital, despite having heard so much about him) and his wife Mary were going through a rough patch, first-time parenthood looming, and Sherlock thought maybe they'd have some sage advice. After all, he'd said, they'd managed to stay together after everything he'd put them through (and oh, how that broke her heart; she hoped she lived long enough to find a way to apologize to him for letting him think his problems were of his own making), so they must have some wisdom they could share.

Honestly, it didn't matter why, only that everything had to be just so. A fire in every fireplace, candles, a full spread on the table, fairy lights and ribbons and green everywhere. Proper Christmas.

Daddy helped her bring all the boxes down from the attic, including the box. The one that had been stashed in the sluice room and forgotten (we'll take up to the attic at the weekend, but the weekend was always busy), one of the few things to survive the fire when photos and school papers and baby blankets were lost. It went with them from house to house, overseas and back, every move until they'd finally retired. The boys didn't know it existed (well, maybe Mikey did, he was always a snoop) and it would always stay that way.

Most of what was inside was nothing special, just tinsel garland and paper cut-outs that had been taped to windows, but it held the most precious treasure, too.

She pulled out a wreath made by Mycroft, aged 10, little squares of green and read tissue wrapped around a pencil eraser, dipped in glue, and meticulously stuck to bristol board—he'd done it as a project with Sherlock, who had wanted to make a star, instead. Sherlock's tissue paper star was next to it, chaotic and irregular, without regard for neatness or color composition, completely average for an almost-four year old that couldn't sit still long enough to pick his nose. Below that, a tempera paint, crayon, and glitter rendering of a reindeer that Mummy had made with Eurus—the antlers were her handprints, the face scribbles. Mummy flipped it over, Christmas 1980; two and a half. Such tiny hands. Hands that never got the chance to get much bigger.

Next was a perspex photo frame shaped like a Christmas ball and with a loop of silver thread for hanging; inside a picture of all three of them sitting in front of the tree on Christmas morning, surrounded by wrapping paper and new toys. 1981, at a guess. Someone else's family, Mummy thought, looking at her husband.

He was turning something shiny over in his hands and oh. The sword. Sherlock had made an angel for the top of the tree that last Christmas ('83); he didn't care so much about the symbology, he just wanted to make the wings from feathers he'd saved from years of nature walks (always a packrat, the state of his flat was never surprising). Eurus had taken it upon herself to make a sword, because angels always had them in church windows and paintings. She was so diligent with the cardboard and tinfoil and they hadn't been thrilled when she'd somehow got ahold of matches and melted a red crayon to make it bloody (because it was a smiting angel like in the paintings) but it was creative and constructive and she was doing something with Sherlock for a change, so they let it slide.

And then, the next morning they found the animals. Well, the pieces of them, scattered in the tree like ornaments. Bones, for the most part, cats and squirrels; bits of a mummified bird; and the mice. Fresh, the blood still tacky. They'd been scared, then, properly scared of her, not just for her. When asked why, she said she was using her collection like Sherlock had used his. Hers was better, though, since Sherlock only found his feathers by getting lucky, she'd made hers herself. Why didn't they like her surprise?

Terrible memories and the heavy press of old grief left her winded, dizzy for a moment, and then Daddy was methodically repacking the box, sealing it up, taking it back upstairs. They didn't have the heart to throw it away, but some things were best left buried.

#sherlockrarepairs #holiday bingo 2018 #tw: animal death #sunken's secret stash

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kingspoetrysoc · 3 years

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Interview with Dan Bisset

Dan Bisset is an Irish first-year Classical Studies with English BA student at King’s. They wear a lot of hats: Dan is a poet, writer, actor, musician, singer and a social justice activist. They have proudly taken on the title of SJW and attempt to reclaim that name. Dan is currently working on a poetry cycle entitled Whole New World in conjunction with the King’s module Writing Race, Writing Gender. The poems in the collection are self-published and can be found at their Instagram @danbpoetry. The King’s Poet’s Jaylen Simons talks to Dan about their writing and how they are finding their voice through poetry.

How did you come to write poetry, and what are your feelings about it?

This is a difficult question. Poetry has invariably always been a big part of my life. I’ve been playing music since I was three, so rhythm and musicality have always been pretty natural to me. I started with Irish Traditional Music, which has a distinct amount of rhythm to it since it’s primarily dance music. It has various time signatures, rhythmic patterns and metres, and I think growing up with this musicality has impacted me strongly. Words and lyrics came later, and I think from my engagement with singing in a church choir. Church was all about music for me – I’m not religious – so being enveloped in the music and Lyric in different languages especially, really impacted me. The day I first decided to write poetry – as opposed to lyrics for music – was the first day I posted to my Instagram, November 2019.

Poetry comes in little pieces. As I go through life, I collect fragments and bits of inspiration and mash them together, adapting and improvising when necessary for the writing. I write from experience and from things that resonate with me. Recently I’ve tried to write and sit down and come up with ideas – it’s worked for my Whole New World cycle; writing to deadline and submission. My journey started with moments of insomniatic inspiration as a result of quarantine and the exhaustion I was feeling.

That makes me think of Ruth Stone, and what she’s said about poetry being out there and something that has to be committed to the page and controlled on the line, or it’s gone. Is there anything from your modules that has inspired or guided your writing?

Absolutely! I think about things I want to write, thinking that it can be a poem, but that I need the right tools. I started with an idea 99% of the time, or I’ll see something in the street or anywhere and think it would be a good title. In the Whole New World cycle I've been experimenting and playing with my studies. The cycle is specifically for this poetry for the Writing Race, Writing Gender module in English. We looked at Charles Bernstien’s experiments in writing to push ourselves. I took that on and made some poetry I’m very proud of. Being able to submit my poetry for grading – something I do as a hobby has been a dream come true! If we were allowed to do that for all assignments, I would.

