Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday.

 

As the Morris drove slowly up the rather uneven and potholed driveway running through a wild and unkempt looking park that must once have been a landscaped garden, both Lettice and Gerald were taken aback by the house standing on the crest of an undulating hill overlooking a cove. When described as a Regency “cottage residence”, the pair were expecting a modest single storey house of maybe eight to ten rooms with a thatch roof, not the sprawling double storey residence of white stucco featuring arched French doors and windows with sea views, a wraparound cast iron verandah and high pitched slate tiled roof with at least a dozen chimneys.

 

Now settled in ‘Chi an Treth’s’ drawing room, Lettice looks about her, taking in the stripped back, slightly austere and very formal furnishings.

 

“I say old bean,” Gerald addresses Dickie from his seat next to Lettice on the rather hard and uncomfortable red velvet settee. “If this is what your father calls a ‘cottage residence’, no wonder you jumped at the chance to take it.”

 

“Apparently the Prince Regent** coined the term ‘cottage residence’ when he had Royal Lodge built at Windsor,” Dickie explains cheerily from his place standing before the crackling fire, leaning comfortably against the mantle. “And of course my ancestors being the ambitious breed they were, set about building a ‘cottage’ to rival it.”

 

“Was it built for a previous Marquess of Taunton?” Lettice asks with interest.

 

“Heavens no, darling!” their host replies, raising his hands animatedly. “It was built back around 1816 for one of the second Marquess’ bastard sons, who served as a ship’s captain and returned from fighting the Frenchies a decorated war hero.” Dickie points to two portraits at the end of the room, either side of a Regency sideboard.

 

“That would explain the maritime theme running through the art in here.” Lettice points casually to several paintings of ships also hanging about the walls.

 

“Aren’t they ghastly, Lettice darling?” Margot hisses as she glances around at the oils in their heavy frames. “We need some femininity in this old place, don’t you think?” She giggles rather girlishly as she gives her friend a wink. “Daddy has promised me the pretty Georgian girl in the gold dress that hangs in my bedroom in Hans Crescent. I think it could look lovely in here.”

 

“If you please, my love!” Dickie chides his new wife sweetly, giving her a knowing look.

 

“Oh, so sorry my love!” she replies, putting her dainty fingers to her cheeky smile.

 

“As the Marquess’ prolific illegitimate progeny were well known up and down the coast of Cornwall and beyond,” Dickie continues his potted history of the house. “And what with him being a hero of the Napoleonic wars, his father, my ancestor the second Marquess, thought it best to set him up in a fine house of his own.”

 

“That was far enough away from the family seat.” Gerald adds.

 

“That was far enough away from the Marchioness, more like!” Dickie corrects. “Last thing you want to do is rub your good lady wife’s nose into the fruits spawned from the sewing of your wild oats.”

 

Margot looks across at her husband from her armchair with a look of mock consternation. “I do hope, my sweet, that I’m not to be confronted with any illegitimate offspring when I’m Marchioness of Taunton.”

 

“Certainly not my love. The Marquess’s wife, Georgette, was fierce by all accounts, but she’d be a pussy cat compared to your fierceness, Margot.”

 

“I should think so.” Margot smiles with satisfaction.

 

“Anyway,” Dickie adds with a roguish smile. “I made sure I did away with any illegitimate offspring I had, prior to marrying you.”

 

The four friends laugh at Dickie’s quick, witty response, just as the door to the drawing room is forced open by a heavy boot, startling them all.

 

Looking to the door as it creaks open noisily on its hinges, an old woman with a wind weathered face with her unruly wiry white hair tied loosely in a bun, wearing a rather tatty apron over an old fashioned Edwardian print dress, walks in carrying a tea tray. Although weighed down heavily with a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, four cups and saucers and a glass plate of biscuits, the rather frail looking old woman seems unbothered by its weight, although her bones crack noisily and disconcertingly as she lowers the tray onto the low occasional table between the settee and armchairs.

 

“Oh, thank you Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot acknowledges the old woman.

 

“Omlowenhewgh agas boes!***” the elderly woman replies in a gravelly voice, groaning as she stretches back into an upright position.

 

“Yes… Yes, thank you Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot replies in an unsure tone, giving Lettice a gentle shrug and a quizzical look which her friend returns. “I’ll pour the tea myself I think.”

 

“Pur dha****.” she answers rather gruffly before retreating back the way she came with shuffling footsteps.

 

“What did she say?” Lettice asks Dickie once the door to the drawing room has closed and the old woman’s footfalls drift away, mingling with the distant sound of the ocean outside.

 

“Why look at me, old girl?” Dickie replies with a sheepish smile and a shrug as big as his wife’s.

 

“Because your Cornish, Dickie.” Lettice replies.

 

“Only by birth darling!” he defends with a cocked eyebrow and a mild look of distain.

 

“But it’s your heritage, Dickie.” counters Lettice disappointedly. “You’re supposed to know these things.”

 

“You know I went to Eaton, where they beat any hint of Cornish out of me my father and mother hadn’t already chased away prior to me going there.”

 

“It sounded like swearing to me,” Gerald adds in disgust, screwing up his nose. “Local dialect. So guttural.”

 

“Like ‘be gone you city folk, back from whence you came’?” Margot giggles.

 

“And who’d blame her?” Dickie pipes up. “After all, she and Mr. Trevethan have had run of this place ever since the old sea captain died. I mean, this place was supposed to be for Harry…”

 

“God bless Harry.” Margot, Lettice and Gerald all say in unison with momentarily downcast eyes.

 

“But of course, he never lived to be married and be given this place as a wedding gift, so Mr. and Mrs. Trevethan have been looking after the place for around four decades I’d reckon, give or take a few years.”

 

“So, there is a Mr. Trevethan then?” Lettice asks.

 

“Oh yes,” Dickie elucidates as he moves from the fireplace and takes his seat in the other vacant armchair. “He’s the gardener and odd job man.”

 

“Well, if that’s the case, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the whole house doesn’t fall down around our ears.” Gerald remarks disparagingly. “Getting the Morris safely over those potholes in your driveway was no mean feat, old bean.”

 

“They’re old, dear chap.” Dickie defends his housekeeper and gardener kindly. “Be fair. They’ve done a pretty good job of caretaking the old place, considering.”

 

“Poor chap.” mutters Gerald. “Looking at that old harridans’ haggard old face every day.”

 

“Oh Gerald!” gasps Lettice, leaning over and slapping his wrist playfully. “You are awful sometimes! For all you know, she was the beauty of Penzance when she and Mr. Trevethan were first courting. And,” she adds loftily. “I’ll have you know that I think the Cornish dialect sounds very beautiful,” She takes a dramatic breath as she considers her thoughts. “Rather like an exotic language full of magic.”

 

“You’ve been reading too much King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.” Gerald cheekily criticises his friend’s reading habits lightly.

 

“Oh, thinking of which, I have a new novel for you, Lettice darling! It’s called ‘Joanna Godden’***** by Sheila Kaye-Smith. I’ve just finished it.” Margot takes up a volume from the round Regency side table next to her and passes it across to Lettice’s outstretched hands. “It’s a drama set in Kent. I’m sure you’ll like it. Now, shall I be mother?******” she asks, assuming her appropriate role of hostess as she reaches for and sets out the Royal Doulton teacups, a wedding gift from relations, and takes up the silver teapot, also a wedding gift. Expertly she pours the tea and then hands the cups first to her guests and then to her husband before picking up her own.

 

“I hope that old harridan didn’t spit in the tea.” Gerald looks uneasily at the cup of reddish tea he holds in his hands. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

 

“Oh Gerald,” Lettice tuts, shaking her head in mock disapproval before chuckling light heartedly. “You do like to dramatise, don’t you?”

 

“If you announce her intentions like that,” Margot adds. “I’m sure she will, since she has the habit of listening at the keyhole.” She smiles cheekily as she finishes her sentence and settles back in her armchair.

 

“What?” Gerald splutters, depositing his cup rather clumsily and nosily on the Regency occasional table at his left elbow and looking over his shoulder to the door.

 

Margot, Dickie and Lettice all burst out laughing.

 

“Oh Gerald,” Lettice says gaily through her mirthful giggles. “You’re always so easy to bait.”

 

Gerald looks at his friends, smiling at his distress. “Oh!” He swivels back around again and tries to settle as comfortably as possible into the hard back of the settee. “I see.” He takes up his cup and glowers into it as he stirs it with his teaspoon, his pride evidently wounded at his friends’ friendly joke.

