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They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
The Castle, Newcastle is a medieval fortification in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, built on the site of the fortress which gave the City of Newcastle its name. The most prominent remaining structures on the site are the Castle Keep, the castle's main fortified stone tower, and the Black Gate, its fortified gatehouse.
Use of the site for defensive purposes dates from Roman times, when it housed a fort and settlement called Pons Aelius, guarding a bridge over the River Tyne. In 1080, a wooden motte and bailey style castle was built on the site of the Roman fort, which was the 'New Castle upon Tyne'. It was built by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror, having returned south from a campaign against Malcolm III of Scotland. The stone Castle Keep was built between 1172 and 1177 by Henry II on the site of Curthose's castle. The Black Gate was added between 1247 and 1250 by Henry III.
The site is in the centre of Newcastle, and lies to the east of Newcastle Central Station. The 75 feet (23 m) gap between the Keep and the Gatehouse is almost entirely filled by a railway viaduct, carrying the East Coast Main Line from Newcastle to Scotland. The Castle Keep and Black Gate pre-dated the construction of the Newcastle town wall, construction of which started sometime around 1265, and did not form part of it. Nothing remains of the Roman fort or the original motte and bailey castle. The Keep is a Grade I listed building, and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.
The Keep and Black Gate are now managed by the Old Newcastle Project under the Heart of the City Partnership as one combined visitor attraction, Newcastle Castle.
In the mid-2nd century, the Romans built the first bridge to cross the River Tyne at the place where Newcastle now stands. The bridge was called Pons Aelius or ‘Bridge of Aelius’, Aelius being the family name of Emperor Hadrian, who was responsible for the Roman wall built along Tyne-Solway Gap. The Romans built a fort to protect the river crossing which was at the foot of the Tyne Gorge. The fort was situated on rocky outcrop overlooking the new bridge.[1]
At some unknown time in the Anglo-Saxon age, the site of Newcastle came to be known as Monkchester. In the late 7th century, a cemetery was established on the site of the Roman castle.
In 1080, the Norman king, William I, sent his eldest son, Robert Curthose, north to defend the kingdom against the Scots. After his campaign, he moved to Monkchester and began the building of a ‘New Castle’. This was of the “motte-and-bailey” type of construction, a wooden tower on top of an earthen mound (motte), surrounded by a moat and wooden stockade (bailey).[2]
In 1095, the Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Mowbray, rose up against William Rufus and Rufus sent an army north to crush the revolt and to capture the castle. From then on the castle became crown property and was an important base from which the king could control the northern barons.
Not a trace of the tower or mound of the motte and bailey castle remains now. Henry II replaced it with a rectangular stone keep, which was built between 1172 and 1177 at a cost of £1,444. A stone bailey, in the form of a triangle, replaced the previous wooden one. The master mason or architect, Maurice, also built Dover Castle. The great outer gateway to the castle, called ‘the Black Gate’, was built later, between 1247 and 1250, in the reign of Henry III.[3]
Additional protection to the castle was provided late in the 13th century when stone walls were constructed, with towers, to enclose the town. Ironically, the safety provided by the town walls led to the neglect of the fabric of the castle. In 1589, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the castle was described as being ruinous.[4] From the early 17th century onward, this situation was made worse by the construction of shops and houses on much of the site.
In 1643, during the English Civil War, the Royalist Mayor of Newcastle, Sir John Marley, repaired the keep and probably also refortified the castle. In 1644 the Scottish army crossed the border in support of the Parliamentarians and the Scottish troops besieged Newcastle for three months until the garrison surrendered. The town walls were extensively damaged and the final forces to surrender on 19 October 1644 did so from the Castle keep.[5]
During the 16th to the 18th century, the keep was used as a prison. By 1800, there were a large number of houses within the boundaries of the castle.
Mad Men at their worst. I suppose from one angle the ad is successful. It made us look twice and retch once. And the copy: "Don't blame the hunter…" seems all-too familiar.
From Mademoiselle, November 1955.
The ward at night - little light,
Dark to the world, dark to the self.
my body stirs, something's not right.
I look around, no nurse in sight.
My bladder full, I'm now in pain.
Is it my imagination or an infection?
I'm pulling my hair out, going insane.
No, it's this bloody catheter, it does not drain.
OK, I say, I'll act my age
And teeter down to the nurses' station
To explain my case: my blockage
and try my bladder to salvage.
"I'll take you in for a quick look"
So into the treatment room we go.
She does things methodically by the book.
I think: just free the flow, by hook or by crook.
The nurse she does a bladder scan
As I lay grimacing on my back.
Yes, it looks like there is a dam,
So she'll give me a flush, that's the plan.
Soon I'm flowing - what a relief.
To empty my bladder - ecstasy!
Now I feel drained, like an old tea leaf
And thank the nurse with heart felt belief.
The ward is dark, but not just night,
dark sounds too: moans, groans and retching,
Men alone with their urinary plight,
Waiting for morning and hope and light.
Goerge
George wouldn't stay in bed,
He couldn't lay down his weary head.
He found it very painful to pee
And his dribble resulted in agony,
So he would walk around
Like a mouse, barely a sound.
But at night, with no light,
Wasn' t seen as safe, not right.
So the nurses told him to stop,
To stay put, lie down: plop.
But lying down would make him scream,
So they administered liquid morphine.
Losing his way, losing his fight,
George had such a miserable night.
As the nurses came and fetched
I listened whilst he retched and retched.
In the morning he was taken down to surgery,
Please God, help this man I plea.
Did he listen? I don't know
By mid-morning I could go.
Life is sometimes very hard
When life deals us an unlucky card,
But why all this wretched pain?
It's enough to drive a soul insane.
Oscar has a fetish. He loves underwear. My underwear. He loves to eat it. After a few scary incidents where I had to pull a half swallowed pair of underwear out of his throat while he choked and gagged, we learned to lock up all underwear.
Staying in Sonoma on Sunday, we put the suitcases in the closet since they had underwear in one of the half zipped pockets on the outside. No problem for Oscar, since the door had a latch instead of a door knob, he just jumped up and tripped the latch. Then he unzipped the pocket and proceeded to devour a full pair of underwear. When I finally caught him, there were only a few inch long scraps left.
We've been anxiously watching him since then to monitor if anything comes out either end. But he seemed to be eating and pooing as usual, so we began to wonder if we were mistaken.
Then Tuesday, it all started to go downhill. He began choking and gagging, but when he almost threw something up, he'd quickly swallow it back down. I spent two hours locked in the bathroom with him, trying to get my fingers down his throat as he retched to grab what looked like a piece of cloth coming up. When I finally realized I just wasn't going to get whatever he wasn't going to let come up, I called the vet who got him booked for emergency surgery. As I was on the phone, Oscar horked up a huge compressed ball of fabric. So I spent the next half hour, on vet's orders, unravelling the ball and trying to reassemble the underwear to make sure we had all of it. Before I nearly fainted from the gagging, I called it done. Then he threw up an elastic waistband just for good measure and I thought we had to have it all. I left for a few hours only to come back and find him looking really distressed. Took him to the vet who X-rayed him, declared there was a dangerous blockage and booked him for surgery at the emergency clinic.
Four hours later, the clinic told me I might as well go home, they were keeping Oscar for emergency rehydration, evaluation and more tests and might do surgery in the morning.
I was told to come back at 6AM at which time the vet would tell me the prognosis and if Oscar needed surgery. Good news: after $700 of expensive Xrays and Ultra-sounds, plus rehydration with an IV, Oscar was declared "absolutely cleared out". Just to double check, I said, "So you are completely sure that there is no cloth left in him?"
"Absolutely", said the vet, "These tests are very sophisticated. They'd pick up anything."
We left the vet's and four paces outside his door, Oscar squatted and produced a foot long piece of cloth. So much for diagnostics and the powers of veterinary technology.
But the good news is he's doing well and milking it for all it's worth. Here he is relaxing on the bed on a decorative sham (he didn't really want to lie on just a cotton pillow case) watching Law & Order.
Next step for me: pet insurance.
hups,...found this combo,...originally begun by Gumbo!, in one of my packing cases from my flat moving,...
now I added some more stuff that was send to me for making it bigger,...NOW I send it further to my next trade which will be with schneckk!
right on, right on!!!
view big: farm4.static.flickr.com/3229/3124174711_7fd1d77a41_b.jpg
Apple + Looking Glass = Esto
In an apple you might find a section of the pulp in the theme of common indifference,
A slight of hand lays on the table with the might of a pen on the tip of a sword.
The worries of the world in amongst the grief and glory become the dawn if the day dare break and the night suffocate into the bulbous retching of an immature departure.
How many good men might hide inside there minds is too many for the sake of the people on the edge.
Stick to the plan and the target will unfold like bed sheets in the wind as the soft smell of touch intermingles with your balance forcing ever greater pressure on the remaining flow of fire
In your veins, and the fool on the hill and I feel fine dag nammit cant you free the skipping rope from around your wrist and climb the battleifferous castleifferous?
Why then does that honour precede only the foolhardiest of questers in an army of indignation?
Stream of Consciousness on a Monday morning after too much coffee.
..and then it’s over. The moment is gone, the mood has passed and I awake from those tattered dreams. Standing alone. Standing over all that I’ve done; all that I should not have done.
Sometimes there is silence. Sometimes voices: angry voices.
‘you always ruin everything’
Those words chase me up the street even now.
Sometimes there are voices. Sometimes silence: shocked silence.
People like me don’t do those things. Not things like that. They don’t say those words; they just don’t do those things. And yet, there it is. The movement, the shock, the impact, the pain, the memory and the moment, all passed in blood red seconds. Remembered for years by them, forgotten before they begin by me.
They walk away; away from me. From what I have done and from what I might do. Eyes seek horizons and hands are closed, fear and loathing. An unwanted perception covers me, smothers me and I hate them for it. I hate me for it and I cannot fight it, I cannot be seen in any other way. I cannot see. I did not see. I do not remember and it burns me to say it. I hate him.
Distance spins out in seconds; words of tradition lose their meaning in repetition. Familiar patterns of sparks, angles and cutting edges, of sharp turns and blind alleys. Blind rage. I blaze through normality. I alone burn that way while the victim shouts and falls. The witnesses stop and stare. The page crackles at my touch but it is me who burns. Alone.
Shunned.
I am left alone with the feelings, with that goddamned torrent of emotions. I am left to spit and choke on the acrid aftertaste of anger. I am left alone to feel another drawn out retch of regret moving beneath my meagre ribs. That regret that will build and form and swell into resentment, ready for the next spark. For me there can be no sympathy. There is no moral high ground, no pride, no more respect. Not for them. Never for me.
People like me don’t do those things.
People like me do those things.
We hate ourselves for it. I hate myself for it. But we do those things.
Time is the healer. How much time until the next time? Time is the healer. Memory fades and moments dwindle. Time is the healer. Until the next time…
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
The Castle, Newcastle is a medieval fortification in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, built on the site of the fortress which gave the City of Newcastle its name. The most prominent remaining structures on the site are the Castle Keep, the castle's main fortified stone tower, and the Black Gate, its fortified gatehouse.