Can you tell me a bit more about Whole New World? How has that been for you?

It has been emotional. As a trans person, it’s forced me to look inward and question my own beliefs, both as a poet and as a person. For example, when you say ‘trans woman’, what do you think of? Who are the people that come to mind? Who are the people that should come to mind that maybe don’t? Writing has given me a type of agency; the pen is mightier than the sword. Who is going to inspire me and has inspired me throughout my life? I have also had to represent a beautiful, multifaceted, multicultural community and do that in a tactful and nuanced way and make sure I’m not overstepping. In Track 9, for example – the title taken from Solange’s Don’t Touch My Hair – I wrote about the beauty of trans hair; Munroe Bergdorf, an English model and trans activist; and Emma Dabiri, an Irish-Nigerian writer. I had to consider the double meaning that hair has for women of colour. I also considered my own relationship with my hair and worked with titles taken from YouTube when you put in ‘trans hair’.

In terms of the poetry I write, Whole New World was a way for me to unpack a lot of the gender trouble I was having. Quarantine has been a time of self-discovery and the time when I came out to myself. I was also thinking a lot about SOPHIE – the late Scottish musician – and her music, and its direct affect on me. Whole New World has taught me about the trans person I want to be, for and on the behalf of other people. Through my writing I’ve also had to reconcile my identity as an Irish person, especially as we are starting to lose our connection to our culture. I’ve also had to think about being an immigrant and coming to the UK, a place that traditionally has been hostile to Irish people. My poetry has been a catharsis for me and my trauma and a way for me to articulate things. Whole New World has been a way to also think about happiness as well.

Do you have any tips for writers and for writing poetry?

The Notes app on your phone is going to be your best friend. I’ve mostly written through the Notes app, or digitally. I also screenshot what I write so I can come back to it and work on it further later. I write, review and then either refine the piece and post, or I’ll reuse any ideas for other projects and poems. Poetry can be written anywhere – the District Line, the doctor’s office. No matter how mundane or beige a poem may seem... Write it down! You never know if it could be used to form a wonderful tapestry of work. If you also write about things that interest you, you’ll never run out of things to write. Basically, write about things you enjoy and make a conscious effort to write down the things you enjoy. You can also take whatever image you have in your head and subvert it. If you’re thinking about a bird in a tree, tell the story from the point of view of the branch, not the bird. Play with the normal and make it extraordinary.

You share work via social media and have a poetry Instagram, @danbpoetry. What do you think about Instapoetry and self-publication?

I think the digestible nature of it is interesting. It can also be insidious – like for example, Rupi Kaur taking the work of another poet. I don’t post all of my work, I save some of it and may use some of my work for other projects in the future. I’d love to self-publish even one copy of Whole New World – possibly more depending on interest.

I think there are definite benefits to using social media. Instagram was first designed as a catalogue and archival space. Instagram has been changed obviously with the rise of influencers and things. I primarily use it as a way to document my poetry so that I can go back and look at my work and how it’s developed. It’s also a great way to share poetry generally, in a lowkey way. Instapoetry is always accessible and people can view it in their own time. They are also more likely to engage and respond and give feedback too because of this.

Our generation and young people generally have a totally different view of poetry now – it’s all very academic and its definitions are more stringent. Having poetry online offers another view, one that maybe isn’t so geared towards Shakespearian sonnets or the poetry of the Victorians for example. The writing has changed too so we don’t necessarily think about writing in a strict metre and rhyme. Narrative for me has become very important, as has telling stories in a substantial and tangible way – as substantial as writing on a screen can be! The poetry is also shorter; my poetry is usually on one slide. I think about if that’s important and about how it will look visually on my feed. At the same time posting to Instagram means you can disregard the branding and the form, and how strict poetry has become, and focus on the writing and writing lots – writing with passion! Poetry can just be poetry. The abolition of poetic forms really excites me. Why would I not want to try something new?

Things change, attitudes change and approaches to writing change and that’s okay. Your writing style can evolve. That’s part of the beauty of Instagram actually, archiving your work there and seeing the physical change in your poetry. It’s important to me that I don’t keep changing my work, and to keep this journey of mine intact – as cliche as that sounds. Keeping it genuine. It’s important to look at narrative especially.

What are your thoughts of writing as an Irish person and even on Seamus Heaney, and Joyce?

Heaney is tough, and I say that with as much love as I can as an Irish person. He is THE poet of Ireland in my opinion – you can talk about Keats, you can talk about Wilde but I think that Heaney is great. Irish people know Heaney for his poems about the Irish spirit, for example Digging or Mid-term Break, rather than his adaptations of Archaic texts such as his Beowulf. Heaney’s work is more than Beowulf, which I think is a testament to how writing changes. We can see this in Heaney. He did not only write a version of Beowulf, taking inspiration from the ancient world and from history like a type of Ulysses-Joyce figure; he also wrote about peeling potatoes as well – a universal Irish spirit if you ask me. His work is also so very evocative and meaty. Mid-term Break for example changes your expectations: “Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him For the first time in six weeks. Paler now, Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple, He lay in the four-foot box as in his cot. No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear. A four-foot box, a foot for every year.”

We expect the poem to be about a big strong man but it’s actually about a 4 year old kid. I bawled when I first heard it. It definitely speaks to this subversion of expectation.

You study Classics and English like me (!) so I wondered what you think about it – studying the two together? Classical writers like Homer and Ovid are doing this same thing with changing approaches to poetry. Would you mind discussing that further as well?