 

Lettice takes up her own cup of tea, adding sugar and milk to it and stirring, before selecting a small jam fancy from the glass dish of biscuits. Munching the biscuit she gazes about the room again, appraising the mostly Regency era furnishings of good quality with a few examples of lesser well made early Victorian pieces, the maritime oil paintings, the worn and faded Persian carpet across the floor and the vibrantly painted red walls, deciding that as well as formal, the room has a very masculine feel about it. “It’s really quite an elegant room, you know.” she remarks. “It has good bones.”

 

“Oh don’t look too closely at our less elegant damp patches or cracks to those so-called good bones, darling girl.” Dickie replies.

 

“Nor the chips to the paintwork and plaster or the marks we can’t quite account for.” Margot adds with a sigh. “I think I’d have been happy for Daddy to commission Edwin Lutyens******* to demolish this pile of mouldering bricks and build us a new country house.”

 

“Margot! What a beastly thing to say!” Lettice clasps the bugle beads at her throat in shock. “To demolish all this history, only to replace it with a mock version thereof. Why it is sheer sacrilege to even say it!”

 

“Blame it on my Industrial Revolution new money heritage,” Margot defends her statement. “Unlike you darling, with your ancestry going back hundreds of years and your romance for everything old.”

 

“I can’t see any damp patches, Dickie, or cracks.” Lettice addresses her male host again.

 

“That’s because it’s so dark in here,” Margot explains. “Even on an unseasonably sunny day like today, the red walls and the red velvet furnishings camouflage the blemishes.”

 

“All the more reason not to change the décor then, dear girl.” remarks Gerald as his gingerly sips his tea, still not entirely convinced of Mrs. Trevethan’s actions prior to the tea being deposited on the table.

 

“No! No, Gerald!” Margot counters. “That’s why I need you Lettice darling, and your vision. I want the place lightened up, smartened up and made more comfortable.”

 

“Those chairs are rather beautiful,” observes Lettice, indicating to the armchairs in which her host and hostess sit, admiring their ormolu mounted arms, sturdy legs and red velvet cushions.

 

“These things!” Margot scoffs, looking down at the seat beneath her. “They are so uncomfortable!” She rubs her lower back in an effort to demonstrate how lumpy and hard they are. “I can’t wait to banish them to the hallway. I can’t possibly sit pleasurably in these, or on that,” She indicates to the settee upon which Lettice and Gerald sit. “And read a book. They aren’t designed for comfort. No, what we want, and need is some soft, modern comfort in here to make life here more pleasurable for us and our guests. I want to sit in here and enjoy the afternoon sun streaming through those from the luxury of a new settee, or invite guests to snuggle into plush new armchairs.”

 

“Margot does have a point, Lettice darling.” Gerald adds, looking mournfully at Lettice as he bounces gingerly on his half of the settee, the flattened velvet seat barely yielding to his moving form.

 

Lettice looks around again. “There are no portraits of women in here, nor children.”

 

“That’s because there aren’t any, anywhere in the house.” Margot replies.

 

“What?” Lettice queries.

 

“The captain was a confirmed old bachelor all his life.” adds Dickie.

 

“But he looks quite dashing in his naval uniform,” Lettice observes. “Surely with his successful career, looks and a house like this to boot, he must have had every eligible woman in Cornwall dashing to knock down his door.”

 

“Even Mrs. Trevethan’s mother, who no doubt was even more beautiful than her daughter at the time the captain was looking for a bride.” Gerald chuckles, his response rewarded with a withering look from Lettice.

 

“He may well have been a desirous prospect, Lettice darling,” Dickie agrees. “But he remained unmarried all his life, and he lived to a great age.”

 

“There is a rumour,” adds Margot, leaning forward conspiratorially for dramatic effect. “That there was a sweetheart: a local lady of good breeding and family. However, her father didn’t approve of an illegitimate son-in-law, even if he did have a successful naval career and a grand new residence. We don’t know whether she was coerced, or if she really didn’t love him, but whatever the cause, she refused him. They say that her refusal of his marriage proposal broke his heart, and he swore then and there that he would never marry.”

 

“Oh how romantic!” Lettice enthuses.

 

“There is also talk in the family,” Dickie adds. “That there is a lost portrait of her.”

 

“A lost portrait?” breathes Lettice excitedly.

 

“Yes, by Winterhalter******* no less.” Margot explains.

 

“Oh how thrilling!” Lettice gasps, clutching her beads with exhilaration this time.

 

“Have you found it yet, old bean?” Gerald asks.

 

“No! Of course not,” replies Dickie. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be a lost portrait, would it? Do try to keep up old chap!”

 

“Not that I haven’t gone sneaking around the house looking for it atop cupboards and at the back of wardrobes.” Margot adds eagerly.

 

“That’s undoubtedly because that cussing old harridan Mrs. Trevethan and her husband probably stole it as soon as the captain had taken his last breath,” explains Gerald. “And now it hangs over their drawing room fireplace in the gatekeeper’s lodge.”

 

“Don’t talk nonsense, Gerald!” scoffs Dickie. “The Trevethans are a kindly pair, if perhaps a little rough and eccentric for our tastes. They love this house as much as we…” He glances at his wife before correcting himself. “Well, as much as I, do. No, we just haven’t found it yet. We may never find it because it might have been taken by someone else long ago, destroyed by the old captain himself in a fit of emotional rage…”

 

“Or,” adds Margot. “It could simply be a Channon family legend.”

 

“Exactly.” agrees Dickie with a satisfied sigh as he reaches over and takes up a chocolate biscuit, taking a large bite out of it. “It wouldn’t be the first if it is.”

 

“I know!” Lettice pipes up with a cheeky smile on her face. “Let’s play sardines******** together tonight, and then one of us might stumble across it in the most unlikely of hiding places.”

 

*Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

**The Prince Regent, later George IV, was king of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and King of Hanover from the death of his father, King George III, on 29 January 1820 until his own death ten years later. He had already been serving as Prince Regent since 5 February 1811, during his father's final mental illness. It is from him that we derive the Regency period in architecture, fashion and design.

 

***”Omlowenhewgh agas boes” is Cornish for “bon appetit”.

 

*****“Pur dha” is Cornish for “very good”.

 

*****‘Joanna Godden’ is a 1921 novel by British writer Sheila Kaye-Smith (1887 – 1956). It is a drama set amongst the sheep farmers of Romney Marsh in Kent.

 

******The meaning of the very British term “shall I be mother” is “shall I pour the tea?”

 

*******Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens (1869 – 1944) was an English architect known for imaginatively adapting traditional architectural styles to the requirements of his era. He designed many English country houses, war memorials and public buildings, and was one of the architects of choice for the British upper classes between the two World Wars.

 

********Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

********Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

This beautiful Regency interior with its smart furnishings may not be all that it seems, for it is made up entirely with miniatures from my collection, including a number of pieces that I have had since I was a child.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The two walnut Regency armchairs with their red velvet seats and ormolu mounts are made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Bespaq. So too are the two round occasional tables that flank the settee and one of the armchairs.

 

The round walnut coffee table was made by the high-end miniature furniture maker, Creal miniatures.

 

The red velvet mahogany settee, the Regency sideboard and the two non matching mahogany and red velvet chairs at the far end of the room I have had since I was around six or seven, having been given them as either birthday or Christmas gifts.

 

The irises in the vase on the sideboard are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay they are moulded on wires to allow them to be shaped at will and put into individually formed floral arrangements. They are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The vase in which it stands is spun of real glass and was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The detail in this Art Deco vase is especially fine. If you look closely, you will see that it is decorated with fine latticework.

 

Also made of real glass are the decanters of whiskey and port and the cranberry glass soda syphon also made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England. The white roses behind the syphon are also from Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering, as is the glass plate of biscuits you can see on the coffee table.

 

The two novels on the occasional table next to the armchair come from Shepherds Miniatures in England, whilst the wedding photo in the silver frame is a real photo, produced to high standards in 1:12 size on photographic paper by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. The frame comes from Melody Jane’s Doll House Suppliers in England.

 

On the occasional table beside the settee stands a miniature 1950s lidded powder bowl which I have had since I was a teenager. It is stamped on its base with a green Limoges stamp indicating the era.