Use of the site for defensive purposes dates from Roman times, when it housed a fort and settlement called Pons Aelius, guarding a bridge over the River Tyne. In 1080, a wooden motte and bailey style castle was built on the site of the Roman fort, which was the 'New Castle upon Tyne'. It was built by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror, having returned south from a campaign against Malcolm III of Scotland. The stone Castle Keep was built between 1172 and 1177 by Henry II on the site of Curthose's castle. The Black Gate was added between 1247 and 1250 by Henry III.
The site is in the centre of Newcastle, and lies to the east of Newcastle Central Station. The 75 feet (23 m) gap between the Keep and the Gatehouse is almost entirely filled by a railway viaduct, carrying the East Coast Main Line from Newcastle to Scotland. The Castle Keep and Black Gate pre-dated the construction of the Newcastle town wall, construction of which started sometime around 1265, and did not form part of it. Nothing remains of the Roman fort or the original motte and bailey castle. The Keep is a Grade I listed building, and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.
The Keep and Black Gate are now managed by the Old Newcastle Project under the Heart of the City Partnership as one combined visitor attraction, Newcastle Castle.
In the mid-2nd century, the Romans built the first bridge to cross the River Tyne at the place where Newcastle now stands. The bridge was called Pons Aelius or ‘Bridge of Aelius’, Aelius being the family name of Emperor Hadrian, who was responsible for the Roman wall built along Tyne-Solway Gap. The Romans built a fort to protect the river crossing which was at the foot of the Tyne Gorge. The fort was situated on rocky outcrop overlooking the new bridge.[1]
At some unknown time in the Anglo-Saxon age, the site of Newcastle came to be known as Monkchester. In the late 7th century, a cemetery was established on the site of the Roman castle.
In 1080, the Norman king, William I, sent his eldest son, Robert Curthose, north to defend the kingdom against the Scots. After his campaign, he moved to Monkchester and began the building of a ‘New Castle’. This was of the “motte-and-bailey” type of construction, a wooden tower on top of an earthen mound (motte), surrounded by a moat and wooden stockade (bailey).[2]
In 1095, the Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Mowbray, rose up against William Rufus and Rufus sent an army north to crush the revolt and to capture the castle. From then on the castle became crown property and was an important base from which the king could control the northern barons.
Not a trace of the tower or mound of the motte and bailey castle remains now. Henry II replaced it with a rectangular stone keep, which was built between 1172 and 1177 at a cost of £1,444. A stone bailey, in the form of a triangle, replaced the previous wooden one. The master mason or architect, Maurice, also built Dover Castle. The great outer gateway to the castle, called ‘the Black Gate’, was built later, between 1247 and 1250, in the reign of Henry III.[3]
Additional protection to the castle was provided late in the 13th century when stone walls were constructed, with towers, to enclose the town. Ironically, the safety provided by the town walls led to the neglect of the fabric of the castle. In 1589, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the castle was described as being ruinous.[4] From the early 17th century onward, this situation was made worse by the construction of shops and houses on much of the site.
In 1643, during the English Civil War, the Royalist Mayor of Newcastle, Sir John Marley, repaired the keep and probably also refortified the castle. In 1644 the Scottish army crossed the border in support of the Parliamentarians and the Scottish troops besieged Newcastle for three months until the garrison surrendered. The town walls were extensively damaged and the final forces to surrender on 19 October 1644 did so from the Castle keep.[5]
During the 16th to the 18th century, the keep was used as a prison. By 1800, there were a large number of houses within the boundaries of the castle.
Lori has traveled a LONG way in search of Miss Emily's School for Excellence. She had heard about it a long time ago when she first set off on her journey to rid herself of her retched magical powers.
She had the Ability to see far into someones future which in it's self doesn't sound too bad but If she sees something terrible happen in that persons impending future her eyes catch alight.
She has always been able too see other peoples upcoming futures and she has always felt the searing pain of fire. The first time her eyes ever came ablaze they turned from pale blue to coal black and never let the light in again leaving her completely blind.
When her eyes catch fire she is left with painful blisters over her face which take on a gold shimmery effect almost making them look like scales in which people started to nickname her Dragon. After a few days they disappear as if they where never there.
She carries around a old branch to help her find her way and to insure she doesn't accidentally bump into someone and be forced into a Foresight Trance which could result in ALOT of pain.
She has tried many methods to rid herself of these powers but nothing has ever worked until she heard the whispers about the school which strips magical powers from oneself.
Miss Emily's School for Excellence original story was created by the VERY Talented Anne Pecaro go check her out on Youtube www.youtube.com/user/AnnePecaro
Whole egg contry pie, smoked ham, cheddar & leek AUD9.50
Perfectly cooked eggs in a pie with tender braised leeks adding sweetness to the salty ham and cheddar cheese. Add to that, a flaky, buttery pastry to die for, and you have a fantastic breakfast.
I added a slab of black pudding to make sure the resultant heart attack would be fatal. Fortunately, the translucent cubes in black pudding were indeed lard. Yum! The liberal use of cumin and spice created heavenly balance with the minerally tastes, but it might ward off cancer though. Can't win 'em all.
---
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
HBC note ** Don't I feel a proper berk! This should have been episode 2, but for one reason or another it wasn't. ** So here's Elina reflecting on how she first met Skarr in the first place...**
From “My encounters with the Barbarians blade”, by Lady Elina Greypepper
Being bound in slavery has a strange effect on one’s being…and as Skarr and I found ourselves in greater difficulties than ever before, I began to remember how Skarr and I had first met. Rather than being mere weeks ago, It seemed like years since I had arranged an expedition to Arlaheim for rare ingredients, and ran into trouble with slavers for the first time. I recall that I first met the Cock o’ the North shortly after she defeated the wyrm…
“The screams and catcalls of the forest had died down a little over the last few hours of Skarr’s trek. She was grateful, the wound in her thigh needed more attention than her ministrations of water and a bit of rag to tie round could give, and she felt it going numb. She was slowing slightly on her trek, but her fury carried her along. She repeated the names in her head, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds, over and over, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds. Four names that made her blood rise and carry her on through the forest. Gunnerson had been the one to hold her down, Macleish had bound her, Taggarhey had wrestled her into a sack and Bunds had thrown her into the icy ocean. Her four warlords, the terror of the north. Gunnerson she would kill first. When the Northmen had been routed along the banks of the Green road, he had fled over the hills into Samaria. She had found this out from a band of marauders shortly after being washed ashore, gasping for life. He would die first, Doomsayer would have the kill. Bunds she would save until last. He had been her closest ally, her friend since her childhood; they had been of the same tribe, the Tanra. She had been securely tied and sealed within the burlap sack; he had been the one to stab her, a callous and cruel act. For that, Bunds would pay. She would kill him the last of all. Skarr would make sure he heard of the deaths of his murderous dishonourable friends, and then she would kill him. Not with Doomsayer. With her own bare hands.
As she walked, she heard a cry from just off the forest path.
“Help”, came the voice, “please, traveller!” it cried.
Skarr entered the forest clearing and saw the figure, a female, bedraggled and shoeless, chained securely to a tree.
“Undo me traveller!” cried the girl, “the Panther women have me. They intend to sell me into slavery. They sell us to Samarian traders! I am an apothecary and valuable to them!”
Skarr thought for a moment, considering her response,
“But”, she began in her thick accented broken Imperial tongue, “if I was to free you, you would die at the hands of either the Panthers, of at the hands of the beasts that roam here! If I leave you tied, the Panthers will look after you and keep you safe, dushka! I will not be the one who causes your death. Farewell.”
Skarr turned on her heel and walked off through the forest, ignoring the girl’s plaintive cries and the clanking of her chains as she struggled.
After a few minutes, Skarr became aware of someone tracking her from beyond the path, and she tensed her lithe body slightly. She continued to walk, smelling the air. Human, definitely human, she decided. She moved to the other side of the path, so to draw the attacker out onto the path. Suddenly a figure clad in furs leapt with speed at her and the two of them collapsed onto the dirt. The Panther girl wrestled herself on top of Skarr with a ferocious energy.
“These are our lands!!” the Panther spitted at her, “We get a good price for you, Norther bitch. You make good strong slave for Samaria!”
Skarr relaxed her arm muscles and let the Panther pin her arms to the ground. Then she quickly raised her leg, delivering a knee to the girl’s stomach, making her retch. Skarr threw the Panther woman onto her back, delivering an uppercut to the jaw, before standing and delivering a swift kick in her side.
Skarr surveyed her whimpering opponent,
“Pah!” she exclaimed, “I would not sully the steel of Doomsayer with your hide. Tell your tribe to stay away from me, or I will make a mountain of your severed heads!”
The girl attempted to crawl away into the forest with a whimper, but Skarr kicked her in the side harshly again, and she fell still.
Muttering a Norther curse under her breath and shaking her head, Skarr began to retrace her steps to where the prisoner had been. Sure enough, there she was, securely chained to the tree. She had given up her struggles and stood quietly.
“It would appear, Dushka, “Skarr began, “That I have either frightened away or killed your captor”.
“You can’t just leave me here!” the girl cried.
“No. I cannot!” Skarr said, thinking, “Or you will die here”.
“May I travel with you?” the girl asked, “The beasts will tear me apart, unless the other Panthers get me first!”
“Keep up the pace, and look after yourself”, Skarr replied brusquely, “I’m not a nursemaid. If you slow me, I will kill you myself.”
The girl nodded, and watched as Skarr, with three quick tugs, snapped the girl’s chains, letting them tumble to the ground with a clatter.
“Thank you”, said the girl with relief, “I’m Elina. I make potions and incantations. I can look at your wound if you’d like.”
Skarr muttered another Norther curse, before spinning on her heel and stomping off along the path, cursing in her own tongue. Elina ran along after her, suddenly feeling hundreds of eyes watching her and the barbarian as they moved through the forest. Had she just jumped from the frying pan into the fire? Elina didn’t know.”
Suddenly, Elina was shaken from her thoughts by the barking order of a slaver...
It is interesting that they didn't mention Dan DeQuille -- I will: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dan_DeQuille
Beebe and Clegg resurrected the paper during the 50s.
As sidebar I have an old edition of Mark Twain's collected works...
Here is a piece published in the Territorial Enterprise that he wrote while at Steamboat Springs and excerpted from my book: www.flickr.com/photos/owlsplace/801024084/:
I have overstepped my furlough a full week, but then this is a pleasant place to pass one's time. These springs are ten miles from Virginia, six or seven from Washoe City and twenty from Carson. They are natural, the devil boils the water, and the white steam puffs up out of crevices in the earth, along the summits of a series of low mounds extending in an irregular semi-circle for more than a mile. The water is impregnated with a dozen different minerals, each one of which smells viler than its fellow, and the sides of the springs are embellished with very pretty parti-colored incrustations deposited by the water. From one spring the boiling water is ejected a foot or more by the infernal force at work below, and in the vicinity of all of them one can hear a constant rumbling and surging, somewhat resembling the noises peculiar to a steamboat in motion. hence the name.