Absolutely, Classics and English go so well together; I wish more universities offered it. I knew when I was making my applications that I had to study both together. Studying the two together is so engaging. Homer was absolutely changing ideas in his day. I find nothing better than a reworking of ancient texts, be it feminist or queer, or any other lens of reading – I love it! Homer is a transgressive; it’s a thought provoking image. How he transcended everything – literature, philosophy, art etc. Homer was the Lady Gaga of his day, you couldn’t go anywhere without seeing his influence, he basically invented the idea of the polis – in literature – single handedly. I just think classical literature has so much to offer us, as does classical poetry. Things like the elegiac love poetry of Sappho have just as much angst as poetry does today.

#Dan Bisset #Interviewer: Jaylen Simons #king's poetry society #Interviews #editor: Karen Ng

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kootenaygoon · 5 years

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So,

Shuswap Joe felt like he was drowning with grief.

It was late December 1924, and the winter had been relentless. He had taken over the head office on the top floor of the River Eel Saloon, a lonely refuge directly above the bar, and retreated into solitude. Ragtime music wafted through the floorboards, along with a steady murmur of muffled conversation and punctuated with the occasional racket of gunfire. Clif’s gleaming black oak desk faced the window, where snow gusted past in thick torrents, and behind it was an entire wall of thick-packed bookshelves. To the side was a six-foot tall, six-foot wide aquarium, and listlessly slithering inside were two lonely-looking river eels from the Adams. The ones Shuswap Joe had seen in his youth were alive with rainbows of intoxicating electricity, but these ones seemed more drab and lifeless everyday. He padded the room naked, slurping from a jug of Shu-Scotch and dreading the days to come. He didn’t want to face a world without his best friend and mentor, but he didn’t have a choice.

Eventually Joe ventured downstairs, where the staff treated him as royalty. He began to eat, ordering simmering piles of bacon and stacks of syrup-soaked flapjacks topped with whipped cream and blueberries. He ate steak and eggs and mashed potatoes, chased with beer, then called for salmon. The chef tried everything to sate his hunger, introducing new menu items exclusively for Joe, but inevitably he would let out a thunderous belch and call for more. They brought him sausages on a string that he downed by the dozen, followed by fresh-plucked chickens still dripping from the spit. By this point his arms were like bulging tree trunks and his belly had swelled to the shape of a pumpkin. For a month he rarely left his dining spot in the corner, where people gave him a wide berth. They could see the dark, tortured look in his eyes.

That’s when he met Mistress Molly, the barkeep, who was less than half his height. Long chocolate curls piled voluminously on her shoulders, framing her wide jolly face and gleaming green eyes. Her bosom was barely contained by the bodice of her dress, and jiggled like rising dough. She’d taken a keen interest in him as he cleaned one plate after another. She recognized the lost look in his eyes, and she was determined to help somehow. Late one night she took the seat across from him, where a teetering tower of dirty plates was stacked precariously. The man who met her gaze had the youthful sheen of his 20s, but the tragic energy of a man facing down oblivion.

He was a perfect project.

“You keep eating like this and one day you’re liable to burst open like a balloon and paint the walls with your gore,” she said. “If I’m being honest, I don’t want to be the one to clean it up.”

“That would be a grim task.”

“There’s plenty of tragedy in this world without you creating more. You need something to take your mind off your troubles, Joe. You can’t continue like this.”

That was all the invitation Joe needed. Without saying another word he lugged Molly over one shoulder giggling and carried her up the dusty stairs to his loft. He’d never been with a woman before, but Molly’s pink skin and mischievous smile had awakened something inside him. Upstairs he unwrapped her like a present, before a full-length mirror, then dropped to his knees in rapture to drink in the female form. Underneath her clothes Molly was a miracle, or maybe a mirage. He drew her stomach to his bearded face and felt her skin warm against his cheek. This was where he belonged.

“You’ve got three colours in your beard because you have three spirits inside you, each one fighting for dominance,” Molly said, running her fingers through his hair. “The blond is the lover, the brown is the fighter and the red represents a man on fire. You’re red more than you’re not, I can tell that already, but there’s more to you than that.”

“You can tell that all from my beard?”

“Men carry their truths on their bodies. I’ve been around long enough to learn that. That’s why men are lousy liars, because they wear their histories like skin. I could read your body like I read a book.”

“What kind of story would it tell?”

She blinked for a few moments. “It would be a very sad story, but a beautiful one too.”

That night, while Joe snored facedown on his cot with one arm thrown across Mistress Molly, the river eels began to stir. They circled faster, and faster, until one leapt to the surface of the tank and began to sing. Its voice was a flute-like whine, with a slight electric crackle. It serenaded the new lovers as downstairs the party continued. Shadows danced across the floor as the snow continued to flurry beyond the glass. The eels yearned for their home on the Adams River, which seemed like a distant dream now. They remembered surging through the current luxuriously, meandering along the rocky riverbeds and sunning themselves in the shallows. The aquarium seemed to them a savage cruelty, of the sort only humans were capable. Repeatedly they called out to their master, Nanor, but he made no reply.

The next morning Molly asked about them as she pulled her stockings back on. “They give me the creeps, fella.”

“The eels have a strange magic. Clif liked to keep them close. He believed in their power, believed their electricity was responsible for his success. We fished them out of the Adams River together when I was just a kid.”

“Sounds like a swell memory, but eels don’t belong in the Shuswap. If you want my advice, I’d fry them up and eat them. That’s all they’re good for,” she said. “You’ve got more than enough power already.”

Whether he was ready or not, power had been thrust upon him. In the proceeding weeks he met with one subordinate after another, delegating tasks at the distillery and giving instructions to his smugglers. He felt like an imposter, like a fraud, but the men immediately fell into line in his presence. Everywhere he went was boot-licking and subservience.The entire Shu-Scotch operation was running so smoothly that he didn’t have any role other than to supervise from afar. He marvelled at the fat envelopes of cash that his men delivered each week, as if all the money in the Shuswap was on a conveyor belt that delivered it directly to his pocket. He had little purpose for it, though, because he had no interest in material things.