 

The Royal Doulton style tea set featuring roses on the coffee table came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay, whilst the silver teapot comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The silver Regency tea caddy (lettice’s wedding gift to Margot and Dickie if you follow the “Life at Cavendish Mews” series), the slender candlestick and the tall two handled vase on the mantle were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces.

 

The British newspapers that sit in a haphazard stack on the footstool in the foreground of the picture are 1:12 size copies of ‘The Mirror’, the ‘Daily Express’ and ‘The Tattler’ made by Little Things Dollhouse Miniatures in Lancashire. There is also a copy of ‘Country Life’ which was made by me to scale using the cover of a real 1921 edition of ‘Country Life’.

 

The plaster fireplace to the right of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom.

 

All the paintings around the drawing room in their gilded or black frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

 

The Persian rug on the floor has been woven by Pike, Pike and Company in the United Kingdom.

An unexpectedly gorgeous morning in the Peak District. We didn't expect this after what the forecasters said :)

at the Sherdor Madrasah, Samarkand

The "collage" I did, here:

 

www.flickr.com/photos/kdfischer/2678450769/

 

featured this photograph (in black and white.) This version is actually sepia (though it's very desaturated and subtle).

 

K Kay and Marc suggested that the hands be placed on top of one another on this photo:

 

www.flickr.com/photos/kdfischer/2696270463/in/photostream/

 

Since I haven't done a whole lot of expecting mothers portraiture, and the suggestion was made to put the hands on top of one another, this was pretty much the only option I had (the hands are one on top of the other), though it is a completely different photograph.

 

I didn't intend on posting this photo in any way other than the collage, but I felt perhaps it was a good example. :)

HMMM

www.youtube.com/watch?v=s8EUL-O3hRA

I expected more from this dress. I even wore red petticoats to get a fully co-ordinated feel but for some reason that I can't put my finger on it's not delivering on what I hoped. It's a feeling I'm sure most of us have experienced at one time or another. Of course, in this case, the problem may not not be one of fashion but rather of articulation.

Wasn't expecting to see this in Dover today!, and this vehicle appears to be new at Redroute Buses in Gravesend, and a Thank You to this vehicle's driver for the freindly conversation, and all faces on board are blurred out and not shown as requested, (though I do this anyway).

 

And be sure to check by my other acount: www.flickr.com/photos_user.gne?path=&nsid=77145939%40..., to see what else I saw Very Recently!!

It's a bit of a birders' bird and it looks rather uninteresting in thumbnail, so I'm not expecting much attention. But while out for a walk in a wood on the edge of the Peak District yesterday afternoon I found this Nightjar resting in a tree. It was such an unusual find of this nocturnal bird in broad daylight that I had to post it. They sit motionless during the day, near-impossible to find but after sunset they become active, making some wonderful calls and bouncing around the sky with great acrobatic agility. They eat insects which they catch on the wing by flying round with their enormous mouths open, like a Swift (Apus apus). They return from Africa in mid May and disappear in September after one or two broods of chicks. They are also scarce and extremely patchily distributed in Britain, but with their greatest populations on the dry heathlands of southern England. This is a male as you can see white patches on his tail below the branch. If you look carefully you can see the rictal bristles around the bill gape which increase the catching area for insects. I found him in a wood on the edge of the Peak District.

 

The scientific name Caprimulgus translates as goat-milker from the ancient belief (dating back before Aristotle) that Nightjars fed from goat udders, which caused them to stop producing milk, and eventually to go blind. This seems to be based on the simple observation that they have large mouths that might be capable of clamping on a goat's udder, but the large mouth is really to catch insects with. Because milk is a mammalian product, birds have never evolved the enzyme lactase that enables them to digest milk. It was fat that the Blue Tits used to steal off the top of the milk, and they stopped feeding from milk bottles once our tastes changed to low-fat semi-skimmed milk.

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It's been raining dogs and cats on an off

for quite sometime, monsoon season ;0

 

So, I knew the mud cobra field was a mess !

And yes it was a way big colossal wet mess !

And ya know what ? It was way big fun 4 us ;)

 

71% of the time, I'm out of the saddle pushing

while twisting the wick due 2 very little purchase.

 

Ok here's how it all went down.

 

Upon arriving at the entrance to the mud cobra field

it was way obvious this is going to be an E-ticket ride.

 

Made our way down to the rest area and rested !

That was a pretty good workout to start with .......!

 

Next step I had to think about for a while, then

we went 4 it and did one lap ending by the exit.

From above the knees down I'm covered in mud!

 

When we arrived at base camp no# 1 laughed at us!

Got busy and gave The Monkey a really soapy bath!

 

As much fun as it was we are way tired now.

So as they say, "a tired dog is a good dog."

  

Thank You ;)

Jon&Crew.

 

Please help with your temple dog donations here.

www.gofundme.com/f/help-for-abandoned-thai-temple-dogs

  

*** Please Read Carefully ***

No Political Statements, Awards,

Invites Large Logos or Copy/Pastes.

Absolutely No Ai, you will be blocked.

© All rights reserved.

  

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Leica M4-P

Biogon 2/35 mm

Velvia 100

I landed in London on the rainy coronation day of King Charles. I hoped to see some of that royal-worship that seems to be such an integral part of britishness. I expected flags painted on faces and all kinds of royal paraphernalia. Instead, I met this little fella´, who seemed rather disgruntled about the fact that Charles was taking over. As opposed to their contemporary American counterparts, the British republicans seem to stand for something other than themselves and their hunger for power.

Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.

 

Today however we have left the hustle and bustle of London, travelling southwest to a stretch of windswept coastline just a short drive the pretty Cornish town of Penzance. Here, friends of Lettice, newlyweds Margot and Dickie Channon, have been gifted a Recency country “cottage residence” called ‘Chi an Treth’ (Cornish for ‘beach house’) as a wedding gift by the groom’s father, the Marquess of Taunton. Margot, encouraged by her father Lord de Virre who will foot the bill, has commissioned Lettice to redecorate a few of the principal rooms of ‘Chi an Treth’. In the lead up to the wedding, Lord de Virre has spent a great deal of money making the Regency house habitable after many years of sitting empty and bringing it up to the Twentieth Century standards his daughter expects, paying for electrification, replumbing, and a connection to the Penzance telephone exchange. Now, with their honeymoon over, Dickie and Margot have finally taken possession of their country house gift and have invited Lettice to come and spend a Friday to Monday with them so that she might view the rooms Margot wants redecorating for herself and perhaps start formulating some ideas as to how modernise their old fashioned décor. As Lettice is unable to drive and therefore does not own a car, Margot and Dickie have extended the weekend invitation to one of their other Embassy Club coterie, Lettice’s old childhood chum, Gerald, also a member of the aristocracy who has tried to gain some independence from his family by designing gowns from a shop in Grosvenor Street. Gerald owns a Morris*, so he can motor both Lettice and himself down from London on Friday and back again on Monday. After the retirement of the housekeeper, Mrs. Trevethan, from the main house to the gatekeeper’s cottage the previous evening, the quartet of Bright Young Things** played a spirited game of sardines*** and in doing so, potentially solved the romantic mystery of ‘Chi an Treth’ after discovering a boxed up painting, long forgotten, of a great beauty.

 

Now we find ourselves in ‘Chi an Treth’s’ Regency breakfast room with views through the French doors, overlooking the wild coast on a remarkably sunny day for this time of year. Dickie, Margot and Gerald are all seated around the table in their pyjamas and robes enjoying breakfast, some with more gusto than others, as Lettice stumbles into the room and joins them at the table.

 

“All hail the discoverer of lost treasures and the solver of mysteries!” cries Dickie dramatically as he doffs an invisible hat towards his friend.

 

“Oh!” gasps Gerald, raising his right hand gingerly to his temple. “Must you be so loud Dickie? Is he always like this in the mornings, Margot darling?”

 

“He is, Gerald,” Margot sighs from her seat opposite him at the breakfast table as she takes a slice of thinly sliced toast and spreads marmalade across it with as little noise as possible.

 

“Morning Dickie!” Lettice returns Dickie’s welcome, walking up to him and placing a kiss firmly on the top of his head amidst his sleep tousled sandy hair. “Good morning, Margot. Good morning, Gerald.” Stumbling down the room and reaching her seat at the table opposite Dickie she picks up her glass tumbler and then turns to Gerald to adds. “It could be worse.”