THE HOTEL
The Steamboat Springs Hotel is very pleasantly situated on a grassy flat, a stone's throw from the hospital and the bath houses. It is capable of accommodating a great many guests. The rooms are large, hard-finished and handsomely furnished; there is an abundant supply of pure water, which can be carried to every part of the house, in case of fire, by means of hose; the table is furnished with fresh vegetables and meats from the numerous fine ranches in the valley, and lastly, Mr Stowe is a pleasant and accommodating landlord, and is ably seconded by Messrs Haines, Ellsworth and Bingham. These gentlemen will never allow you to get ill-humored for want of polite attention, as I gratefully remember, now, when I recall the stormy hours of Friday, when that accursed Awake-up-Jake was in me. But I haven't got to that, yet. God bless us! It is a world of trouble, and we are born to sorrow and tribulation, yet, am I chiefest among sinners, that I should be prematurely damned with Awake-up-Jake, while others not of the elect go free? I am trying to go on with my letter, but this thing bothers me; verily, from having Awake-up-Jake on the stomach for three days, I have finally got it on the brain. I am grateful for the change. But I digress.
THE HOSPITAL
Dr Ellis, the proprietor of the Springs, has erected a large, tastefully designed, and comfortable and well ventilated hospital, close to the bath-houses, and it is constantly filled with patients afflicted with all manner of diseases. It would be a very profitable institution, but a great many who come to it half dead, and leave it again restored to robust health, forget to pay for the benefits they have received. Others, when they arrive, confess at once that they are penniless, yet few men could look upon the sunken cheeks of these, and upon their attenuated forms and their pleading, faded eyes, and refuse them the shelter and assistance we all may need some day. Without expectation of reward, Dr Ellis gives back life, hope and health to many a despairing, poverty stricken devil; and when I think of this, it seems so strange that he could have had the meanness to give me that Awake-up-Jake. However, I am wandering away from the subject again. They treat all diseases (except confirmed consumption) successfully here. A multitude of invalids have attended these baths during the past three years, yet only an insignificant number of deaths have occurred among them. I want to impress one thing upon you: it is a mistaken notion that these Springs were created solely for the salvation of persons suffering venereal diseases. True, the fame of the baths rests chiefly upon the miracles performed upon such patients, and upon others afflicted with rheumatism, erysipelas, etc., but then all ordinary ailments can be quickly and pleasantly cured here without a resort to deadly physic. More than two-thirds of the people who come here are afflicted with venereal diseases, fellows who know that if Steamboat fails with them they may as well go to trading feet with the undertaker for a boxCyet all here agree that these baths are none the less potent where other diseases are concerned. I know lots of poor, feeble wretches in Virginia who could get a new lease of life by soaking their shadows in Steamboat Springs for a week or two. However, I must pass on to
THE BATHS
My friend Jim Miller has charge of these. Within a few days the new bath-house will be finished, and then twelve persons may bathe at once, or if they be sociable and choose to go on the double-bed principle, four times as many can enjoy the luxury at the same time. Persons afflicted with loathsome diseases use bath-rooms which are never entered by the other patients. You get up here about six o'clock in the morning and walk over to the bath-house; you undress in an ante room and take a cold shower-bath, or let it alone, if you choose; then you step into a sort of little dark closet floored with a wooden grating, up through which come puffs and volumes of the hottest steam you ever performed to, (because the awkwardest of us feel a hankering to waltz a little under such circumstances, you know), and then if you are alone, you resolve to have company thenceforward, since to swap comments upon your sensations with a friend, must render the dire heatless binding upon the human constitution. I had company always, and it was the pleasantest thing in the world to see a thin-skinned invalid cavorting around in the vapory obscurity, marveling at the rivers of sweat that coursed down his body, cursing the villainous smell of the steam and its bitter, salty taste, groping around meanwhile, for a cold corner, and backing finally, into the hottest one, and darting out again in a second, only remarking Outch!, and repeating it when he sits down, and springs up the same moment off the hot bench. This was fun of the most comfortable character; but nothing could be more agreeable than to put your eye to the little square hole in the door, and see your boiled and smoking comrade writhing under the cold shower-bath, to see him shrink till his shoulders are level with the top of his head, and then shut his eyes and gasp and catch his breath, while the cruel rain pattered down on his back and sent a ghastly shiver through every fibre of his body. It will always be a comfort to me to recall these little incidents. After the shower-bath, you return to the ante-room and scrub yourself all over with coarse towels until your hide glows like a parlor carpet, after which, you feel as elastic and vigorous as an acrobat. Then if you are sensible, you take no exercise, but just eat your breakfast and go to bed, you will find that an hour's nap will not hurt you any.
THE WAKE-UP-JAKE
A few days ago I fell a victim to my natural curiosity and my solicitude for the public weal. Everybody had something to say about Awake-up-Jake. If a man was low-spirited; if his appetite failed him; if he did not sleep well at night; if he were costive; if he were bilious; or in love; or in any other kind of trouble; or if he doubted the fidelity of his friends or the efficacy of his religion, there was always some one at his elbow to whisper, Take a wake-up, my boy. I sought to fathom the mystery, but all I could make out of it was that the Awake-up-Jake was a medicine as powerful as the servants of the lamp, the secret of whose decoction was hidden away in Dr Ellis' breast. I was not aware that I had any use for the wonderful Awake-up, but then I felt it to be my duty to try it, in order that a suffering public might profit by my experience, and I would cheerfully see that public suffer perdition before I would try it again. I called upon Dr Ellis with the air of a man who would create the impression that he is not so much of an ass as he looks, and demanded a Awake-up-Jake as unostentatiously as if that species of refreshment were not at all new to me. The Doctor hesitated a moment, and then fixed up as repulsive a mixture as ever was stirred together in a table-spoon. I swallowed the nauseous mess, and that one meal sufficed me for the space of forty-eight hours. And during all that time, I could not have enjoyed a viler taste in my mouth if I had swallowed a slaughter-house. I lay down with all my clothes on, and with an utter indifference to my fate here or hereafter, and slept like a statue from six o'clock until noon. I got up, then, the sickest man that ever yearned to vomit and couldn't. All the dead and decaying matter in nature seemed buried in my stomach, and I heaved, and retched, and heaved again, but I could not compass a resurrection my dead would not come forth. Finally, after rumbling, and growling, and producing agony and chaos within me for many hours, the dreadful dose began its work, and for the space of twelve hours it vomited me, and purged me, and likewise caused me to bleed at the nose. I came out of that siege as weak as an infant, and went to the bath with Palmer, of Wells, Fargo & Co, and it was well I had company, for it was about all he could do to keep me from boiling the remnant of my life out in the hot steam. I had reached that stage wherein a man experiences a solemn indifference as to whether school keeps or not. Since then, I have gradually regained my strength and my appetite, and am now animated by a higher degree of vigor than I have felt for many a day. 'Tis well. This result seduces many a man into taking a second, and even a third Awake-up-Jake, but I think I can worry along without any more of them. I am about as thoroughly waked up now as I care to be. My stomach never had such a scouring out since I was born. I feel like a jug. If I could get young Wilson or the Unreliable to take a Awake-up-Jake, I would do it, of course, but I shall never swallow another myself I would sooner have a locomotive travel through me. And besides, I never intend to experiment in physic any more, just out of idle curiosity. A Awake-up-Jake will furbish a man's machinery up and give him a fresh start in the world but I feel I shall never need anything of that sort any more. It would put robust health, and life and vim into young Wilson and the UnreliableCbut then they always look with suspicion upon any suggestion that I make.
GOOD-BYE
Well, I am going home to Virginia to-day, though I dislike to part from the jolly boys (not to mention iced milk for breakfast, with eggs laid to order, and spiced oysters after midnight with the Reverend Jack Holmes and Bingham) at the Steamboat Springs Hotel. In conclusion, let me recommend to such of my fellow citizens as are in feeble health, or are wearied out with the cares of business, to come down and try the hotel, and the steam baths, and the facetious wake-up-Jake. These will give them rest, and moving recreation as it were.
One of the nicest bars in Gran Alacant IMO
Although you do have to go through the ritual of tapas roulette* every time you have a beer.
*One in three is guaranteed to churn the old gut factory - in my case it was a fishbone that made me do the Iberian heave-ho, reducing me to retching heap in the lavvy :D
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
The Castle, Newcastle is a medieval fortification in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, built on the site of the fortress which gave the City of Newcastle its name. The most prominent remaining structures on the site are the Castle Keep, the castle's main fortified stone tower, and the Black Gate, its fortified gatehouse.
Use of the site for defensive purposes dates from Roman times, when it housed a fort and settlement called Pons Aelius, guarding a bridge over the River Tyne. In 1080, a wooden motte and bailey style castle was built on the site of the Roman fort, which was the 'New Castle upon Tyne'. It was built by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror, having returned south from a campaign against Malcolm III of Scotland. The stone Castle Keep was built between 1172 and 1177 by Henry II on the site of Curthose's castle. The Black Gate was added between 1247 and 1250 by Henry III.
The site is in the centre of Newcastle, and lies to the east of Newcastle Central Station. The 75 feet (23 m) gap between the Keep and the Gatehouse is almost entirely filled by a railway viaduct, carrying the East Coast Main Line from Newcastle to Scotland. The Castle Keep and Black Gate pre-dated the construction of the Newcastle town wall, construction of which started sometime around 1265, and did not form part of it. Nothing remains of the Roman fort or the original motte and bailey castle. The Keep is a Grade I listed building, and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.
The Keep and Black Gate are now managed by the Old Newcastle Project under the Heart of the City Partnership as one combined visitor attraction, Newcastle Castle.
In the mid-2nd century, the Romans built the first bridge to cross the River Tyne at the place where Newcastle now stands. The bridge was called Pons Aelius or ‘Bridge of Aelius’, Aelius being the family name of Emperor Hadrian, who was responsible for the Roman wall built along Tyne-Solway Gap. The Romans built a fort to protect the river crossing which was at the foot of the Tyne Gorge. The fort was situated on rocky outcrop overlooking the new bridge.[1]
At some unknown time in the Anglo-Saxon age, the site of Newcastle came to be known as Monkchester. In the late 7th century, a cemetery was established on the site of the Roman castle.
In 1080, the Norman king, William I, sent his eldest son, Robert Curthose, north to defend the kingdom against the Scots. After his campaign, he moved to Monkchester and began the building of a ‘New Castle’. This was of the “motte-and-bailey” type of construction, a wooden tower on top of an earthen mound (motte), surrounded by a moat and wooden stockade (bailey).[2]
In 1095, the Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Mowbray, rose up against William Rufus and Rufus sent an army north to crush the revolt and to capture the castle. From then on the castle became crown property and was an important base from which the king could control the northern barons.
Not a trace of the tower or mound of the motte and bailey castle remains now. Henry II replaced it with a rectangular stone keep, which was built between 1172 and 1177 at a cost of £1,444. A stone bailey, in the form of a triangle, replaced the previous wooden one. The master mason or architect, Maurice, also built Dover Castle. The great outer gateway to the castle, called ‘the Black Gate’, was built later, between 1247 and 1250, in the reign of Henry III.[3]
Additional protection to the castle was provided late in the 13th century when stone walls were constructed, with towers, to enclose the town. Ironically, the safety provided by the town walls led to the neglect of the fabric of the castle. In 1589, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the castle was described as being ruinous.[4] From the early 17th century onward, this situation was made worse by the construction of shops and houses on much of the site.
In 1643, during the English Civil War, the Royalist Mayor of Newcastle, Sir John Marley, repaired the keep and probably also refortified the castle. In 1644 the Scottish army crossed the border in support of the Parliamentarians and the Scottish troops besieged Newcastle for three months until the garrison surrendered. The town walls were extensively damaged and the final forces to surrender on 19 October 1644 did so from the Castle keep.[5]
During the 16th to the 18th century, the keep was used as a prison. By 1800, there were a large number of houses within the boundaries of the castle.