What he did have an interest in, after Mistress Molly awakened the blond spirt within him, was women. All his life he’d avoided them, haunted by the memory of his mother, but now he was utterly bewitched. He would look out at a room full of women and wish he could disrobe each and every one of them. He was intoxicated by their laughter, obsessed with their skin, addicted to the smell of their hair. With each woman he took back to his room, his appetite grew. One night he entertained two sisters simultaneously, a week later it was a mother and daughter. There were church girls, young mothers, whores. Mistress Molly watched his carnal shenanigans from behind the bar, with a knowing smile on her face. Joe was just wondering why the universe was being so kind to him when one night a pack of husbands arrived thirsty for blood. They accused him of seducing their spouses.

Joe held up his hands. “Your wives are all women grown, free to make their own choices. This has nothing to do with me, gentlemen.”

One of the men stepped forward. “Don’t try to dodge blame, sir. You are a scourge on our community, an absolute villain!”

That’s when Joe’s brown spirit came to life.

He had doubted himself for too long. Ever since leaving the Adams River he’d wondered at his place in this world, his role. But when moments like this arrived, all misgivings evaporated. Right there in the River Eel Saloon he began to twirl and dance his way through a brouhaha of fists and kicks, while patrons jumped out of the way, tables overturned and beer mugs smashed. He took one man by the throat and threw him like a javelin through the front window. The next one he head-butted unconscious. Joe broke the next two noses he saw with the butt of his palm, then he crushed a wrist before its prone owner could pull a pistol. The final man tackled him to the ground and began to strangle him, spitting with rage. Joe’s eyes bulged for only a moment before he got ahold of his hands and crunched all his finger bones. The man screamed in agony, then fainted. Upstairs he could hear the river eels singing.

After a quiet moment he rose to his feet, panting. He gazed around at the terrified onlookers, and smiled. His nose was bleeding.

“You’re a good fighter, but I think you may have to rethink your romance strategy,” Molly said, coming out from behind the bar.

“I mean, just look at this mess.”

The Kootenay Goon

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janiklandre-blog · 7 years

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Wednesday April 12, 2017

9:27 a.m. sunny, cooler - just upset by a neighbor - she keeps having trouble with her time warner phone - she tried my cell phone could not work it - I begged to go up to my apartment - bed made, dishes washed, recently mopped - use my landline - no way would she go to my aprtment - I want to write my blog and not sit up there and listen to her endless trouble with time warner and then her doctor - people are rigid - what can you do.

Sigh. Do want to go to Polish church today - well does give me close to two hours - where to start.

My encounter yesterday with Sue - who has asked me to forward to her this here blog - and yes I do keep reading about trouble people are having who like I insist on putting their writing out on the ever more dangerous internet - and people like I finding out how easy it is to hurt, offend a reader - and still wondering how to make their writing interesting - so, here we go.

It has been Thursday Thoughts that has enabled me to stay in touch with Sue for years and years - Ken must still have been around to change her earthlink to gmail - though not here for this here now blog, for years now I've been getting undeliverable mail and at last have begun doing something about it with Molly.

So. It must be at least seven years since Sue and I saw each other last. Yesterday she reserved a table for us in the very expensive Boathouse restaurant - some time in advance, only 12:30 available - and I decided to take the bus from Astor Place to East 72nd street and Madison - left the house at 11:15 - stood ten minutes waiting for a bus while five buses were standing nearby but not letting passengers on until ready to pull up where we stood. One of those drivers who was slow as molasses - standing a lot more than moving - at last we did move on Madison Avenue - by 12:20 I got off, ran as fast as I still can run - not very fast - found Sue waiting for me just before I got to area where I had said I would meet her - she recognized me - and by 12:29 we were at our reserved table.

We both realized how little we knew about each other. We met on a park bench in an area of the park called Pinetum - some Mr.Ross had himself immortalized by paying for the planting of pine trees - I know they grow fast from my trips to New Hampshire - and there is a large plaque for him. It was at the time when my son had just found the way to put my memoirs into book form, Lulu - for very little money. I had a copy with me, showed it to Sue and she proceeded to produce something much fancier than I had. She lives in Northern New Jersey and has friends in the city for whom she cat sits and loves her brief stays in the city that cost her little - until inviting me yesterday for a very expensive lunch.

I found out a little more about her, she a little more about me - we sat right near the water and enjoyed the lunch (halibut, mashed potatoes and asparagus) - absolutely amazing how many people do have a lot of money.

It is Easter Week and also week of Passover - mobs of people in the park, every last row boat on the little lake rented, lines in the cheaper restaurant stretching for miles practically - I'm sure were you to google Boat House in Central Park, NYC - you might find out how this place has gone from rags to riches.

We then walked to the pinetum to see the bench where we met - once a small part of my daily enjoyable walk - now strenuous. The bus ride back was fast. The apartment a bit lonely with my house guests gone and my friend fully occupied by the vigil at the U.N. and the fast.

I went for a while by myself to the roof - lovely warm evening - I was alone on the roof - two Chinese came briefly, nodding to me. The sky was beautiful - on the roof of the expensive house across the street was a whole bunch of young people frolicking - and I was wondering, how long will I be going on this roof. The manager now has equipped it with rather weird green upholstered furniture - so I sat on that sofa - watching the clouds turn pink - then heading to this here computer room and write a German letter to a friend in Germany. We both write with ease and enjoy writing - not many of my friends in Europe have email - and not many with time an inclination to read long letters. In my younger days I had many livekly correspondences - carefully kept all the letters in very good order - until the 2000 fire destroyed them all.