 

“What could be?” Gerald asks, taking the pot from Margot’s outstretched hand and proceeding to plop a generous spoonful of marmalade on his own toast slices.

 

“Dickie’s frightfully jolly morning personality trait.” she replies, walking back the way she came to the sideboard, where she helps herself to orange juice. “His cousin, the Earl McCrea, plays the bagpipes every morning to wake the guests when he’s on his Scottish estate.”

 

“How frightful,” Gerald winces at the thought before continuing in a withering voice. “After a night of champagne like we had last night, that’s the last thing I should want.”

 

“Apparently the Prince of Wales quite likes it though**** when he visits.” Margot adds. “Coffee, Lettice darling?”

  

“Tea,” Lettice replies laconically before turning her attention to the lidded chaffing dishes on the sideboard. Lifting one, she quickly drops it when she sees and smells what lies beneath it with a loud clatter that elicits a groan from Gerald, Margot and herself.

 

“Mrs. Trevethan’s kedgeree,” Margot remarks without looking up as she pours tea from a silver teapot into Lettice’s teacup.

 

“Ugh,” mutters Lettice.

 

“It takes some getting used to.” adds Margot.

 

“Is an acquired taste, I’d say.” observes Gerald wryly, looking about the plates at the table. “Since no-one appears to be having any.”

 

“I think my stomach will settle for a boiled egg and an apple.” Lettice places her glass of orange juice gingerly on the tabletop and reaches across to grab an apple from the glass comport in the centre of the table. She then sits before reaching for an egg from the cruet proffered by Margot.

 

“Freshly boiled by Mrs. Trevethan.” Margot says with a smile.

 

“What’s taking that woman so long to bring me a bloody aspirin?” quips Gerald.

 

“God how much did we drink last night?” Lettice asks.

 

“Before, or after you found the Winterhalter*****?” Dickie asks.

 

“That explains why my head is fit for cracking, just like an egg, this morning then.” Lettice rubs her own temples and winces. “I think I could do with a couple of aspirin too.”

 

“Surely they have heard of aspirin down here.” Gerald grumbles, his train of thought about his own sore head undisturbed by the conversation around him.

 

“It is only Cornwall, Gerald darling,” Margot gives him an aghast look. “Not the middle of the Sahara Desert or the Antarctic, you know.”

 

“I might have more luck getting some aspirin in the Sahara.”

 

“Now Gerald, there’s no need to be cantankerous, just because your hangover is purportedly worse than ours.” Margot quips.

 

“Was Mrs. Trevethan cross with the mess, we,” Lettice pauses, blushes and corrects herself. “I… made last night in the storeroom?”

 

“Not at all, dear girl!” Dickie pipes up cheerily, deliberately hitting his own egg with gusto to break the shell, eliciting a scowl from Gerald which he returns with a teasing smile. “Margot and Gerald did a capital job of tidying most of the mess up, and I think the old dear is rather pleased to have people to look after again.”

 

“She can’t care that much about us if it takes this long to fetch me an aspirin.”

 

“Oh do shut up, Gerald old boy,” Dickie barks, surprising even himself at the sudden change to his usual affable self. Taking a few deep breaths, he looks across the coffee pot, teacups and marmalade pot to his friend and continues in laboured syllables. “Look, we all need the bloody aspirins this morning, and they will get here when Mrs. Trevethan gets them to us. Alright, old boy?”

 

Gerald shrinks back in his seat, whilst both Margot and Lettice smirk at one another.

 

“I do like your bed jacket, Lettice darling.” Margot remarks. “It suits you. Did Gerald make it for you?”

 

“This?” Lettice pulls on the burnt orange brocade of her jacket, making the marabou feather trim quiver prettily about her pale face. “No. I actually bought this at Marshall and Snelgrove’s****** because I saw it and I liked the colour.”

 

“And what shall we do today?” Dickie asks the table, casting Gerald a warning look that makes Gerald think twice about saying that his head feels too poorly to do anything.

 

“Well,” Lettice remarks, turning around in her seat to peer through the French doors across the lawn and the windswept tree line. “It’s a fine day today. It might be nice to take advantage of the good weather and go exploring down along the cove.” She turns back. “That’s if no-one else has any other more appealing ideas of course.”

 

Margot smiles and starts nodding. “That sounds splendid, Lettice darling! You could bring your paints with you. There’s a rather nice vista featuring an old lighthouse that I know you would enjoy painting.”

 

“Capital idea, old girl!” Dickie agrees. “The bracing sea breeze will be a perfect way to dust off the fuzzy heads from last night.”

 

Gerald quietly sinks further back in his seat but says nothing.

 

At that moment, the door to the breakfast room creaks open and Mrs. Trevethan shuffles in, wearing the same rather tatty apron over another old fashioned Edwardian print dress of a rather muddy brown colour, carrying a silver tray on which she has several tumblers and a small jar of aspirin. When her eyes fall upon Lettice, she smiles broadly. “Metten daa******* Miss Chetwynd.” she says, dropping a bob curtsey.

 

“Good morning Mrs Trevethan.” Lettice replies.

 

The old woman shuffles across the room and around the oval breakfast table where she removes a glass and the jar of tablets and deposits them in front of Gerald. “Your aspirins, sir.”

 

Dickie gives him a knowing smile, and Gerald mutters a thank you in reply.

 

“I am sorry about the mess we made last night, Mrs, Trevethan.” Lettice apologises to the old Cornish woman as she places a glass tumbler on the table before her, feeling the heat of a fresh blush rising up her throat and into her cheeks as she speaks. “It really was an accident.”

 

“Oh!” scoffs the woman with a dismissive wave of her hand as if shooing a sand fly away. “That’s quite alright. It’s nice to have young people, any people, about the house again after so long. You did make a fine mess, but you cleaned it up pretty well.”

 

“Oh, that was Margot and Gerald’s doing, not mine.” she looks sheepishly to her two friends at either side of her at the table as she sips her orange juice. “I was quite shaken by the whole incident.”

 

“Well, that was quite a pile of things you brought down,” Mrs. Trevethan laughs as she looks down upon the slight girl before her. “Especially for one your size! But look at what hidden treasure you uncovered with it!”

 

“That’s true, Lettice old girl!” Dickie remarks. “If it weren’t for you, that Winterhalter might have sat there another century, evading would-be treasure hunters.”

 

“If it’s a Winterhalter, Dickie,” tempers Lettice. “It may not be. It may not be her.”

 

“Who?” Gerald asks, perplexed, passing Lettice the aspirin bottle after taking out two tablets for himself. “Winterhalter was a man.”

 

“The captain’s lost love of course, Gerald!” scoffs Lettice. “Don’t be dim.”

 

“Sorry, it’s the hangover.”

 

“Oh that’s Miss Rosevear in the painting,” Mrs. Trevethan remarks. “There is no doubt of that.”

 

Lettice eyes the old Cornish woman up and down. Even with her weather-beaten face and white hair indicating that she is of an advanced age, a quick calculation in her still slightly muffled head suggests that she cannot be so old as to have known the lady when the portrait was painted.

 

Mrs. Trevethan starts laughing again as she observes the changes on Lettice’s face, betraying her thoughts. “No dear, I’m not that old, but I still knew Miss Rosevear when I was young, and she was older, and even then, she was still a beauty. It’s her face make no mistake.”

 

“Really Mrs. Trevethan?” Margot gasps, sitting forward in her chair, her half finished cup of coffee held aloft as she sits in the older woman’s thrall. “How?”

 

“What was she like?” Lettice adds excitedly.

 

“Is there truth to the legend?” Dickie asks.

 

“Well, Mrs. Channon, I was a maid for the Rosevears when I was a girl and first went into service.” The old woman’s eyes develop a far away sheen as she reminisces. “Mr. Rosevear had a beautiful old manor about half-way between here and Truro. Burnt down now of course, but you can still see the ruins from the train, if you know where to look. There’s even an old halt******** where the house used to be: Rosevear Halt. My first ride on a train was taken from Rosevear Halt up to London when I was taken with a few of the other maids to clean Mr. Rosevear’s rented London house for the Season.”

 

“And Miss Rosevear?” Lettice asks with trepidation, hoping to glean information about the mysterious beauty in the painting and from the legend.