HBC note ** Don't I feel a proper berk! This should have been episode 2, but for one reason or another it wasn't. ** So here's Elina reflecting on how she first met Skarr in the first place...**
From “My encounters with the Barbarians blade”, by Lady Elina Greypepper
Being bound in slavery has a strange effect on one’s being…and as Skarr and I found ourselves in greater difficulties than ever before, I began to remember how Skarr and I had first met. Rather than being mere weeks ago, It seemed like years since I had arranged an expedition to Arlaheim for rare ingredients, and ran into trouble with slavers for the first time. I recall that I first met the Cock o’ the North shortly after she defeated the wyrm…
“The screams and catcalls of the forest had died down a little over the last few hours of Skarr’s trek. She was grateful, the wound in her thigh needed more attention than her ministrations of water and a bit of rag to tie round could give, and she felt it going numb. She was slowing slightly on her trek, but her fury carried her along. She repeated the names in her head, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds, over and over, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds. Four names that made her blood rise and carry her on through the forest. Gunnerson had been the one to hold her down, Macleish had bound her, Taggarhey had wrestled her into a sack and Bunds had thrown her into the icy ocean. Her four warlords, the terror of the north. Gunnerson she would kill first. When the Northmen had been routed along the banks of the Green road, he had fled over the hills into Samaria. She had found this out from a band of marauders shortly after being washed ashore, gasping for life. He would die first, Doomsayer would have the kill. Bunds she would save until last. He had been her closest ally, her friend since her childhood; they had been of the same tribe, the Tanra. She had been securely tied and sealed within the burlap sack; he had been the one to stab her, a callous and cruel act. For that, Bunds would pay. She would kill him the last of all. Skarr would make sure he heard of the deaths of his murderous dishonourable friends, and then she would kill him. Not with Doomsayer. With her own bare hands.
As she walked, she heard a cry from just off the forest path.
“Help”, came the voice, “please, traveller!” it cried.
Skarr entered the forest clearing and saw the figure, a female, bedraggled and shoeless, chained securely to a tree.
“Undo me traveller!” cried the girl, “the Panther women have me. They intend to sell me into slavery. They sell us to Samarian traders! I am an apothecary and valuable to them!”
Skarr thought for a moment, considering her response,
“But”, she began in her thick accented broken Imperial tongue, “if I was to free you, you would die at the hands of either the Panthers, of at the hands of the beasts that roam here! If I leave you tied, the Panthers will look after you and keep you safe, dushka! I will not be the one who causes your death. Farewell.”
Skarr turned on her heel and walked off through the forest, ignoring the girl’s plaintive cries and the clanking of her chains as she struggled.
After a few minutes, Skarr became aware of someone tracking her from beyond the path, and she tensed her lithe body slightly. She continued to walk, smelling the air. Human, definitely human, she decided. She moved to the other side of the path, so to draw the attacker out onto the path. Suddenly a figure clad in furs leapt with speed at her and the two of them collapsed onto the dirt. The Panther girl wrestled herself on top of Skarr with a ferocious energy.
“These are our lands!!” the Panther spitted at her, “We get a good price for you, Norther bitch. You make good strong slave for Samaria!”
Skarr relaxed her arm muscles and let the Panther pin her arms to the ground. Then she quickly raised her leg, delivering a knee to the girl’s stomach, making her retch. Skarr threw the Panther woman onto her back, delivering an uppercut to the jaw, before standing and delivering a swift kick in her side.
Skarr surveyed her whimpering opponent,
“Pah!” she exclaimed, “I would not sully the steel of Doomsayer with your hide. Tell your tribe to stay away from me, or I will make a mountain of your severed heads!”
The girl attempted to crawl away into the forest with a whimper, but Skarr kicked her in the side harshly again, and she fell still.
Muttering a Norther curse under her breath and shaking her head, Skarr began to retrace her steps to where the prisoner had been. Sure enough, there she was, securely chained to the tree. She had given up her struggles and stood quietly.
“It would appear, Dushka, “Skarr began, “That I have either frightened away or killed your captor”.
“You can’t just leave me here!” the girl cried.
“No. I cannot!” Skarr said, thinking, “Or you will die here”.
“May I travel with you?” the girl asked, “The beasts will tear me apart, unless the other Panthers get me first!”
“Keep up the pace, and look after yourself”, Skarr replied brusquely, “I’m not a nursemaid. If you slow me, I will kill you myself.”
The girl nodded, and watched as Skarr, with three quick tugs, snapped the girl’s chains, letting them tumble to the ground with a clatter.
“Thank you”, said the girl with relief, “I’m Elina. I make potions and incantations. I can look at your wound if you’d like.”
Skarr muttered another Norther curse, before spinning on her heel and stomping off along the path, cursing in her own tongue. Elina ran along after her, suddenly feeling hundreds of eyes watching her and the barbarian as they moved through the forest. Had she just jumped from the frying pan into the fire? Elina didn’t know.”
Suddenly, Elina was shaken from her thoughts by the barking order of a slaver...
Organic panella - dried-whole, natural sugar cane.
panella is an unrefined sugar, widely recognised for its unique caramel flavour, fine grain texture and golden colour. perfect for baking & coffee.
origin: hacienda lucerna
valle region, columbia
Tasted like good brown sugar, with a pleasant, almost flowery, caramel flavour.
---
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
The Castle, Newcastle is a medieval fortification in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, built on the site of the fortress which gave the City of Newcastle its name. The most prominent remaining structures on the site are the Castle Keep, the castle's main fortified stone tower, and the Black Gate, its fortified gatehouse.
Use of the site for defensive purposes dates from Roman times, when it housed a fort and settlement called Pons Aelius, guarding a bridge over the River Tyne. In 1080, a wooden motte and bailey style castle was built on the site of the Roman fort, which was the 'New Castle upon Tyne'. It was built by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror, having returned south from a campaign against Malcolm III of Scotland. The stone Castle Keep was built between 1172 and 1177 by Henry II on the site of Curthose's castle. The Black Gate was added between 1247 and 1250 by Henry III.
The site is in the centre of Newcastle, and lies to the east of Newcastle Central Station. The 75 feet (23 m) gap between the Keep and the Gatehouse is almost entirely filled by a railway viaduct, carrying the East Coast Main Line from Newcastle to Scotland. The Castle Keep and Black Gate pre-dated the construction of the Newcastle town wall, construction of which started sometime around 1265, and did not form part of it. Nothing remains of the Roman fort or the original motte and bailey castle. The Keep is a Grade I listed building, and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.
The Keep and Black Gate are now managed by the Old Newcastle Project under the Heart of the City Partnership as one combined visitor attraction, Newcastle Castle.
In the mid-2nd century, the Romans built the first bridge to cross the River Tyne at the place where Newcastle now stands. The bridge was called Pons Aelius or ‘Bridge of Aelius’, Aelius being the family name of Emperor Hadrian, who was responsible for the Roman wall built along Tyne-Solway Gap. The Romans built a fort to protect the river crossing which was at the foot of the Tyne Gorge. The fort was situated on rocky outcrop overlooking the new bridge.[1]
At some unknown time in the Anglo-Saxon age, the site of Newcastle came to be known as Monkchester. In the late 7th century, a cemetery was established on the site of the Roman castle.
In 1080, the Norman king, William I, sent his eldest son, Robert Curthose, north to defend the kingdom against the Scots. After his campaign, he moved to Monkchester and began the building of a ‘New Castle’. This was of the “motte-and-bailey” type of construction, a wooden tower on top of an earthen mound (motte), surrounded by a moat and wooden stockade (bailey).[2]
In 1095, the Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Mowbray, rose up against William Rufus and Rufus sent an army north to crush the revolt and to capture the castle. From then on the castle became crown property and was an important base from which the king could control the northern barons.
Not a trace of the tower or mound of the motte and bailey castle remains now. Henry II replaced it with a rectangular stone keep, which was built between 1172 and 1177 at a cost of £1,444. A stone bailey, in the form of a triangle, replaced the previous wooden one. The master mason or architect, Maurice, also built Dover Castle. The great outer gateway to the castle, called ‘the Black Gate’, was built later, between 1247 and 1250, in the reign of Henry III.[3]
Additional protection to the castle was provided late in the 13th century when stone walls were constructed, with towers, to enclose the town. Ironically, the safety provided by the town walls led to the neglect of the fabric of the castle. In 1589, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the castle was described as being ruinous.[4] From the early 17th century onward, this situation was made worse by the construction of shops and houses on much of the site.
In 1643, during the English Civil War, the Royalist Mayor of Newcastle, Sir John Marley, repaired the keep and probably also refortified the castle. In 1644 the Scottish army crossed the border in support of the Parliamentarians and the Scottish troops besieged Newcastle for three months until the garrison surrendered. The town walls were extensively damaged and the final forces to surrender on 19 October 1644 did so from the Castle keep.[5]
During the 16th to the 18th century, the keep was used as a prison. By 1800, there were a large number of houses within the boundaries of the castle.
Why Vaccination Is Important For Your Pets | Vaccination Clinic In Singapore
Vaccination clinics in Singapore help forestall numerous illnesses that influence pets. Inoculating your pet has for some time been viewed as perhaps the most straightforward approaches to assist him with living a long, sound life. Not exclusively are there various antibodies for various illnesses, there are various sorts and mixes of immunizations. Immunization is a method that has dangers and advantages that must be weighed for each pet comparative with his way of life and wellbeing. Your veterinarian can decide an immunization system that will give the most secure and best insurance for your individual creature
Understanding vaccine
Vaccination help set up the body's invulnerable framework to battle the intrusion of malady causing life forms. Antibodies contain antigens, which appear as though the ailment making living being the insusceptible framework yet don't really cause illness. At the point when the antibody is acquainted with the body, the safe framework is somewhat invigorated. In the event that a pet is ever presented to the genuine infection, his safe framework is currently arranged to perceive and ward it off totally or lessen the seriousness of the sickness.
Core vaccine
Core immunizations are viewed as indispensable to all pets dependent on danger of introduction, seriousness of malady or contagiousness to people.
Cat core vaccines
Cat Calicivirus and Feline Rhinotracheitis: the two infections most ordinarily liable for upper respiratory contaminations in felines and little cats. They are incredibly regular infections and practically all felines will be presented to them sooner or later in the course of their life.
Cat Panleukopenia: otherwise called 'cat distemper,' this kind of parvovirus can end up being lethal for contaminated felines.
Other vaccination for cats
Chlamydia: a bacterial contamination that causes serious conjunctivitis. It is regularly remembered for the distemper blend antibody.
Cat Leukemia (Felv): a viral disease that is communicated through close contact. This immunization is commonly just suggested for felines that head outside.
Core dog vaccines
Distemper: an exceptionally infectious and frequently lethal viral contamination. It influences the respiratory and sensory systems.
Hepatitis: a viral disease of the liver which can prompt serious kidney harm.
Parvovirus: an exceptionally infectious and frequently lethal viral sickness that is portrayed by extreme retching and ridiculous loose bowels prompting lack of hydration. Youthful little dogs are particularly defenseless.