Well, the Time Warner woman came back - kind of fuming - finding it outrageous I would offer her a key to my apartment - well, there is a lot I still have to learn. I tried telling her that as a child, watching Jews clinging to their apartments, their possessions and later losing their lives - made me decide there and then never to attach any value to material things. When I separated from Robert G. I left him every last material thing - to him they mattered, not to me.

In the decades of the last century I lived in a city with constant break-ins into my cheap apartments - after the first break in I decided never to buy anything costing more than $30 - let the thieves have it. Postponed getting my first computer until the break ins ended - at least for a while. While we do have a police army now, break ins, burglaries and most scary - attacks on people - old women a preferred target - on the rise again. I now carry a very solid cane - somebody forgot it at the deli and they gave it to me - trying to project as tough an image I can still muster - also avoidingas much as I can areas where it is easy to attack. Living in this here house has an advantage - a good amount of things has been stolen from me - to this day no one has touched me.

Well, the Time Warner woman made me wish again I could get it together to buy this Asus I want and attach it upstairs to the internet that I keep paying.

Got some more really cheap drops - only $57 - really would like to centest the $253 bill Weill Cornell sent me for a useless test and two brief physical therapy sessions - billed I found out at $400 each - I responsible for $80 copay for each - then my AT&T bill for iphone and ipad that I still have to figure out how to use going up $6 - I will stop there and ask for the reason. There still will be at least $450 copay on my eye op - and then - the dentures - how lucky I learned life on a shoe string as a child and - amazingly - have been able to afford a number of things that I really wanted - like my jealopies in the summers - crititicized by my family - oh well.

Life is strange and that perhaps is what makes it interesting. Tonight Deanne will sing again - mch worried about attendance - I will go and called French Christine whom I have not seen for a week - she has been hanging out at CW and I have not. I called her last night - a nephew is coming who will takea suitcase - she too has the hardest time leaving once again her apartment of 40 years and what she has accumulated there. I assume she will try to hang on to the apartment - I wonder how that will go. Sue yesterday was telling me about one woman whose cats she had sat - that woman was among the so manhy who no longer canafford New York. This woman is now spending a year in a house in Pennsylvania of a rich friend, trying to save up some money and then plans to move to Seattle where her son lives. More and more do people my age move with a relative - I too find living alone harder and harder. Still, will most likely hang on to this here house - lest it is sold - and lest "something happens" - things do happen.

Off to the Polish church - want to do some shopping - but try to figure out what I need - it will come back to me. Old and older - in Easter Week 2017 Marianne

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anywherewecan-blog · 7 years

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Walking the National Forest Way: a stroll amid a transformed Midlands

New Post has been published on http://anywherewecan.com/2017/04/22/walking-national-forest-way-derbyshire-leicestershire-staffordshire/

Walking the National Forest Way: a stroll amid a transformed Midlands

Walking holidays

It’s the time of year to check out the bluebell woods of England’s National Forest, which stretches over the former mining fields of Staffordshire, Derbyshire and Leicestershire. We take it stage by stage, with stops for food and sleep

Into the woods … walkers enter the forest, close to Foremark Reservoir, near Ticknall.

Walking holidays

Walking the National Forest Way: a stroll amid a transformed Midlands

The National Forest, now more than a quarter of a century old, is the result of a need for regeneration after the end of mining, and the desire to transform one of the UK’s least-wooded areas into a wild and wonderful expanse for exploration. In a sense it is an effort to reconnect with the past, a past before men and machinery extracted coal and clay from this land in the Midlands – 200 square miles of it – in Derbyshire, Leicestershire and Staffordshire.

When the first tree was planted in 1991 this became the country’s first new forest in more than a thousand years. At that time only 6% of the area had forest cover; 26 years on and that figure is 20%. Eight and a half million trees and 16,500 acres later and the National Forest links the ancient forests of Needwood in Staffordshire and Charnwood in Leicestershire. It also offers an array of activities and attractions, plus accommodation at hotels, farms, cabins and campsites.

Jackson’s Bank, Burrough Woods and Swithland Woods are all great places to spot bluebells in bloom. Photograph: Alamy

It’s possible to see the forest’s evolution close-up along the National Forest Way, a 12-stage 75-mile walk that takes in bucolic villages, market towns, restored wildlife habitats and disused coalfields. The stages, between four and seven-and-a-half miles long, can be completed as day walks or as part of a long-distance trail with overnight stays. My walk went west to east, from stage 12 to stage one, ending at the summit of Beacon Hill.

The National Forest Way map.

Spring represents a great opportunity to see bluebells along the National Forest Way, and areas to take note of include Jackson’s Bank, Needwood, the Woodland Trust’s Burrough Woods in the south-east corner of the forest, Swithland Wood in Charnwood, and Lodge Hill, near Yoxall, a short walk off the route. The National Forest will also be holding its 10th annual walking festival from 13-25 May.

Stage 12: National Memorial Arboretum, Alrewas, to Yoxall (5.14 miles)

The Shot at Dawn Memorial at the National Memorial Arboretum near Alrewas in Staffordshire. Photograph: Alamy

Marking the route’s start or end, the National Memorial Arboretum near Alrewas (admission free) honours the military, emergency services, charities and individuals who have served the country, with 30,000 trees and more than 300 memorials across 150 acres of meadow, river and woodland. The striking glass panels of the Naval Service memorial are hard to miss, but it’s worth exploring the grounds to find others, such as the moving Christmas Truce memorial. Daily talks and tours include the Far East Prisoners of War Talk, and the Remembrance Centre, open since October 2016, which has three galleries and an interactive exhibit on the importance of remembrance. One-and-a-half miles away is the village of Alrewas, home to England’s first commercial canal, the Trent and Mersey, and post-walk pints at the Crown Inn.