 

“Oh, Miss Elowen was the youngest of the three Rosevear daughters. They were all beautiful, but she was the loveliest, in my opinion anyway. She could dance and play the spinet, and she had a voice that could have charmed the angels from the heavens.” A wistful look crosses her face. “And she was blithe, or had been before my time at the house, I was told by some of the other maids. Her elder sisters were far more serious than she: set upon always wearing the most fashionable clothing and focussing upon good marriages, whereas the youngest Miss Rosevear, she just took life as it came to her without complaint. Although, she always had an air of sadness about her when I knew her.”

 

“Without complaint? What happened to her, Mrs. Trevethan?” Dickie asks, swept up in the tale as much as his wife and Lettice. “Why didn’t she marry my ancestor of sorts, the captain?”

 

“I don’t rightly know, sir, why she didn’t marry him. As I said, this all happened before my time with the Rosevears, but there were others amongst the older household staff who were witness to what happened, so I have some inkling. I think Mr. Rosevear took against the captain because,” Mrs. Trevethan pauses, lowering her eyes as she speaks. “And you’ll pardon me for speaking out of turn, sir.”

 

“Yes,” replies Dickie. “Go on.”

 

“Well, I think he took against the captain because he wasn’t a legitimate son of the Marquis of Taunton. The Rosevears were an old family you see, and well respected in the district. It might not have looked proper for someone of her family’s standing to marry the illegitimate son of the Marquis, even if he was a naval hero and well set up by his father. However,” She pauses again. “I don’t think things would have gone so badly for him, if it wasn’t for the other two Miss Rosevears.”

 

“What do you mean, Mrs, Trevethan?” asks Margot.

 

“Well, I said that Miss Elowen was the prettiest of all three, and I stand by that. Even when she was in her forties when I first met her, she had a look that could stop idle chatter in a room. Her two sisters weren’t so fortunate, and their looks had begun to fade by the time she met the captain, may God rest his soul. Miss Doryty, the eldest was ten years her little sister’s senior, and for all her plotting and planning for a good marriage, a good marriage never found her, nor her sister, Miss Bersaba. Miss Doryty was her father’s favourite as to look at one, you would like to see the other in appearance and temperament. I think she took against the captain because her little sister was likely to marry before her two siblings and Miss Doryty wasn’t going to have that any more than Miss Bersaba was. Miss Doryty was the eldest and felt it her right to marry first, and Miss Bersaba wanted Miss Doryty married off so that then she could get wed herself. Even when I worked for the Rosevears, both ladies still talked about her would-be suitors up in London, yet not a one ever materialised, and I never knew of them ever going to London. Miss Doryty always was bitter, and a bully. I think she swayed her father’s opinion on the captain. I also know, because I heard her say it often enough within my earshot, that she was of the opinion that it was Miss Elowen’s responsibility as the youngest daughter to care for her father and unmarried sisters into their dotage, since their mother had been in the churchyard many a year already.”

 

“And did she?” Lettice asks sadly, her hand rising to her mouth in upset.

 

“Like I said, Miss Chetwynd, Miss Elowen took whatever life dealt her with forbearance. She never complained, even though her sisters obviously treated her in a lesser way than they should their own kin.”

 

“And, she never married?” asks Margot.

 

“None of the Miss Rosevears did, Mrs. Channon. They lived alone in the Big House. I was still in service there after Mr. Rosevear died. The ladies continued to do good deeds in the district, and they used the house for tombolas and fetes to raise money for the poor. Then I met and married Mr. Trevethan and I had to leave the Rosevears’ service. I heard from friends who stayed on after I’d gone, that the house slowly fell into disrepair, but I was in Penzance with my own family, so I never went back to see for myself.”

 

“And you say there was a fire at the house?” Dickie asks.

 

“There was, sir.”

 

“How did it start, do you know?” continues Dickie.

 

“I couldn’t say for certain sir, but I’d imagine it started from a fallen log. The Rosevears had ever so many fireplaces without fireguards. It's why I won’t have Mr. Trevethan light a fire in any of the fireplaces here that don’t have fireguards. All you need is for a smouldering log to fall on a carpet, and before you know it… whoosh!” The old woman gesticulates dramatically interpreting the way of wild flames.

 

“And did Miss Rosevear die in the fire?” Margot asks. “How thrilling if she did.”

 

“And you say I love dramatics,” Gerald grumbles, looking at Dickie.

 

“What a terrible thing to say, my love.” Dickie looks at his wife with horrified eyes.

 

“Oh yes, but wouldn’t it be terrifically romantic?” gushes Margot in reply.

 

“None of the Rosevears died it the fire, Mrs. Channon. In fact, no one died in it, thank God! But the family lost a great deal of standing with the loss of the Big House and all its contents, and the sisters moved to Truro and lived in much reduced circumstances, I’m told. And that’s where they died. I don’t know who died first, Miss Bersaba or Miss Doryty, but my friend who used to help char for them after they moved to Truro said that the two elder sisters health declined dramatically, and Miss Elowen fulfilled the destiny predicted by her eldest sister, and she spent her life looking after her sisters.”

 

“Do you know if, after her sisters died, whether Elowen ever saw the captain again, Mrs. Trevethan?” Lettice asks tentatively.

 

“I can’t say for certain, Miss Chetwynd,” the old woman replies. “But almost certainly no, to my knowledge. Taking care of her sisters, Miss Rosevear became something of a recluse in Truro, and after Miss Doryty and Miss Bersaba had joined their parents in the churchyard, it was too late for Miss Elowen. She was set in her ways and lived as she had for many a year prior, alone and hidden from the world. The captain too. Mr. Trevethan and I only served him for about five years before he died, and he never left the property once during that time. He barely left the house. And I’d lived in Penzance my whole married life and we all knew about the sea captain in the house on the hill by the cove, and I never once heard of him coming to town. So, miss, I’d say he was much the same, a recluse. And so ends my tale.”

 

“Well, “ Dickie announces, releasing a pent up breath he didn’t realise he had been holding on to. “Thank you so much for sharing it with us, Mrs. Trevethan. I shall know who to come to the next time I want to know anything about local history.”

 

“I should be getting back now, sir. I have to reorganise that storeroom, and then there’s lunch to prepare.”

 

“Oh, we’ve decided to go down to the cove today so Miss Chetwynd can paint the landscape.” Margot announces with a smile. “Could you pack us a picnic luncheon to take with us, rather than having us eat it here, Mrs. Trevethan?”

 

“Oh, pur dha********* Mrs. Channon.” replies Mrs. Trevethan before dropping a quick bob curtsey and shuffling out through the breakfast room door again.

 

“Well, what a tragic tale!” enthuses Margot, taking up a slice of marmalade covered toast and taking a bite.

 

“Not so much tragic as just sad, my love.” Dickie replies.

 

“I say again,” Gerald grumbles. “You say I’m the one who loves drama.”

 

“Well you do, Gerald,” Lettice chimes in, stirring extra sugar into her almost forgotten cup of tea. “And we love you for it.” She assures him. “But I happen to agree with Margot. It is a tragic tale, more so than just sad. Sad is too… too…”

 

“Insipid?” Gerald offers.

 

“Thank you, Gerald. Yes, too insipid a word for it. The loss of youth and true love makes this a tragic tale.”

 

Dickie chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, I wouldn’t doubt that there was a little bit of wax lyrical about Mrs. Trevethan’s version of the story, as it would be with any local legend. However, what I think is important about the story is that it tells us exactly who the lady is in the Winterhalter painting. It gives us provenance, which makes it all the more valuable.”

 

“If it’s a Winterhalter, Dickie!” Lettice reminds him again. “It may not be.”

 

“Well, whether it is or it isn’t,” Margot adds in. “All this talk won’t get us out into this unseasonable sunshine and down to the cove so Lettice can paint the lighthouse. Let’s finish up breakfast and get ready to go out.”

 

*Morris Motors Limited was a privately owned British motor vehicle manufacturing company established in 1919. With a reputation for producing high-quality cars and a policy of cutting prices, Morris's business continued to grow and increase its share of the British market. By 1926 its production represented forty-two per cent of British car manufacturing. Amongst their more popular range was the Morris Cowley which included a four-seat tourer which was first released in 1920.

 

**The Bright Young Things, or Bright Young People, was a nickname given by the tabloid press to a group of Bohemian young aristocrats and socialites in 1920s London.