Other vaccination for dogs
Lyme Disease: this bacterial disorder comes about as a result of being smacked by a corrupted deer tick. Lyme ailment can cause constant and troublesome insufficiencies, for instance, kidney disillusionment, floundering, similarly as drawn out joint and muscle torture.
Leptospirosis: this bacterial malady is passed on by various wild animals and most normally imparted to canines through contact with polluted water, soil, mud or pee. This ailment causes liver and kidney disease and can be fatal. It is zoonotic, which infers, like rabies, it might be sent from various animals to individuals.
Bordetella: this bacterium adds to the respiratory disease known as pet inn hack. Canines are in peril when introduced to various canines in pet inns, preparing workplaces, instructional courses, day care and canine parks.
Influenza: this significantly irresistible respiratory ailment can essentially influence canines. There are two known strains of canine influenza that have been represented.
Creature antibody science is a substantially more ongoing advancement contrasted with that read in and produced for people. Inside the most recent decade, upgrades in veterinary clinic medication have diminished the dangers related with antibodies and had a tremendous effect on our pet's wellbeing and prosperity. All things considered, antibodies keep on being a subject of discussion. With more logical examinations being led than any other time in recent memory, pet guardians are getting more incredulous and instructing themselves to guarantee their pets maintain a strategic distance from genuine medical problems and possibly deadly symptoms.
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
Skarr the Barbarian - Vampires
Yolande Fireheart walked in the light undergrowth of the woods just outside the Imperial city, her black wool cape and hood trailing behind her. She normally loved the smell of the early morning dew, and the sounds of the waking animals and birds. Reminded her of home in the Northlands, where her father would already be awakened hours before and working at his blades at the Fireheart Forge. She was supposedly looking for fresh mineral deposits, for her own forge, right here in the city, but her mind was elsewhere. Ever since she had met the Countess….
Not that Yolande was swung that way, but when she had first met the Countess of Richtenburg for the sale of a hundred swords for La Comtessa’s men, she had been struck with the woman. Countess Gabriella of Richtenburg was almost hypnotic and sensual, and tickled Yolande’s nerves beyond what the young Norther woman had thought possible. And, in their subsequent meetings, when Gabriella had admitted to being a vampire, a fiend, the very demon her father had warned her against, she still could not take the courage to shout for the watch. The way the Countess explained the advantages of undeath, Yolande longed for blood kiss, the caress that would turn her vampire . The feeling did not fade when she was alone, the petty squabbles of city life, jealousies and rivalries, all Yolande saw or felt were those delicious fangs sinking into her flesh…
…and so, she had come to look for mineral deposits. Normally, the job of kneeling in the earth and tearing her fingernails on the rocks till they bled reminded her of her own mortality, and of home. But not today. She thought only of Gabriella.
And so it became fitting when the small, raven haired Countess silently appeared behind her.
“Where…where did you….”, spluttered Yolande Fireheart, reaching for her blade, with which to attack the vampire.
Gabriella ignored the blade, and walked closer to Yolande,
“Shhhh now, sweetness, it’ all going to be fine”, she murmured.
Yolande stood there, in the morning air, shaking as Gabriella approached her, clad in the “Gabby the fisher girl” disguise she had been affecting recently. Gabriella stroked Yolande’s hair gently, cradling the blonde Norther’s head in her arms. Instinctively, Yolande tilted her head on one side and bared her neck for the vampire,
“Shhhh”, reassured Gabriella, “it won’t hurt. It’ll all be over soon, my darling.”
Yolande closed her eyes as Gabriella’s long fangs emerged from her mouth. Gripping Yolande’s head in her emerging claws, she bit deep into the jugular vein in Yolande’s neck, sinking her sharp fangs in. Gabriella held the Norther woman in her strong grasp as her body spasmed and instinctively tried to get away. Then, as Gabriella drunk deep of the delicious rich blood, she felt Yolande’s body relax into warm ecstasy.
Yolande’s vision became hazy. She remembered parts, not all. She remembered her vision fading in the harsh heat of the suddenly burning sun. How did Gabriella stand to be outside in such heat? The morning sun made her skin feel like it was almost on fire. She remembered the revolting smells coming from the sellers of cooked meats in the market, horrible retching smells of dead flesh.
And the delicious throb of the veins on their necks as the rich blood pumped in their warm bodies…
Yolande woke with a start. It was darkness outside, the middle of the night. Had the meeting with Gabriella all been a dream???
Organic panella - dried-whole, natural sugar cane.
panella is an unrefined sugar, widely recognised for its unique caramel flavour, fine grain texture and golden colour. perfect for baking & coffee.
origin: hacienda lucerna
valle region, columbia
Tasted like good brown sugar, with a pleasant, almost flowery, caramel flavour.
---
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
----------------------------------------------------
The Gateshead Millennium Bridge is a pedestrian and cyclist tilt bridge spanning the River Tyne in England between Gateshead's Quays arts quarter on the south bank, and the Quayside of Newcastle upon Tyne on the north bank. Opened for public use in 2001, the award-winning structure was conceived and designed by architect Wilkinson Eyre and structural engineer Gifford.[1] The bridge is sometimes referred to as the 'Blinking Eye Bridge'[2] or the 'Winking Eye Bridge'[3] due to its shape and its tilting method. In terms of height, the Gateshead Millennium Bridge is slightly shorter than the neighbouring Tyne Bridge, and stands as the sixteenth tallest structure in the city.
The bridge was lifted into place in one piece by the Asian Hercules II,[4] one of the world's largest floating cranes, on 20 November 2000. It was opened to the public on 17 September 2001,[5] and was dedicated by Queen Elizabeth II on 7 May 2002.[6] The bridge, which cost £22m to build, was part funded by the Millennium Commission and European Regional Development Fund. It was built by Volker Stevin.[7]
Six 45 cm (18 in) diameter hydraulic rams (three on each side, each powered by a 55 kW electric motor) rotate the bridge back on large bearings to allow small ships and boats (up to 25 m (82 ft) tall) to pass underneath. The bridge takes as little as 4.5 minutes to rotate through the full 40° from closed to open, depending on wind speed. Its appearance during this manoeuvre has led to it being nicknamed the "Blinking Eye Bridge".[5]
The bridge has operated reliably since construction, opening to allow river traffic to pass. It also opens periodically for sightseers and for major events such as the Northumbrian Water University Boat Race and the Cutty Sark Tall Ships' Race. One of the principal requirements for opening the bridge is to allow access to HMS Calliope where Royal Navy patrol boat HMS Example is based.
The construction of the bridge won the architects Wilkinson Eyre the 2002 Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) Stirling Prize.[8] and won Gifford the 2003 IStructE Supreme Award.[9] In 2005, the bridge received the Outstanding Structure Award[10] from International Association for Bridge and Structural Engineering (IABSE).
Bollards, known as the Vessel Collision Protection System, were installed when the bridge was built to protect it from collisions. However, the bollards became unsightly, and it became noted that they were not really needed. They were removed in March 2012.[11]
Tilt times for the bridge are displayed both on the bridge itself, and also on a page on the Gateshead Council website.
Like it's not bad enough that I'm allergic to the entire season- but does it have to SMELL like cum too? It's like Nature's little ha-ha joke on us.
I'm just strolling around, admiring the flowers and soaking up some sun and *WHAM* I walk right into an invisible cloud of tree jiz that shoots up my nose. So not only am I sneezing, but I'm also retching and spluttering as every unpleasant experience involving that particular scent flashes through my memory...
Fu** spring, man. Seriously.
*sniff* It just ain't right...
(Beware of medium size trees with heavy boughs of white flowers. Those are the bastards responsible.)
HBC note ** Don't I feel a proper berk! This should have been episode 2, but for one reason or another it wasn't. ** So here's Elina reflecting on how she first met Skarr in the first place...**
From “My encounters with the Barbarians blade”, by Lady Elina Greypepper
Being bound in slavery has a strange effect on one’s being…and as Skarr and I found ourselves in greater difficulties than ever before, I began to remember how Skarr and I had first met. Rather than being mere weeks ago, It seemed like years since I had arranged an expedition to Arlaheim for rare ingredients, and ran into trouble with slavers for the first time. I recall that I first met the Cock o’ the North shortly after she defeated the wyrm…
“The screams and catcalls of the forest had died down a little over the last few hours of Skarr’s trek. She was grateful, the wound in her thigh needed more attention than her ministrations of water and a bit of rag to tie round could give, and she felt it going numb. She was slowing slightly on her trek, but her fury carried her along. She repeated the names in her head, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds, over and over, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds. Four names that made her blood rise and carry her on through the forest. Gunnerson had been the one to hold her down, Macleish had bound her, Taggarhey had wrestled her into a sack and Bunds had thrown her into the icy ocean. Her four warlords, the terror of the north. Gunnerson she would kill first. When the Northmen had been routed along the banks of the Green road, he had fled over the hills into Samaria. She had found this out from a band of marauders shortly after being washed ashore, gasping for life. He would die first, Doomsayer would have the kill. Bunds she would save until last. He had been her closest ally, her friend since her childhood; they had been of the same tribe, the Tanra. She had been securely tied and sealed within the burlap sack; he had been the one to stab her, a callous and cruel act. For that, Bunds would pay. She would kill him the last of all. Skarr would make sure he heard of the deaths of his murderous dishonourable friends, and then she would kill him. Not with Doomsayer. With her own bare hands.
As she walked, she heard a cry from just off the forest path.
“Help”, came the voice, “please, traveller!” it cried.
Skarr entered the forest clearing and saw the figure, a female, bedraggled and shoeless, chained securely to a tree.
“Undo me traveller!” cried the girl, “the Panther women have me. They intend to sell me into slavery. They sell us to Samarian traders! I am an apothecary and valuable to them!”
Skarr thought for a moment, considering her response,
“But”, she began in her thick accented broken Imperial tongue, “if I was to free you, you would die at the hands of either the Panthers, of at the hands of the beasts that roam here! If I leave you tied, the Panthers will look after you and keep you safe, dushka! I will not be the one who causes your death. Farewell.”
Skarr turned on her heel and walked off through the forest, ignoring the girl’s plaintive cries and the clanking of her chains as she struggled.
After a few minutes, Skarr became aware of someone tracking her from beyond the path, and she tensed her lithe body slightly. She continued to walk, smelling the air. Human, definitely human, she decided. She moved to the other side of the path, so to draw the attacker out onto the path. Suddenly a figure clad in furs leapt with speed at her and the two of them collapsed onto the dirt. The Panther girl wrestled herself on top of Skarr with a ferocious energy.
“These are our lands!!” the Panther spitted at her, “We get a good price for you, Norther bitch. You make good strong slave for Samaria!”
Skarr relaxed her arm muscles and let the Panther pin her arms to the ground. Then she quickly raised her leg, delivering a knee to the girl’s stomach, making her retch. Skarr threw the Panther woman onto her back, delivering an uppercut to the jaw, before standing and delivering a swift kick in her side.
Skarr surveyed her whimpering opponent,
“Pah!” she exclaimed, “I would not sully the steel of Doomsayer with your hide. Tell your tribe to stay away from me, or I will make a mountain of your severed heads!”
The girl attempted to crawl away into the forest with a whimper, but Skarr kicked her in the side harshly again, and she fell still.
Muttering a Norther curse under her breath and shaking her head, Skarr began to retrace her steps to where the prisoner had been. Sure enough, there she was, securely chained to the tree. She had given up her struggles and stood quietly.