Stage 11: Yoxall to Rangemore (7.46 miles)

Sculptor David Nash by one of his True Noon pieces, part of the National Forest’s LANDshapes project. Photograph: David Sillitoe for the Guardian

Along or near this route are six “True Noon Columns” – wooden sculptures carved from sustainable English oak by artist David Nash, each representing a different forest landscape. They are carved so that at noon, (around 1.06pm summertime, 12.06pm winter), a stream of sunlight shines through a vertical slot. At Sence valley the blackened oak column references the area’s mining history, and Trent Valley’s floodmarker design represents the surrounding wetlands.

Stage 10: Rangemore to Branston (4.1 miles)

With a serene setting, Lock House is an 18th-century lock keeper’s house-turned-B&B with two double bedrooms (£60 a night) overlooking the Trent and Mersey canal. Breakfast is vegetarian/vegan, and expect homemade jam, free-range eggs any style, and a super-size fruit salad. Lock House is a few minutes’ walk from Branston water park, formed by the flooding of a disused gravel pit. The one-mile lake path takes in wetland, woodland, meadows and birdlife.

Bridge Inn, Branston, Staffordshire

Bridge Inn, Branston

It’s not every day you stumble across a gourmet Italian restaurant on the Trent and Mersey canal. Fast becoming known for its homemade pizzas (from £8.95), pastas (from £7.95) and risottos, seasonal menu, and a specially selected 100% Italian wine list, the pub uses local suppliers, and fresh fish is delivered daily. Dishes are beautifully presented by chef Mariusz Wójtowicz, often using home-grown herbs and edible flowers. The pub’s 200-year-old building used to operate as an inn and stables, and is a short walk from Lock House B&B. • thebridgeinnbranston.com

Stage 9: Branston to Rosliston (5.5 miles)

Rosliston Forestry Centre, Derbyshire Rosliston was the first visitor centre in the National Forest, with 120,000 trees planted to create new woodland, while the Rolls-Royce Greenheart Lake emphasises the support from local businesses. The walking and biking trails are the best way to explore the grounds; the bike path is easy or there are more challenging off-road tracks. Those short on time could take a quick look at the Monument to South Derbyshire Mining, and grab a coffee and cake in the Hub Cafe. • Trails and gardens free, activity prices vary, roslistonforestrycentre.co.uk

Stage 8: Rosliston to Moira (7.66 miles)

Conkers Waterside, Derbyshire.

YHA National Forest, Swadlincote, Derbyshire This modern, four-star, eco-friendly YHA property has all the essentials: well-stocked bar, free wifi, hot breakfasts and three-course supper club dinners. Some of the 23 en suite rooms have double beds, and can be booked privately for up to five people. The food is good, too; it was pizza night on my visit. Non-residents are also welcome at both the cafe and supper club. Within walking distance is Conkers family adventure centre (YHA guests get free child tickets), the four-mile Ashby Woulds Heritage Trail along a disused railway line, and Moira Furnace Museum on the site of a 19th-century blast furnace. • Three-bed private room from £39 a night, dorm beds from £11pp, supper club £8.50 (under-10s free with paying adult), yha.org.uk

Conkers Discovery and Conkers Waterside, Derbyshire This family adventure centre in 120 acres of woodland, ponds and lake on a former deep coalmine was one of the first attractions when the National Forest project began. There’s an array of activities, many included in the entry price – such as the 18-stage activity trail, barefoot walk and mining museum. The Hi and Lo Ropes Adventure is extra. The indoor interactive exhibit exploring British woodland through the seasons is excellent and a 4D cinema is scheduled to open on 14 April 2017. • Adult £9.05, child £8.14, family (2+2) £35.95, visitconkers.com

Stage 7: Moira to Hartshorne (5.67 miles)

Bull’s Head pub, Hartshorne, Swadlincote, Derbyshire Stage 7 passes Feanedock Wood, where active landfill sites are being transformed into wildlife habitats, an example of the “black-to-green” transformation. The stage ends at Hartshorne, where the family-run Bull’s Head is a good lunch stop, serving filling portions of lasagne, Derbyshire steak, lamb and mint suet pudding, and 15 desserts a day. It’s got plenty of character with timber beams, memorabilia and some sections dating to the 16th century. In the village, St Peter’s church contains the tomb of the Dethic family; one of whose members went to Cleves to find a fourth wife for Henry VIII. • Soup of the day £4.50, sausage and mash £10.95, mixed grill from £15.95, bullsheadhartshorne.co.uk

Stage 6: Hartshorne to Ticknall (4.93 miles)

Calke Abbey. Photograph: Alamy

Calke Abbey, Ticknall, Derbyshire After passing Hangman’s Stone, the route’s most northerly point, Ticknall village beckons. Refuel in Ticknall Tea Room, The Wheel Inn or The Staff of Life pub, where the accommodation (doubles from £105) includes two decadently designed boutique suites. The big attraction is the National Trust’s Calke Abbey, the “un-stately home”. It’s deliberately in a bit of a state, recalling a time in the 20th century when many estates fell into decline. The hoarding habits of the eccentric Harpur-Crewe family include stuffed birds and an unpacked state bed. In the grounds is a 1,200-year-old oak tree, Old Man of Calke. • Various admission prices for whole property (adult £13.50, child £6.95, family £33.70), house and garden, and park only, nationaltrust.org.uk/calke-abbey

Stage 5: Ticknall to Ashby-de-la-Zouch (7.65 miles)

Staunton Harold hall and church. Photograph: Alamy

Ferrers Centre for Arts and Crafts, Staunton Harold, Leicestershire Walking from Calke Abbey past Staunton Harold reservoir, it’s worth veering half a mile off the National Forest Way, for the Ferrers Centre for Arts and Craft. Artists have been working in the studios around this Georgian stable block since 1974, and now 16 workshops produce fine art, ceramics, silverware and more. Ferrers is a handy lunch stop too. Pick up takeaway sandwiches and cakes at Breadfirst bakery and deli, or Staunton Stables Tea Rooms does tasty homemade quiches, pies and sandwiches. • ferrerscentre.co.uk