 

***Sardines is an active game that is played like hide and go seek — only in reverse! One person hides, and everyone else searches for the hidden person. Whenever a person finds the hidden person, they quietly join them in their hiding spot. There is no winner of the game. The last person to join the sardines will be the hider in the next round. Sardines was a very popular game in the 1920s and 1930s played by houseguests in rambling old country houses where there were unusual, unknown and creative places to hide.

 

****As a youth the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VIII and then Duke of Windsor) became a proficient player of the highland bagpipe, being taught by William Ross and Henry Forsyth. He frequently, until his later years, played a tune round the table after dinner, sometimes wearing a white kilt. He was also known to wake the guests at his house on the Windsor Great Park, Fort Belvedere, with a rousing rendition of a tune on the bagpipes.

 

*****Franz Xaver Winterhalter (1805 – 1873) was a German painter and lithographer, known for his flattering portraits of royalty and upper-class society in the mid-19th century. His name has become associated with fashionable court portraiture. Among his best known works are Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Ladies in Waiting (1855) and the portraits he made of Empress Elisabeth of Austria (1865).

 

******Marshall & Snelgrove was an up-market department store on the north side of Oxford Street, London, on the corner with Vere Street founded by James Marshall. The company became part of the Debenhams group.

 

*******“Metten daa” is Cornish for “good morning”.

 

********A halt, in railway parlance in the Commonwealth of Nations and Ireland, is a small station, usually unstaffed or with very few staff, and with few or no facilities. A halt station is a type of stop where any train carrying a passenger is scheduled to stop for a given period of time. In Edwardian times it was not unusual for wealthy families with large houses close to the railway line to have their own halt stop for visiting guests or mail and other deliveries.

 

*********”Pur dha” is Cornish for “very good”.

 

Contrary to what your eyes might tell you, even though the food looks quite edible, this upper-class Regency country house domestic scene is actually made up entirely of 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures, some of which come from my own childhood.

 

Fun things to look for in this tableau include:

 

The Royal Doulton style tea set featuring roses on the breakfast table came from a miniature dollhouse specialist on E-Bay, whilst the silver teapot on the left hand size of the picture comes from Smallskale Miniatures in the United Kingdom, as does the jam pot to the right of the toast rack. The toast rack, egg cruet set, cruet set and coffee pot were made by Warwick Miniatures in Ireland, who are well known for the quality and detail applied to their pieces. The eggs and the toast slices come from miniature dollhouse specialists on E-Bay. The apples in comport on the centre of the table are very realistic looking. Made of polymer clay are made by a 1:12 miniature specialist in Germany. The comport in which they stand is spun of real glass and was made by Beautifully Handmade Miniatures in Kettering in England as is the glass of orange juice on the table, the jug of orange juice and the bunch of roses on the sideboard at the back of the photograph. The remaining empty glass tumblers are all hand made of spun glass and came from a high street dolls’ specialist when I was a teenager.

 

The Queen Anne dining table, chairs and Regency sideboard were all given to me as birthday and Christmas presents when I was a child.

 

The fireplace in the background of the photo comes from Kathleen Knight’s Doll House Shop in the United Kingdom. The two candelabra on it were made by Warwick Miniatures, and the Georgian Revival clock on the mantlepiece is a 1:12 artisan miniature made by Hall’s Miniature Clocks, supplied through Doreen Jeffries Small Wonders Miniatures in England. The vases came from a miniatures specialist on E-Bay.

 

All the paintings around the drawing room in their gilded or black frames are 1:12 artisan pieces made by Amber’s Miniatures in the United States and Marie Makes Miniatures in the United Kingdom.

Parrotfish swimming into 2023...

 

’A Pack of Parrotfish, Wall Hanging Calendar by Su_G': my entry in Spoonflower's '2023 Calendar Wall Hangings' Design Challenge. Original: Original: Metallic oil + chalk on paper. © Su Schaefer 2022

 

See more 2023 calendars by Su_G.

 

Shown as a Wall Hanging Calendar in the mockup (c/o Spoonflower).

 

The link for voting will be www.spoonflower.com/contest_voters_temp/new?contest_id=665 - open for one week only. Expect lots of fun entries: my guess was for about 1000 entries. Not even close - it's 1,171 entries as we speak...

 

[A Pack of Parrotfish, Wall Hanging Calendar by Su_G_mockup]

I have to admit that life aboard Leon's Claw is a lot harder and with more responsibility than I expected... but I love it! Every day I have to make rounds throughout the entire ship and inspect everything and make sure it's all in working order. If one little thing is out of place or whistling wrong or smoking when it shouldn't, it can affect the entire ship and the lives of everyone on board.

Aside from my responsibility inspecting the ship, I also help Damien when he needs it. To be honest he doesn't need that much help. He's very handy and strong! I watched him lift three heavy crates all on his own during our first stop after my joining the crew! They weren't little crates either! I'm pretty sure Damien was amused by my awe ‘cause he kept smirking when I stared and said, "Whoa!"

Having Damien as a bunkmate wasn't all too bad but it took some getting used to. I'd never shared a room, so to speak, with another person. My hammock is directly above Damien's and privacy is a rare treat. I have to use a crate to climb up and let me tell you it is NOT an easy thing to do; especially when you are sore and tired. In fact, I nearly fell several times trying to get in the first time and Damien just stood there looking so fucking amused and told me that if I fell on him while he was sleeping that he'd kill me and make it look like an accident. We both laughed it off but at the same time I don't ever want to find out how serious he is or not.

Before I knew it, it had been nearly three weeks since I'd left home! It took some adjustment but soon I was getting used to my new life. I was an airship engineer! No, it wasn't on one of those big airships I'd dreamed of but this could one day lead to that! I wrote to Papa twice and told him all about the ship and my crew mates and what life was like for me now. Though if I am to be honest, I was starting to feel homesick. I could send Papa letters but would I ever be able to receive any back? Surely there had to be a schedule of planned stops. It meant Papa could send letters ahead for me! I knew the captain would know of them but I didn't want him to think I was regretting my choice to do this.

To be honest, I hadn't seen much of the captain in the past few weeks. When I did see him, he was often busy mapping things out and writing letters and going over ledgers while sipping on a cup of tea. He wasn't hard to find on a small ship but our paths just didn't cross too often.

It was mid afternoon and I'd finished inspecting pipes beneath the mast* when I figured now would be a good time as any to speak with the captain. He usually takes his afternoon tea around this time so I made my way down below deck to the small kitchen area. Sure enough, there he was! Captain Vincent was just finishing up brewing what appeared to be one of his favorites: Earl Grey.

I inhaled deeply and smiled slightly. "Mm, smells good." I watched as the captain glanced over and gave a small, "Mhm." His gaze looked down at his teacup, lifting it gingerly to his nose before taking a deep inhale and sighing contently. He seemed to be in a good mood so I decided to take my chance before he departed. "Sir, I wanted to ask you something." He'd just started to turn when I watched him pause and glance back at me expectantly. "What is it?"

Licking my lips, I explained, "I was wanting to ask if it would be possible to find out ahead of time some of the ports we'll be at. I wanted to let my father know so maybe he could send me letters." I watched as the captain quirked his brow and for a moment, I felt like he could see deep within me, that longing and yearning for home. I was so sure the captain was going to belittle me when instead, he gave a small sigh, then replied, "Come with me." Relief filled me and I began to follow him along towards his quarters. "Thank you!" "You're welcome."

A moment later, he opened the door and let me in before following in after me. "Things don't always go according to plan but we do have a schedule for some of the major stops we'll be taking a few months out," he explained, reaching for a notebook calendar on one of his shelves. He set his teacup down and began to thumb through the notebook until he found what he was looking for. "We'll be stopping in Arturstown in one week. After that..."

And the captain began to show me on his calendar some of the big stops we'd be making and when they were planned. He was stoic, factual in his explanations as always. I took mental notes of where and when some of them were. Fantastic!

"Thank you again, Captain!"

"You're welcome."

I watched him settle in on his chair to finally enjoy his tea. As I turned to leave, something caught my eye. It was a chess set! A very nicely made one, at that. I recognized the brand! My father had a chess set from the same maker! The memories of playing chess with my father made me smile softly. "Can I help you with anything else?" I heard the captain ask behind me. "Oh, no. Sorry, Sir. I was just admiring the box of your chess set. My father has one from the same maker." "Ah, I see." I glanced back at him as he lifted his tea to his lips and began to sip quietly from it. He looked so content just sitting there like that. I gave a small chuckle and a small jerk of my head. "Fancy a game, Captain?" I could tell I surprised him with the offer because he looked up at me and quirked his left brow.

"Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

The captain stared at me for a long moment. "So you know how to play?" "Of course I do." I replied, grinning. Then I added quickly with politeness, "Sir." Perhaps he'd thought someone like me wouldn't know how to play something like that. To be fair, most people of my station live their whole lives working and not having hobbies outside of that. I watched him glance towards the box and I realized that he was actually considering it! Pushing just a touch more, I teased, "Come on. I'll even go easy on you."

The captain gave a snort; an actual snort. Then he responded, "Go easy on me? Kid, I don't think you know who I am."

"Don't tell me. Show me."

"Fine. On your King's head, then."

Standing, the captain motioned for me to move and then reached up for the box, tea secured in his other hand. I thought for a split second I saw a small smirk at the corner of his lips but maybe it was just a trick of the light. We walked across to the cargo hold that also doubled as the living quarters for Damien and me. It didn't take us long to get set up. Sitting on a barrel opposite the captain, I grinned a little. "Your move, Captain."

It became clear within a few minutes that I was not playing against an amateur. Then about fifteen minutes into the game, the captain revealed just how good he was. I was good. I was not THAT good! He seemed to be several steps ahead with an answer to everything I could think of!

"Checkmate."

"How?!" I exclaimed, eyes widened and fighting back incredulous laughter as he checkmated me. I stared, going over all the pieces. Yeah, he...he got me good! I folded my arms over my chest, jaw dropped and just dumbfounded! By chance, right then, I glanced up and suddenly...I felt the wind knocked slightly out of me.

I'm not sure what it was about that one moment, but for a second the way the sunlight filtered through the ceiling and fell upon the captain, it took my breath away. His eye was staring right at me, the sunlight making his sea colored eye look so vibrant and lovely like the shallows in a lagoon. I'd never seen a man look so handsome and beautiful at the same time. His full lips curved ever so slightly into that tiny smirk I thought I'd seen earlier, and he looked so content to be sitting there with his tea and having kicked my ass in the quickest chess game I'd ever played. "Hm." His lips smirked just a touch more as he lifted his tea to his lips and slowly drained the rest of it. Before I could make any sense of what just happened...

BOOM!

"What was that?!" the captain exclaimed, looking around in shock. God, I felt as if my heart jumped into my stomach! And suddenly, the whole ship lurched and the chess set was flying along with several crates nearby! I scrambled to steady myself and stared in horror at the captain who gazed back at me while clutching a barrel. There was a horrible cranking sound that was very obviously slowing down as we heard Damien's scream rise above all of it through the ceiling window. "VINCENT!!! AIDEN!!!! YOU BETTER GET UP HERE QUICK!!!"

  

***

Vocabulary:

*Mast: a tall, upright post on a ship that carries the sails

 

Next Part: www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/50846691428/in/datepo...

 

To read the rest of the story, here's the album link: www.flickr.com/photos/153660805@N05/albums/72157717075565127

 

***Please note this is a BOY LOVE (BL/yaoi/gay) series. It is a slow burn and rated PG13!***

***

Special thank you to the smexy husbando of a man: Vin Aydin Raven-Mysterious for collaborating with me on this series and co-starring as The Captain!

  

~

 

DISCORD SERVER: That's right! The Captain and the Engineer has a Discord Server! If you would like to join and chat with other crewmates and see what's new and happening before it gets posted to Flickr, click the link!

discord.gg/qBa769TAC4

 

***NEW!!!!***

 

The Captain and the Engineer now has a FACEBOOK PAGE! Please come Like, Follow, and join the crew! Thank you so much for all your support!

FACEBOOK PAGE:

www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61558531406088

Expecting.....

Not expected until March, crimson-hued Chinese fringe flowers (Loropetalum) have begun to bloom in early February.

 

Lanier Gardens Park

DeKalb County (Avondale Estates), Georgia, USA.

2 February 2021.

 

**************

▶ "Loropetalum chinense (aka Chinese fringe-flower) is a member of the Witchhazel family (Hamamelidaceae). While native to China, Japan, and the Himalayas, loropetalum is well-adapted to [southeast U.S.], introduced there in 1880. The plant, an evergreen shrub, blooms from mid-March through mid-April, with scattered blossoms during the rest of the season. Two forms of L. chinense exist: a white to pale-yellow-flowering, green-leafed variety and a pink-flowering variety (Loropetalum chinense var. rubrum) with leaves varying from bronze-red, when new, to olive-green or burgundy, when mature. The genus name, Loropetalum, is derived from the Greek words for strap and petal, and refers to the long, thin petals of the fringe-like blooms."

— Clemson College of Agriculture, Forestry and Life Sciences.

— Wikipedia.

 

***************

▶ Photo by Yours For Good Fermentables.com.

▶ For a larger image, type 'L' (without the quotation marks).

— Follow on Facebook: YoursForGoodFermentables.

— Follow on Instagram: @tcizauskas.

▶ Camera: Olympus OM-D E-M10 II.

— Lens: Olympus M.45mm F1.8.

— Extension tube: 16 mm.

— Edit: Photoshop Elements 15.

▶ Commercial use requires explicit permission, as per Creative Commons.

The weather forecast.

A tongue-twister.

In the eleven years since freight started using HS1 I have yet to photograph one until today as the majority of workings have been nocturnal. However since the pandemic occasional daylight operation has occurred thanks to the decimation of Eurostar services providing plenty of free capacity and this morning a post on SE-Gen just gave me time to dash to either here at Rainham or Ebbsfleet. In the end I decided if the sun was out (ha,ha - well it was when I left home!) Ebbsfleet was not an option and besides Rainham was much the cheaper destination as my Travelcard reaches as far as the c2c station alongside. Of course someone had completely switched the lights out on arrival, which was half an hour earlier than I expected as I had made a 30 second connection into a Grays service at West Ham. In compensation the loaded Transfesa service did run parallel with 4M56 12.57 London Gateway - Garston and typically the sun did come out a minute later, albeit fairly weakly!

Solo sunrise mission accomplished. I arrived early in hopes to get some stars but there weren't enough to really enjoy. So I kept warm in the car with my coffee for a good 15 minutes!

 

The colors came pretty early as expected. But it was clear so nothing too special. I did like the way my new camera picks up colors. I have been manually setting the white balance more often and am loving the results.

Manchester

While walking to class this morning I glanced up the street to see Via 70 arriving at Brantford with P42 907 on the point.

 

I wandered a couple blocks past campus to snap a few shots on my cell phone, no hell but not bad either!

Halfway through "Black and White Week", and I expect this shot will be the least popular of the lot. It's also the oldest. I like it because it captures the feeling, the atmosphere, of every small arena in Canada in the 1960s.

 

I didn't play hockey but I was in my share of rinks, often to photograph my brother's games. That's him - David Page - on the right, flying down the left wing, trying to corral the puck and evade the big defender who would like to dump him on his butt if possible. It looks like I'm on the ice, but actually I'm standing by the end boards, where the plexiglass ends. I guess they ran out of money when building the arena.

 

Kids still play on rinks like this across Canada, maybe a little more upscale now. We also played outdoors in those years, on frozen ponds and flooded backyard rinks. Now kids get channeled into the nationwide hockey factory at an early age, lesser players weeded out at each successive level. David is 17 here, and whatever level this was called was the highest he reached. In a few short years he went from being the biggest kid on his team to average size.

 

But it isn't the sports action that primarily interests me here, but rather, the ambiance. That haze hanging over the ice. The few, shadowy onlookers. I can feel the cool air in that building, wherever it was - Sainte-Thérèse? Sainte-Eustache? - on a winter day in Quebec. I can even smell it. It was such a huge part of my childhood.

 

A few years ago my friend Madonna was in Quebec and brought me back a t-shirt. It's white with blue lettering: La vie est simple. Manger. Dormir. Jouer au hockey. (Life is simple. Eat. Sleep. Play hockey.)

 

Photographed in a small city arena in Quebec (Canada); scanned from the original Tri-X negative. Pentax Spotmatic, 50mm lens. Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission ©1969 James R. Page - all rights reserved.