“It would appear, Dushka, “Skarr began, “That I have either frightened away or killed your captor”.
“You can’t just leave me here!” the girl cried.
“No. I cannot!” Skarr said, thinking, “Or you will die here”.
“May I travel with you?” the girl asked, “The beasts will tear me apart, unless the other Panthers get me first!”
“Keep up the pace, and look after yourself”, Skarr replied brusquely, “I’m not a nursemaid. If you slow me, I will kill you myself.”
The girl nodded, and watched as Skarr, with three quick tugs, snapped the girl’s chains, letting them tumble to the ground with a clatter.
“Thank you”, said the girl with relief, “I’m Elina. I make potions and incantations. I can look at your wound if you’d like.”
Skarr muttered another Norther curse, before spinning on her heel and stomping off along the path, cursing in her own tongue. Elina ran along after her, suddenly feeling hundreds of eyes watching her and the barbarian as they moved through the forest. Had she just jumped from the frying pan into the fire? Elina didn’t know.”
Suddenly, Elina was shaken from her thoughts by the barking order of a slaver...
It was only a matter of time before they caught up with me I suppose in Hindsight starting a war with one of the worlds most powerful vampire hunters probably wasn't my smartest move how ever will i get out of this retched place
Skarr the Barbarian - Vampires
Yolande Fireheart walked in the light undergrowth of the woods just outside the Imperial city, her black wool cape and hood trailing behind her. She normally loved the smell of the early morning dew, and the sounds of the waking animals and birds. Reminded her of home in the Northlands, where her father would already be awakened hours before and working at his blades at the Fireheart Forge. She was supposedly looking for fresh mineral deposits, for her own forge, right here in the city, but her mind was elsewhere. Ever since she had met the Countess….
Not that Yolande was swung that way, but when she had first met the Countess of Richtenburg for the sale of a hundred swords for La Comtessa’s men, she had been struck with the woman. Countess Gabriella of Richtenburg was almost hypnotic and sensual, and tickled Yolande’s nerves beyond what the young Norther woman had thought possible. And, in their subsequent meetings, when Gabriella had admitted to being a vampire, a fiend, the very demon her father had warned her against, she still could not take the courage to shout for the watch. The way the Countess explained the advantages of undeath, Yolande longed for blood kiss, the caress that would turn her vampire . The feeling did not fade when she was alone, the petty squabbles of city life, jealousies and rivalries, all Yolande saw or felt were those delicious fangs sinking into her flesh…
…and so, she had come to look for mineral deposits. Normally, the job of kneeling in the earth and tearing her fingernails on the rocks till they bled reminded her of her own mortality, and of home. But not today. She thought only of Gabriella.
And so it became fitting when the small, raven haired Countess silently appeared behind her.
“Where…where did you….”, spluttered Yolande Fireheart, reaching for her blade, with which to attack the vampire.
Gabriella ignored the blade, and walked closer to Yolande,
“Shhhh now, sweetness, it’ all going to be fine”, she murmured.
Yolande stood there, in the morning air, shaking as Gabriella approached her, clad in the “Gabby the fisher girl” disguise she had been affecting recently. Gabriella stroked Yolande’s hair gently, cradling the blonde Norther’s head in her arms. Instinctively, Yolande tilted her head on one side and bared her neck for the vampire,
“Shhhh”, reassured Gabriella, “it won’t hurt. It’ll all be over soon, my darling.”
Yolande closed her eyes as Gabriella’s long fangs emerged from her mouth. Gripping Yolande’s head in her emerging claws, she bit deep into the jugular vein in Yolande’s neck, sinking her sharp fangs in. Gabriella held the Norther woman in her strong grasp as her body spasmed and instinctively tried to get away. Then, as Gabriella drunk deep of the delicious rich blood, she felt Yolande’s body relax into warm ecstasy.
Yolande’s vision became hazy. She remembered parts, not all. She remembered her vision fading in the harsh heat of the suddenly burning sun. How did Gabriella stand to be outside in such heat? The morning sun made her skin feel like it was almost on fire. She remembered the revolting smells coming from the sellers of cooked meats in the market, horrible retching smells of dead flesh.
And the delicious throb of the veins on their necks as the rich blood pumped in their warm bodies…
Yolande woke with a start. It was darkness outside, the middle of the night. Had the meeting with Gabriella all been a dream???
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
I wish I could have gotten a better photo of this great sign, but it was not to be. I don't even remember where it is -- some town between Branson and OKC.
We were driving home from a great weekend skiing at Table Rock Lake, going to Silver Dollar City, and exploring area caves when my older son, Jack, aged six, decides that he's feeling a bit queazy -- just a few miles into our journey from Branson. So, we stop to let his stomach settle a bit and take some medicine to pass him out -- always the best remedy when we're in a car for a long time and he's not feeling well.
After a few minutes, Jack says he's better and we're back on the road -- a windy country road with miles between stops and an ever-darkening, forboding sky accompanying us. Can you tell that pretty things are not about to happen?
We're driving along and after a few minutes of complete silence from Jack (something that NEVER happens with my chatterbox son), I hear my younger son, Will (aged four), scream the words I've been dreading for the last 30 minutes, "Jack's getting sick all over himself!" "EEWWWW!!!," Will is hollering in disgust; Jack is white-faced and hurling his breakfast (pancakes and sausage) all over his lap; my husband starts retching at the smell of it all; and at that exact moment, the sky finally opens and sheets of rain begin to pour.
Lovely.
Chuck pulls the car over to the narrow shoulder because there is no place to stop for miles, and we brave the downpour to help Jack, who is now crying as hard as he was throwing up a minute ago. We strip the poor lad down to his underwear and try to clean up the mess as much as we can until we hit the next town, a whopping 20 miles away.
Back on the road, the stink in the car is so overwhelming that we brave the pelting rain and roll down all of the windows so that we won't be overcome by the fumes. We drive like this until we arrive at the next town and, thank God, find hose at a gas station that we can use to rinse everything, including a nearly naked and now-shivering Jack. We buy some trash bags in which to dump rinsed but still smelly clothing, floor mats, towels, etc., then we're on our way again.
Back on the road -- and only one hour into our long, six-hour journey -- we think that all is well until I look back at Jack and see an ashen face that matches the gray and gloomy sky. Oh no! Not again....
Sure enough, he didn't get all of his breakfast out the first time and proceeds to projectile vomit all over himself and the floor, devoid of floor mats this time. Will thinks it's a joke this time and starts hysterically laughing, but Jack looks like he's going to die right there on that lonely country road out in the middle of nowhere in the pouring rain.
Jack (looking like he's gasping his last breath, he's so gray now): "U-u-g-h-h!"
Chuck (stopping the car as fast as he can on a wet road -- luckily, there is no one else around to run into): "Damnit! Stick your head out the window, Jack. The car. We just got it cleaned up! *&%#! #%#@!"
Me (calming my sick child, or my husband -- I can't tell which.): "It's okay, baby. You're okay. Everything will be fine."
Will (now trying to calm everyone, including himself -- or just traumatized by it all and going off into his own world): "You know, Jaws is just a big fish, that's all. Just a big fish. Nothing to be scared of." (He has just gone through an obsession with sharks and is terrified of them.)
We've used all of our towels and supplies cleaning up the first wave of sick, and we have nothing left to clean this doozie of a mess but the clothing we wore over the weekend. So, we pile through our suitcases looking for something absorbant and find a few shirts and a skirt we can use to wipe up the floor, door, seat, carseat, and Jack himself. After 10 minutes of erasing up every last bit of gunk and putting Jack in his last clean pair of underwear, we pile back in the car, give Jack an old cup to hold in case he needs to barf again, and are once again on our way.
At the next town -- 30 miles down the rainy road this time -- we luck out and find a car wash, scrub everything down one more time, find Jack a bigger cup in case he needs it (he does), and try it all again.
Somewhere along the way on this nightmare journey, I miraculously had the presense of mind to spot this great sign and snap it. I wish I could have stopped and taken a better photo of it, but by this time, I just wanted to hurry and get home and into a fresh-smelling environment.
If anyone has any idea of where this sign is located, I'd be interested to know.
2014/06/07(sat)
Asshole Carnival Vol.2
at Earthdom
ANAL VOLCANO
Mecosario (岡崎)
Retch
GO-ZEN
SAIGAN TERROR
ZENOCIDE
DJ : LOVEJUICE
In the 1980s, art star Jeff Koons creates an oversized porcelain figurine of the Pop Icon as part of a series titled "Banality". Audiences simultaneously retch and swoon over the work, debating its cultural significance, while the Koons experiences a meteoric rise to the top of the art world with his italian pornstar wife.
All shot with the 10-20mm.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
HBC note ** Don't I feel a proper berk! This should have been episode 2, but for one reason or another it wasn't. ** So here's Elina reflecting on how she first met Skarr in the first place...**
From “My encounters with the Barbarians blade”, by Lady Elina Greypepper
Being bound in slavery has a strange effect on one’s being…and as Skarr and I found ourselves in greater difficulties than ever before, I began to remember how Skarr and I had first met. Rather than being mere weeks ago, It seemed like years since I had arranged an expedition to Arlaheim for rare ingredients, and ran into trouble with slavers for the first time. I recall that I first met the Cock o’ the North shortly after she defeated the wyrm…
“The screams and catcalls of the forest had died down a little over the last few hours of Skarr’s trek. She was grateful, the wound in her thigh needed more attention than her ministrations of water and a bit of rag to tie round could give, and she felt it going numb. She was slowing slightly on her trek, but her fury carried her along. She repeated the names in her head, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds, over and over, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds. Four names that made her blood rise and carry her on through the forest. Gunnerson had been the one to hold her down, Macleish had bound her, Taggarhey had wrestled her into a sack and Bunds had thrown her into the icy ocean. Her four warlords, the terror of the north. Gunnerson she would kill first. When the Northmen had been routed along the banks of the Green road, he had fled over the hills into Samaria. She had found this out from a band of marauders shortly after being washed ashore, gasping for life. He would die first, Doomsayer would have the kill. Bunds she would save until last. He had been her closest ally, her friend since her childhood; they had been of the same tribe, the Tanra. She had been securely tied and sealed within the burlap sack; he had been the one to stab her, a callous and cruel act. For that, Bunds would pay. She would kill him the last of all. Skarr would make sure he heard of the deaths of his murderous dishonourable friends, and then she would kill him. Not with Doomsayer. With her own bare hands.
As she walked, she heard a cry from just off the forest path.
“Help”, came the voice, “please, traveller!” it cried.
Skarr entered the forest clearing and saw the figure, a female, bedraggled and shoeless, chained securely to a tree.
“Undo me traveller!” cried the girl, “the Panther women have me. They intend to sell me into slavery. They sell us to Samarian traders! I am an apothecary and valuable to them!”
Skarr thought for a moment, considering her response,
“But”, she began in her thick accented broken Imperial tongue, “if I was to free you, you would die at the hands of either the Panthers, of at the hands of the beasts that roam here! If I leave you tied, the Panthers will look after you and keep you safe, dushka! I will not be the one who causes your death. Farewell.”
Skarr turned on her heel and walked off through the forest, ignoring the girl’s plaintive cries and the clanking of her chains as she struggled.