Ashby Castle, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

Ashby Castle. Photograph: Alamy

The Ivanhoe Way section of the National Forest Way – named after Walter Scott’s novel, set in and around Ashby Castle – leads walkers into Ashby-de-la-Zouch. Its 15th-century castle was the seat of Lord Hastings, a powerful figure in the 15th century, but much was destroyed in the civil war and the free audio guide takes a lively, witty approach to its fascinating history. It is still possible to explore the underground passage between the kitchen basement and Hastings Tower and climb up for the views. In town, the Royal hotel (doubles from £60 B&B) is a comfortable stop in a grade II-listed building. • Adult £5.60, child 5-15 £3.40, family (2 adults, 3 children) £14.60, english-heritage.org.uk

Stage 4: Ashby de la Zouch to Sence valley (5.72 miles)

Sence valley forest park, Leicestershire This stretch takes walkers into King Coal country, where “black gold” was mined for centuries. Sence valley forest park was an opencast colliery until 1996 and its transformation into a wildlife habitat is remarkable. As many as 150 bird species have been recorded since, and my quiet stint in the bird hide resulted in a few sightings. Some 100,000 trees have been planted, and three lakes link to the river Sence, where otters are making a comeback. A mile and a half away is Ibstock, where the Post House B&B (doubles from £70) offers four en suite bedrooms. • forestry.gov.uk

Stage 3: Sence valley to Thornton reservoir (7.82 miles)

The Reservoir Inn, Thornton, Leicestershire A popular pitstop at the end of this stage, this inviting pub welcomes both muddy boots and wet dogs. The set lunch is very good, with homemade pies, asparagus risotto and a homemade Indian thali among the options, and it offers steak nights, Sunday lunch and a changing dessert menu. Thornton reservoir itself is owned by Severn Trent Water and opened to the public in 1997 with help from the National Forest Company. The two-and-half-mile circuit takes in woodland and waterside settings, popular with walkers, cyclists, birdwatchers and fly-fishers. • Soup £4, two-course lunch £12.50, two-course evening menu £15, thereservoirinnthornton.co.uk

Stage 2: Thornton reservoir to Bradgate Park (5.85 miles)

The Stables at Stoneywell. Photograph: Alamy

Stoneywell, Ulverscroft, Leicestershire Four miles off the National Forest Way but still within Charnwood Forest, Leicestershire’s first National Trust property is worth the detour. This intentionally wonky-looking heritage cottage, which resembles something from a children’s adventure tale, was built in 1898 by designer-architect Ernest Gimson. A leading figure in the arts and crafts movement, he designed it as a summer house for his brother Sydney but it became home for generations of Gimsons until Sydney’s grandson Donald approached the Trust in 2012. It has been restored to its 1950s look, and expert guides take you through the warren-like interior. • Guided tours only. Booking essential (closed Dec-Jan). Adult £8.60, child £4.25, family £21.80, nationaltrust.org.uk/stoneywell

Stage 1: Bradgate Park to Beacon Hill (7.23 miles)

Old John Tower, Bradgate Park. Photograph: Alamy

Horseshoe Cottage Farm Expect Aga-baked cakes, homemade bread, free-range eggs from the Horseshoe’s own hens, and local cheeses at this green-thinking, three-room guesthouse converted from a 200-year-old farmhouse. Owners Tim and Linda Jee grow vegetables in their kitchen garden, and even press their own apple juice. It’s around the corner from Bradgate Park, home to deer herds, 500-year-old oak trees, Old John Tower and the ruins of the family home of Britain’s nine-day queen, Lady Jane Grey. The end of this stage is rewarded with views from Beacon Hill, Leicestershire’s second-highest point. • Doubles £100. Supper £22.50/dinner £30 (BYOB), horseshoecottagefarm.com

For more information visit The National Forest (nationalforest.org) and the National Forest Way (nationalforestway.co.uk). The National Forest website has downloadable step-by-step directions, complete with OS maps. Leaflets and waymarkers are colour-coded; purple for westbound walkers, orange for eastbound

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3wirel · 7 years

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The Meroidvania genre has games in all shapes and sizes but many of them don’t focus on using melee combat. While games like the Castlevania series have some melee combat, the main focus is using long-ranged weapons like whips and magic. Metroid is also known for long-ranged combat with Samus’ various weapons and beams. But what about a game set within the Metroidvania genre that not only uses physical combat, but uses it in creative ways to solve puzzles and get through tricky platforming?

From the studio that creative Mutant Blobs Attack, DrinkBox developed a game called Guacamelee which has you don the shoes of a farmer-turned luchador named Juan who sets out to save the world from an evil skeleton warrior.

Pushing the genre in a interesting direction, does Guacamelee offer a great brawling time? Or ring out a bit to early? Lets don our masks and go on an adventure to save the world!

Story

Juan is a kind man who works as a farmer but when word comes out that his first love is coming to his home, he sets out to the church to see her. After seeing her and reuniting, something horrible happens and he runs outside. Carlos Calaca (an evil skeleton) appears to have captured her and has his minions take Juan out. Waking up in the in other dimension, he discovers a special mask. Once he puts it on, Juan becomes very strong and he sets out on a adventure to not only save his love but save both dimensions from Carlos’ evil plans.

What makes the story work is two key factors; the characters and the writing. While the basic plot is simple that your character is clear to take care of, the games cast of characters is really charming. Everyone has a personality and the villains are real people. They don’t just fight Juan and call it a day; they interact with him across the entire game in different ways. You have a fire-based bad guy meet Juan in a bar and he comments on why his head is on fire endlessly. He even lets you go, saying ‘You got lucky’ and gives him some money to get a drink, encouraging him to say out of the nearby desert.