Luckily, the weather forecast for the day before yesterday, 11 June 2021, was good, as I just had to escape from the banging and drilling noise that is created by the workmen still repairing my building. On top of that, there was additional banging and drilling as a different repair company came to my neighbours' homes to start repairs on ceiling damage caused by a leaking dishwasher. Most unfortunate for both families! Walls are thin enough that noise from one home is heard in others. Anyway, I had a great day out, quiet and rewarding. Sunny, but the wind increased as the day went on and the further south I travelled. A total of 254 km driven this day.

 

All the roads were ones that I had driven before, apart from one short back road. Bird sightings made for a great day, even though they were all familiar species. A Red-winged Blackbird - surprise, surprise! - was the first bird to be seen, followed by three Wilson's Snipe, all perched on fence posts.

 

A Bobolink was one of the highlights of the day for me. Perched on a fence post, singing its little heart out, it gave me a chance to take a short video. Of course, the bird would have to land on a fence post (seen in the video) that had rather annoying, long blades of grass across its face, ha. I didn't want to restart my car and reverse to get a slightly better view, in case the bird flew. Hearing their song is such a delight. After looking at many Bobolink photos on Google, I think the beak of the bird I photographed must have some kind of deformity on the lower mandible. If that is the case, then I suspect this bird is the same individual that I photographed last year, at exactly the same place.

 

Before heading further south, I caught sight of a very distant bird of prey, perched on a fence post. I will need help to identify what kind it was. After quite a drive, I almost missed two Swainson's Hawks that were on fence posts, with a couple of bare posts in between them. Unable to stop in time, I cautiously reversed, expecting that both would fly off. Luckily, they both stayed and I was able to get a few photos - such beautiful birds. Came across a pair of Mountain Bluebirds along the same road.

 

Of course, seeing a few favourite silos and a barn or two makes any day special. By the time, I reached the silos, though, the wind had picked up and it was all I could do to take a few quick shots. A few photos were taken from the road, looking down on the Bar U Ranch. Later in the summer, I will hopefully visit the whole ranch again.

 

Heading eastwards, I returned to the city via the south-east. Eastern and Western Kingbirds, plus a few 'regulars', added to the enjoyment of the day.

The weather has been poor; we have had lots of rain, but this gent is obviously expecting things to get even worse!

I wasn't expecting The Wave.

The sculpture, by artist Lucy Glendinning, weighs 17 tonnes and is 10.3m tall.

I'm expecting to receive a new fridge/freezer to the officially (taxman) 'free time residence' and more clearly said 'summer cottage'. It is an important device to store some slices of nice summer days:)

 

This photo was shot in/on my kitchen table studio using a single ceiling lamp and a rather long exposure time.

Follow Me On Facebook:

www.facebook.com/AliMakaveliPhotography

 

This isn't as an actual African Sunset, but it definitely reminds me of one. Didn't expect to get a shot like this to be fair as it was a cloudy day when the forecast lied and said "clear skies". I'm glad I was patient and waited till the very death. It paid off!

Oxford

2 pictures about chimneys in Montreal, which I intend to enter in a challenge here on Flickr. The details about these can be found here:

 

www.ticklebear4u.com/2013/10/channeling-mary-poppins-3003...

 

:)

No reproduction of this image is allowed without prior permission of the photographer. Ninguna reproducción de esta imagen está permitida sin el previo permiso del fotógrafo.

 

© PaolaSuárez All rights reserved Todos los derechos reservados

Morning walk around Marsworth

She's in a family full of eccentrics

She done things I never expected.

 

~

 

TOTW ~ Lyrically inspired.

 

Oasis ~ She's Electric (obviously...right?)

 

I bought some metallic eyeshadows specifically for Flickr about a month and a half ago....and I've really just been wearing it...not...using it for it's premeditated and worthwhile purchase.

heh.

 

There are days that I get a little sad that I feel like I don't have "a style".

I feel like a lot of my contacts are so refined...distinguished in their art.

I'm pretty much all over the place.

Then I remember who I am. And then I laugh.

Cos really, the randomocity that is my art/style or the lack thereof: Well. It's all just extensions of myself.

 

I'm pretty random. I like a lot of things. And maybe I don't have a style that SHOUTS Just.K on the top of it's lungs....but everything I do is a reflection of self.

So I guess....what more can I say.

I'm a lot of things.

 

And maybe...electric is one of them...eh? yeah? Errr....maybe not.

 

Very Random Fact of the Day: I am some how enamored that my hair is long enough that I can wrap it around my belly button ring.

yeah. Reinforces the fact I've said that it was 'very' random, and that on numerous occassions I've told you I'm a very odd, odd little woman.

Doc's Expansion area, Svan (107, 63, 529) - Moderate

 

I expect to do a series of this song. I don't know if I'll ever capture what it means to me. But I'm gonna try! Do other people feel as if they're falling through time, too?

 

MUSIC: Tom Petty: "Free Fallin'"

 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lWJXDG2i0A

 

LYRICS:

 

She's a good girl, loves her mama

Loves Jesus and America too

She's a good girl, who's crazy 'bout Elvis

Loves horses and her boyfriend too

 

And it's a long day livin' in Reseda

There's a freeway runnin' through the yard

And I'm a bad boy, cause I don't even miss her

I'm a bad boy for breakin' her heart

 

Now I'm free

Free fallin'

Yeah, I'm free

Free fallin'

 

Now all the vampires walkin' through the valley

Move west down Ventura boulevard

And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows

And the good girls are home with broken hearts

 

Now I'm free

I'm free fallin'

Yeah, I'm free

Free fallin'

 

Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm

Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now

 

I wanna glide down over Mulholland

I wanna write her name in the sky

I'm gonna free fall out into nothin'

Gonna leave this world for awhile

 

Now I'm free (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

Free fallin' (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

Yeah, I'm free (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

Free fallin' (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

 

(Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

Now I'm free

Free fallin'

Oh (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

Free fallin' (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

Now I'm free (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

Oh, free fallin' (Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm)

(Free fallin', now I'm free fallin', now I'm) Free fallin'

   

Little did I expect that following the Humko local back into Champaign would lead me to a triplet of IC SD70s that were set to take off in just a few minutes. My earlier temptation to leave the house had certainly paid off nicely...

 

IC1022/IC1000/IC1036 took off from Champaign and barreled through Tolono and Pesotum both plenty quickly thanks to the still semi-recent manifest speed increase (up to 50mph now!). Here at the latter village, the trio is found racing past the old Illinois Central depot in town, one that has been very nicely kept up. It and the rest of Pesotum offer fine views of trains like A408 as they book it down the original Mainline of Mid-America.

 

An IC trio to close out the year was about the perfect way to do it, I reckon. Not to mention, starting my year with the IC1000 and ending it with it? Sorta perfect, even if it wasn't up front. At least 1022 is home from the Bessemer at last! You could almost believe CN hadn't taken over here if it weren't for the yellow sill, stolen and replaced numberboards, and the second batch of SD70s cheap nose logos done during the transition. Still, close enough for me!

A beautiful pregnancy photo I did for Araumi in her mermaid form.

I haven't been able to upload photos in a while, so now that I finally can again I'm uploading old ones I took a while ago. So expect some random stuff from a month or two ago for the next few days!

 

I kinda liked how this photo came out originally, but my sister insisted on me putting a bunch of random effects on it while I was editing... so now it's kinda weird looking. :P And somehow Bloom looks way more overedited than Layla...?? Oh well.

 

Sorry for taking so long with these WinxWarrior14, euuugh. @___@ Stella and Flora are coming soon!!

 

Despite her gross hair (which I will never understand how people manage to tame...) I really like this doll. She's got such a pretty outfit, and I love her shimmery lipstick! Mine's hair keeps getting messier and messier though, especially in the front. I probably will try boil straightening it soon.

  

I really owe Amy a lot for this shot. She was forced to walk in front of this sign for like 20 times and I finally got, well, one quite satisfactory shot... :p She's a very professional model. And sorry, I'm a complete amateur photographer... :p

 

Sorry & Thank you, Amy! :****

Cactus Wren hanging out on cactus at Sauceda Ranger Station, Big Bend Ranch State Park in West Texas.

Expect more cluster-y posts like this because I'm a little more active on Instagram than here. Enjoy :)

new photos, expect some more soon

 

www.eduardoacierno.com

The Ugly Duckling is a research ship intended to explore the distant corners of the galaxy in search of new habitable planets. It got its name after the Earth government failed to learn from an incident involving a boat in the early 21st century, and held a contest on the galactic network to name the ship. Ugly Duckling won, and considering it karma, the Earth government honored the contest results.