After a few minutes, Skarr became aware of someone tracking her from beyond the path, and she tensed her lithe body slightly. She continued to walk, smelling the air. Human, definitely human, she decided. She moved to the other side of the path, so to draw the attacker out onto the path. Suddenly a figure clad in furs leapt with speed at her and the two of them collapsed onto the dirt. The Panther girl wrestled herself on top of Skarr with a ferocious energy.
“These are our lands!!” the Panther spitted at her, “We get a good price for you, Norther bitch. You make good strong slave for Samaria!”
Skarr relaxed her arm muscles and let the Panther pin her arms to the ground. Then she quickly raised her leg, delivering a knee to the girl’s stomach, making her retch. Skarr threw the Panther woman onto her back, delivering an uppercut to the jaw, before standing and delivering a swift kick in her side.
Skarr surveyed her whimpering opponent,
“Pah!” she exclaimed, “I would not sully the steel of Doomsayer with your hide. Tell your tribe to stay away from me, or I will make a mountain of your severed heads!”
The girl attempted to crawl away into the forest with a whimper, but Skarr kicked her in the side harshly again, and she fell still.
Muttering a Norther curse under her breath and shaking her head, Skarr began to retrace her steps to where the prisoner had been. Sure enough, there she was, securely chained to the tree. She had given up her struggles and stood quietly.
“It would appear, Dushka, “Skarr began, “That I have either frightened away or killed your captor”.
“You can’t just leave me here!” the girl cried.
“No. I cannot!” Skarr said, thinking, “Or you will die here”.
“May I travel with you?” the girl asked, “The beasts will tear me apart, unless the other Panthers get me first!”
“Keep up the pace, and look after yourself”, Skarr replied brusquely, “I’m not a nursemaid. If you slow me, I will kill you myself.”
The girl nodded, and watched as Skarr, with three quick tugs, snapped the girl’s chains, letting them tumble to the ground with a clatter.
“Thank you”, said the girl with relief, “I’m Elina. I make potions and incantations. I can look at your wound if you’d like.”
Skarr muttered another Norther curse, before spinning on her heel and stomping off along the path, cursing in her own tongue. Elina ran along after her, suddenly feeling hundreds of eyes watching her and the barbarian as they moved through the forest. Had she just jumped from the frying pan into the fire? Elina didn’t know.”
Suddenly, Elina was shaken from her thoughts by the barking order of a slaver...
HBC note ** Don't I feel a proper berk! This should have been episode 2, but for one reason or another it wasn't. ** So here's Elina reflecting on how she first met Skarr in the first place...**
From “My encounters with the Barbarians blade”, by Lady Elina Greypepper
Being bound in slavery has a strange effect on one’s being…and as Skarr and I found ourselves in greater difficulties than ever before, I began to remember how Skarr and I had first met. Rather than being mere weeks ago, It seemed like years since I had arranged an expedition to Arlaheim for rare ingredients, and ran into trouble with slavers for the first time. I recall that I first met the Cock o’ the North shortly after she defeated the wyrm…
“The screams and catcalls of the forest had died down a little over the last few hours of Skarr’s trek. She was grateful, the wound in her thigh needed more attention than her ministrations of water and a bit of rag to tie round could give, and she felt it going numb. She was slowing slightly on her trek, but her fury carried her along. She repeated the names in her head, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds, over and over, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds. Four names that made her blood rise and carry her on through the forest. Gunnerson had been the one to hold her down, Macleish had bound her, Taggarhey had wrestled her into a sack and Bunds had thrown her into the icy ocean. Her four warlords, the terror of the north. Gunnerson she would kill first. When the Northmen had been routed along the banks of the Green road, he had fled over the hills into Samaria. She had found this out from a band of marauders shortly after being washed ashore, gasping for life. He would die first, Doomsayer would have the kill. Bunds she would save until last. He had been her closest ally, her friend since her childhood; they had been of the same tribe, the Tanra. She had been securely tied and sealed within the burlap sack; he had been the one to stab her, a callous and cruel act. For that, Bunds would pay. She would kill him the last of all. Skarr would make sure he heard of the deaths of his murderous dishonourable friends, and then she would kill him. Not with Doomsayer. With her own bare hands.
As she walked, she heard a cry from just off the forest path.
“Help”, came the voice, “please, traveller!” it cried.
Skarr entered the forest clearing and saw the figure, a female, bedraggled and shoeless, chained securely to a tree.
“Undo me traveller!” cried the girl, “the Panther women have me. They intend to sell me into slavery. They sell us to Samarian traders! I am an apothecary and valuable to them!”
Skarr thought for a moment, considering her response,
“But”, she began in her thick accented broken Imperial tongue, “if I was to free you, you would die at the hands of either the Panthers, of at the hands of the beasts that roam here! If I leave you tied, the Panthers will look after you and keep you safe, dushka! I will not be the one who causes your death. Farewell.”
Skarr turned on her heel and walked off through the forest, ignoring the girl’s plaintive cries and the clanking of her chains as she struggled.
After a few minutes, Skarr became aware of someone tracking her from beyond the path, and she tensed her lithe body slightly. She continued to walk, smelling the air. Human, definitely human, she decided. She moved to the other side of the path, so to draw the attacker out onto the path. Suddenly a figure clad in furs leapt with speed at her and the two of them collapsed onto the dirt. The Panther girl wrestled herself on top of Skarr with a ferocious energy.
“These are our lands!!” the Panther spitted at her, “We get a good price for you, Norther bitch. You make good strong slave for Samaria!”
Skarr relaxed her arm muscles and let the Panther pin her arms to the ground. Then she quickly raised her leg, delivering a knee to the girl’s stomach, making her retch. Skarr threw the Panther woman onto her back, delivering an uppercut to the jaw, before standing and delivering a swift kick in her side.
Skarr surveyed her whimpering opponent,
“Pah!” she exclaimed, “I would not sully the steel of Doomsayer with your hide. Tell your tribe to stay away from me, or I will make a mountain of your severed heads!”
The girl attempted to crawl away into the forest with a whimper, but Skarr kicked her in the side harshly again, and she fell still.
Muttering a Norther curse under her breath and shaking her head, Skarr began to retrace her steps to where the prisoner had been. Sure enough, there she was, securely chained to the tree. She had given up her struggles and stood quietly.
“It would appear, Dushka, “Skarr began, “That I have either frightened away or killed your captor”.
“You can’t just leave me here!” the girl cried.
“No. I cannot!” Skarr said, thinking, “Or you will die here”.
“May I travel with you?” the girl asked, “The beasts will tear me apart, unless the other Panthers get me first!”
“Keep up the pace, and look after yourself”, Skarr replied brusquely, “I’m not a nursemaid. If you slow me, I will kill you myself.”
The girl nodded, and watched as Skarr, with three quick tugs, snapped the girl’s chains, letting them tumble to the ground with a clatter.
“Thank you”, said the girl with relief, “I’m Elina. I make potions and incantations. I can look at your wound if you’d like.”
Skarr muttered another Norther curse, before spinning on her heel and stomping off along the path, cursing in her own tongue. Elina ran along after her, suddenly feeling hundreds of eyes watching her and the barbarian as they moved through the forest. Had she just jumped from the frying pan into the fire? Elina didn’t know.”
Suddenly, Elina was shaken from her thoughts by the barking order of a slaver...
HBC note ** Don't I feel a proper berk! This should have been episode 2, but for one reason or another it wasn't. ** So here's Elina reflecting on how she first met Skarr in the first place...**
From “My encounters with the Barbarians blade”, by Lady Elina Greypepper
Being bound in slavery has a strange effect on one’s being…and as Skarr and I found ourselves in greater difficulties than ever before, I began to remember how Skarr and I had first met. Rather than being mere weeks ago, It seemed like years since I had arranged an expedition to Arlaheim for rare ingredients, and ran into trouble with slavers for the first time. I recall that I first met the Cock o’ the North shortly after she defeated the wyrm…
“The screams and catcalls of the forest had died down a little over the last few hours of Skarr’s trek. She was grateful, the wound in her thigh needed more attention than her ministrations of water and a bit of rag to tie round could give, and she felt it going numb. She was slowing slightly on her trek, but her fury carried her along. She repeated the names in her head, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds, over and over, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds. Four names that made her blood rise and carry her on through the forest. Gunnerson had been the one to hold her down, Macleish had bound her, Taggarhey had wrestled her into a sack and Bunds had thrown her into the icy ocean. Her four warlords, the terror of the north. Gunnerson she would kill first. When the Northmen had been routed along the banks of the Green road, he had fled over the hills into Samaria. She had found this out from a band of marauders shortly after being washed ashore, gasping for life. He would die first, Doomsayer would have the kill. Bunds she would save until last. He had been her closest ally, her friend since her childhood; they had been of the same tribe, the Tanra. She had been securely tied and sealed within the burlap sack; he had been the one to stab her, a callous and cruel act. For that, Bunds would pay. She would kill him the last of all. Skarr would make sure he heard of the deaths of his murderous dishonourable friends, and then she would kill him. Not with Doomsayer. With her own bare hands.
As she walked, she heard a cry from just off the forest path.
“Help”, came the voice, “please, traveller!” it cried.
Skarr entered the forest clearing and saw the figure, a female, bedraggled and shoeless, chained securely to a tree.
“Undo me traveller!” cried the girl, “the Panther women have me. They intend to sell me into slavery. They sell us to Samarian traders! I am an apothecary and valuable to them!”
Skarr thought for a moment, considering her response,
“But”, she began in her thick accented broken Imperial tongue, “if I was to free you, you would die at the hands of either the Panthers, of at the hands of the beasts that roam here! If I leave you tied, the Panthers will look after you and keep you safe, dushka! I will not be the one who causes your death. Farewell.”
Skarr turned on her heel and walked off through the forest, ignoring the girl’s plaintive cries and the clanking of her chains as she struggled.
After a few minutes, Skarr became aware of someone tracking her from beyond the path, and she tensed her lithe body slightly. She continued to walk, smelling the air. Human, definitely human, she decided. She moved to the other side of the path, so to draw the attacker out onto the path. Suddenly a figure clad in furs leapt with speed at her and the two of them collapsed onto the dirt. The Panther girl wrestled herself on top of Skarr with a ferocious energy.
“These are our lands!!” the Panther spitted at her, “We get a good price for you, Norther bitch. You make good strong slave for Samaria!”
Skarr relaxed her arm muscles and let the Panther pin her arms to the ground. Then she quickly raised her leg, delivering a knee to the girl’s stomach, making her retch. Skarr threw the Panther woman onto her back, delivering an uppercut to the jaw, before standing and delivering a swift kick in her side.
Skarr surveyed her whimpering opponent,
“Pah!” she exclaimed, “I would not sully the steel of Doomsayer with your hide. Tell your tribe to stay away from me, or I will make a mountain of your severed heads!”
The girl attempted to crawl away into the forest with a whimper, but Skarr kicked her in the side harshly again, and she fell still.
Muttering a Norther curse under her breath and shaking her head, Skarr began to retrace her steps to where the prisoner had been. Sure enough, there she was, securely chained to the tree. She had given up her struggles and stood quietly.
“It would appear, Dushka, “Skarr began, “That I have either frightened away or killed your captor”.
“You can’t just leave me here!” the girl cried.
“No. I cannot!” Skarr said, thinking, “Or you will die here”.