Another example is a noble warrior you meet very early in the game who respects you but still is willing to battle you. The boss fight between Juan and him is one of the hardest in the game but it feels justified; both are skilled warriors having a great clash to see who is the strongest. I love villains like these, as it makes you respect the people you are fighting all the while not making them blank characters that are there ‘because they have to be’.

The games sharp writing helps with this greatly, as every bit of dialog had me chuckling. References to other games are common, with heavy nods to Nintendo franchises and other indie games appearing in full force. But original jokes are present too and they work great within the context of the game world. The goat-human you encounter across the game and the chicken form of Satan are great examples of this; very charming characters who are there to help guide the player but also crack a joke now and then.

For a genre that doesn’t need anything more then a clear goal to complete, the story for Guacamelee is very strong and one I really enjoyed.

Design & Gameplay

Like your standard Metroidvania, you have a large open world to explore but parts are locked out depending on the abilities you have unlocked. Through exploring major temples of each location, you discover new abilities that can not only be used gain access to new locations but also have a larger tool-set when in combat.

You have two towns in the game world to explore which offer you side-missions to complete, hidden collectibles to unlock and charming dialog to discover. I liked this set up, as it encourages you to see everything the game has to offer. This is helped greatly by quality level design that makes usage of all your key abilities that you learn.

Platforming sections in Guacamelee are rewarding and get progressively more challenging as you progress through the game, more so in the hidden areas needed for the 100% ending. Combat is the meat of the gameplay though and for a major feature, it needs to be quality. Not only is it well done, but it’s one of the best combat systems I’ve ever seen in a 2D action/platformer.

You have basic attacks with the Square Button but you can grab your enemies once the Triangle button appears above their heads. Once you grab them, you can either toss them in any direction or use slam moves (using the Circle button + direction of the D-Pad) that can stun nearby enemies. Special moves are quite varied including a dash punch, powerful uppercuts, body slam with splash damage and head slam. These moves when paired with your grabs and punches create a deep combat system that has you frantically mashing buttons to preform combos to take everyone out.

I loved the combat system a lot and it gets even more complex once dimension shifting gets unlocked; swapping between both plains and making sure your hit counter stays high feels great and rewarding. Add to the fact you get enemies that have color-coated shields (breakable using specific special moves) and you have battles that use everything in your arsenal. My only issue with combat is that later in the game it can get very hectic, leading to enemies ganging up on you sometimes. It isn’t much of a problem but on Hard Difficulty it can get really rough.

Boss fights is where combat shines really bright, as they make use of all your abilities and it feels great to take out these challenge foes. Especially on the hard difficulty as they are a great challenge to overcome. Controls ensure combat and basic platforming feel great though, as input response is good and every action works as intended. In the console versions, co-op is supported and it can lead to really fun brawling action if you have a buddy nearby. The entire game can be played in co-op, so consider that feature if you have a spare controller.

Like most Metroidvania’s, you have collectibles that increase your health and stamina but one feature is costumes. You can get them through DLC but they have various effects on your stats. For example, you can have a Devil Suit that has every attack you land drain health and get an extra stamina bar but at the expense of lower health. Another has you become a soccer player that adds a charming effect of your chicken form (this games morph ball) turning into a soccer ball. These costumes slightly change combat dynamics, but I wanted to mention them due to owning the DLC.

Overall Guacamelee feels wonderful to play due to tight controls, quality combat system and great level design making usage of all your central abilities.

Lasting Appeal

Guacamelee is not the longest game, clocking in at about five to six hours for just a basic playthrough but you can get more hours out of the game through 100%ing the game. This will add a good deal of time to a playthrough, considering how challenging hidden platforming areas are. You also have DLC you can purchase that adds a new location to visit containing combat challenges which can let you unlock costumes for the base game.

There is also additional content on-top of the main campaign if you have the release of Guacamelee on the PC, Xbox One, Wii U and PS4. It gives you new moves to pull off in addition to new levels to complete. It’s one of the best versions of this game but the base release across PC, PS3 and Vita contains a lot of value.

Presentation

This is a fantastic looking game mainly due to quality animation work and a striking art direction. Using Mexican-themed art, it leaps off the Vita screen with a vivid array of colors. I love how this game looks, due to them making the world feel so alive and festive.

Creature design is also strong and renditions of iconic video game characters within this art style (as Easter Eggs) are great to see. Sound design is great, with every attack having an audible impact and basic effects sounding satisfying. Music is great as well through having very catchy tunes that make you tap your feet as you are exploring the game world. The location of the ‘Tule Tree’ has such a great track for example, with it blending various instruments and having a great melody.

For a game with heavy combat focus, the frame rate is important to nail. I’m happy to report that the frame rate in the PS Vita release of Guacamelee is a stable 60FPS at Native Resolution. This ensures everything feels great when playing the game. Other versions are locked at 60FPS as well and feature higher resolution options. The PS4/Xbox One/Wii U/PC releases of Guacamelee have more effects and visual quality due to the higher power on offer.

Overall: 4.5 out of 5

Guacamelee was one of my first indie game experiences on the PS Vita and it was such a positive experience. It shows how quality releases can come from small studios and teams that poor their heart into a project. Having quality gameplay that blends combat and platforming perfectly, a story that is surprisingly impressive, and presentation that looks slick and stylized; Guacamelee is a game I highly recommend to any fan of action/platformers or Metroidvanias.

This game was reviewed using the PS Vita version that I purchased.

Guacamelee Review (PS Vita, PS3, PC, Wii U, Xbox One) – Brawling Metroidvania Action The Meroidvania genre has games in all shapes and sizes but many of them don't focus on using melee combat.

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