“May I travel with you?” the girl asked, “The beasts will tear me apart, unless the other Panthers get me first!”
“Keep up the pace, and look after yourself”, Skarr replied brusquely, “I’m not a nursemaid. If you slow me, I will kill you myself.”
The girl nodded, and watched as Skarr, with three quick tugs, snapped the girl’s chains, letting them tumble to the ground with a clatter.
“Thank you”, said the girl with relief, “I’m Elina. I make potions and incantations. I can look at your wound if you’d like.”
Skarr muttered another Norther curse, before spinning on her heel and stomping off along the path, cursing in her own tongue. Elina ran along after her, suddenly feeling hundreds of eyes watching her and the barbarian as they moved through the forest. Had she just jumped from the frying pan into the fire? Elina didn’t know.”
Suddenly, Elina was shaken from her thoughts by the barking order of a slaver...
I've been in panic before. I mean, when Crow kidnapped Tim, when Jackie lost it on Roadkill, all that stuff. But they're not the same kind of panic I felt today. You see, today I felt panic in the batcave, a place I always believed was safe. I felt that panic for Bruce, and man I thought could never be brought down. Now here he is on a bed, sweating up a storm and breathing for his life. Me, Tim, and Alfred have done all we can for him, and we're waiting for Leslie to arrive. Though at this rate, I don't think she can do much. Tim caught a glimpse of what Bruce was looking at on the Batcomputer. Nothing but medical records on something called Fucus Anhelitus Febris. A medical term for Crimson Fever. Simply put, it's terminal, and a lousy way to go. I'm busy on a laptop trying to see if it can at least be held off while Tim and Alfred stand by Bruce at his bedside.
"You sure you don't know what to do?"
"MI-6 taught me limited medical terminology, Timothy. Gunshot wounds and lacerations I'm more than experienced with. Retched plagues like this, though..."
"So...we've got nothing..."
"The fault is mine. When Bruce arrived home last night, I couldn't help but notice a peculiar smell on him. A horrid stench to match this horrid disease. I implored him about it but he wouldn't answer. If I had just been more--"
"Enough. Even if you knew beforehand, there wasn't much you could do."
"I'm aware, Timothy. But..."
All the medical records I'm pulling up are useless. I'm just getting oh-so-vivid descriptions and basically life expediencies. At this stage, Bruce has 1-2 agonizing weeks before the fever either overheats him or his lungs rot away. The stupidest thing I did was actually look at some autopsy pics. The instant they appeared on screen, I remember letting out a small horrified shriek and slamming the laptop shut. The image of the rotted organs was still fresh in my mind, though. It wasn't so much the disgusting images that scared the hell out of me. It was that something that horrifying was gonna happen to Bruce. Like Tim, I owe so much to the man. He's just as much of the reason I'm here that Tim is. He's been more of a father to me than my real one ever was. And to imagine this was the way he was gonna go...I teared up a bit thinking about it. Tim saw this and asked me what's wrong. I just hand the laptop off to him. He opens it up, sees the image, and his hand slams into his face in a combo of horror and distraught.
"No...no, no, no, no...."
"Timothy...I think it's time we started making preparations."
'W-what? Preparations for what?"
"I'm calling Richard soon. I'm expecting him to be out of Bludhaven within the next 24 hours. Master Bruce has an entire catalog of cover up storie-"
"Y--you can't be serious!"
"Timothy, I'm sorry. It pains me as much as it does you, but we have to face that there's nothing we can do."
"You gotta be kidding! Of all the people here I'd expect you to stick with him! You're just gonna leave him to die like this!?"
"Tim, please..."
"Please nothing!! Do either of you know how much we owe to this guy?! He's saved our sorry asses more times than I can count. And for all I've done for him and to just let him go like this!?"
"Timothy, please be reasonable-"
"If none of you want to help him, fine! But I'm not gonna let it end like this! I owe him too much see him go like this!"
Tim storms out of the infirmary. Alfred stands there defeated as I watch Tim walk out of the cave. As if today didn't have enough drama... I just felt more distraught seeing Tim walk out on us like that. And the sound of Bruce behind me breathing for his life didn't help...
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
From the castle it was all down hill. Down the old main road into the city, the old Great North Road, which is now Pedestrian only, but cobbled, and showing how even the main roads were so very narrow.
As we walked down, the various bridges over the river tower above us, and the city huddles under their arches.
My only thought was how tough it was going to be walking back up!
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We walk along a narrow alley past pubs and old workshops, our guide giving us history behind the buildings. The world's fattest man lived and died here, King Charles 1st had dinner there. And so on. Until we came to Bigg Market.....
Bigg Market is where the young Geordie goes to have fun, or used to; according to our guide. It is not as popular as it once was, as many now go down to the Riverside. And Bigg Market is to be 'redeveloped'. So, this may be the last chances to see some of these fine old buildings, some of which now have demolition orders against them. All things must change. Apparently.
From Bigg Market, we walked to The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, then onto the New Castle, which gives the city it's name.
From the castle it was all down hill. Down the old main road into the city, the old Great North Road, which is now Pedestrian only, but cobbled, and showing how even the main roads were so very narrow.
As we walked down, the various bridges over the river tower above us, and the city huddles under their arches.
My only thought was how tough it was going to be walking back up!
Skarr the Barbarian - Vampires
Yolande Fireheart walked in the light undergrowth of the woods just outside the Imperial city, her black wool cape and hood trailing behind her. She normally loved the smell of the early morning dew, and the sounds of the waking animals and birds. Reminded her of home in the Northlands, where her father would already be awakened hours before and working at his blades at the Fireheart Forge. She was supposedly looking for fresh mineral deposits, for her own forge, right here in the city, but her mind was elsewhere. Ever since she had met the Countess….
Not that Yolande was swung that way, but when she had first met the Countess of Richtenburg for the sale of a hundred swords for La Comtessa’s men, she had been struck with the woman. Countess Gabriella of Richtenburg was almost hypnotic and sensual, and tickled Yolande’s nerves beyond what the young Norther woman had thought possible. And, in their subsequent meetings, when Gabriella had admitted to being a vampire, a fiend, the very demon her father had warned her against, she still could not take the courage to shout for the watch. The way the Countess explained the advantages of undeath, Yolande longed for blood kiss, the caress that would turn her vampire . The feeling did not fade when she was alone, the petty squabbles of city life, jealousies and rivalries, all Yolande saw or felt were those delicious fangs sinking into her flesh…
…and so, she had come to look for mineral deposits. Normally, the job of kneeling in the earth and tearing her fingernails on the rocks till they bled reminded her of her own mortality, and of home. But not today. She thought only of Gabriella.
And so it became fitting when the small, raven haired Countess silently appeared behind her.
“Where…where did you….”, spluttered Yolande Fireheart, reaching for her blade, with which to attack the vampire.
Gabriella ignored the blade, and walked closer to Yolande,
“Shhhh now, sweetness, it’ all going to be fine”, she murmured.
Yolande stood there, in the morning air, shaking as Gabriella approached her, clad in the “Gabby the fisher girl” disguise she had been affecting recently. Gabriella stroked Yolande’s hair gently, cradling the blonde Norther’s head in her arms. Instinctively, Yolande tilted her head on one side and bared her neck for the vampire,
“Shhhh”, reassured Gabriella, “it won’t hurt. It’ll all be over soon, my darling.”
Yolande closed her eyes as Gabriella’s long fangs emerged from her mouth. Gripping Yolande’s head in her emerging claws, she bit deep into the jugular vein in Yolande’s neck, sinking her sharp fangs in. Gabriella held the Norther woman in her strong grasp as her body spasmed and instinctively tried to get away. Then, as Gabriella drunk deep of the delicious rich blood, she felt Yolande’s body relax into warm ecstasy.
Yolande’s vision became hazy. She remembered parts, not all. She remembered her vision fading in the harsh heat of the suddenly burning sun. How did Gabriella stand to be outside in such heat? The morning sun made her skin feel like it was almost on fire. She remembered the revolting smells coming from the sellers of cooked meats in the market, horrible retching smells of dead flesh.
And the delicious throb of the veins on their necks as the rich blood pumped in their warm bodies…
Yolande woke with a start. It was darkness outside, the middle of the night. Had the meeting with Gabriella all been a dream???
- Vanilla and orange peel handcream
- Sweet Orange, cedarwood and sage handwash
They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Thursday, 11 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 22: 1989-1990
When I returned to school for my senior year, I moved out of the sorority house and into an apartment with friends. Technically, I was a 4th year junior. I would not have enough credits to graduate on time the following June, but would finish up in December, instead. Jared (a 5th year senior) and I picked up where we left off.
We started jokingly discussing marriage, and then gradually the jokes became less joking. We never discussed it with any specificity, but we hinted at it unceasingly. When Valentine's Day came, and he proposed, it was not really much of a surprise. It was, however, comically timed. I'd had a bad case of the stomach flu, and when he returned to his room with ring in hand, asking me to marry him, I was on my hands and knees, retching into his garbage pail. I suppose we should have packed it in right there, but sometimes when the universe gives you a sign, you just keep hurtling right past it.
Word spread, and Jared's fraternity brothers, who weren't cruel enough to toss him into the lake in the middle of February, tossed him into a cold shower instead. My sorority held a candle passing ceremony. We sang the sorority sweetheart song while a candle was passed from sister to sister. The sister who had the big secret announcement was to blow out the candle when it came to her. Once around the circle meant you were going steady with some guy (nobody ever held a candle passing ceremony for something so inane), twice around the circle meant you had been pinned (wearing a guy's fraternity pin was akin to pre-engagement), and three times meant you were engaged. In the four years I was there, the candle had never gone around the circle three times. This time, when the candle began its third trip around, an audible gasp went through the room, and people who had been crowded into the foyer jostled to get into the room for a better look. I felt like an idiot for taking part in the silly ceremony, but I was giddy. My hands were shaking, and as I blew out the candle, the room erupted into such screaming and carrying on that you would have thought they'd all won the lottery.
My best friend, Mark, was supportive but skeptical. He asked if I was really sure this was what I wanted. I said I was, and he looked at me for awhile, then smiled and gave me a hug. He would be there for me no matter what, and I was grateful for his concern and friendship.
In June, almost a year to the day before Jared and I were to be married, most of my friends - the people who had come in with me as freshmen - graduated and moved away. I continued taking classes throughout the summer and into the fall, studiously procrastinating on anything wedding-related.
Who am I?
I am not comfortable with rituals and ceremonies.
There are rituals that deserve to be laughed at. Sorority candle passing, and the screaming which ensues, is one such ritual. But, I'm uncomfortable with all manner of rituals. I can't help it. While I appreciate their meaning, and their place in our lives, I just find a comical arbitrariness in a room full of people all doing and saying the same thing. It's funny to me. This is OK at sorority ritual. It's not as OK at a funeral. I wore a white blouse and a bright green scarf to my grandmother's funeral, because I wanted to celebrate my grandmother's life. I wanted to be happy thinking about her that day. Everyone else in the room walked around in a fog, dressed head to toe in respectable black. Sitting in the church, I wanted to push down the walls and burst out into the open air, where the sun was shining. I fidgeted and fretted as the crowd around me plodded through its motions. I did not begrudge them their ritual, but I did not particularly want to be a part of it, either. When the service was over, I went outside and stood in the breeze, smiling at the sun.
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