#I was thinking about how the longest carried from south to north England | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

viscountessbranksome · 5 years

Text

Just in Time - A Season 6/Downton Movie AU

Happy New Year! Also posted to ff.net here.

1925 had been quite a year, to say the least. It had seen the death of his father, the death of Mary’s father, the passing of a bill he had co-authored in Parliament, and the dissolution of what many in their circle had referred to as the world’s longest engagement. In May of 1921 Evelyn Napier proposed to Lady Catherine Elwood, daughter of the Marquess of Dorset. He and Catherine had known each other as children, but had drifted apart as time went by. She had been engaged during the war, only for her fiancé to be killed on the Somme. This would be the second go-round for both of them—Evelyn had been engaged to Sarah Semphill, daughter of Baron Semphill shortly before the war before breaking it off. He and Catherine got along well, and there had been an attraction, but he wasn’t sure either of them could have called it a passionate love. Nonetheless, he was a practical man, and knew that he would have to marry at some point.

Besides, he had grown to accept that love in their station was a luxury, not a guarantee. Mary Crawley had been one of the lucky ones, at least until her husband had passed in a car crash. He had been devastated for his friend and had written a heartfelt condolence letter as soon as he heard the news. They had not spoken in person since during the war, when he had been convalescing with a bad leg at Downton. Unexpectedly, her response shifted into a renewed correspondence, something they hadn’t done consistently since they were much younger. He realized how much he missed her letters, and he treasured them more now without the burden of his adolescent feelings for her. The subject of their letters varied from books to London gossip, to eventually the subject of running a country estate. Evelyn had some practice, since the Viscount Branksome rarely involved himself in Grimsby Park’s day-to-day anymore, and he was conducting a survey of the country’s landed estates for the Home Office. He offered to share his findings with her so that she could implement any changes she deemed necessary at Downton, and she responded with an invitation.

He had taken Mary’s enthusiasm to see him as simply an appreciation of the familiar, when so much of her life had been cruelly ripped away from her. Still, their friendship was rekindled through countless hours in the Downton library with Mary and Tom, the former chauffeur turned brother-in-law turned agent with an impressive knack for the agricultural business. The estate had been nearly crippled by the death duties after Matthew Crawley’s death, but Mary had been a quick study, and had a will like iron. Within three years, it was turning a profit.

His visits to Downton were a welcome respite from the London bureaucracy and running his own estate in the South. The subject of his marriage seemed to be the only thing on his father’s mind, as neither he nor Catherine had settled on a date in the three years since he first proposed. Evelyn’s excuse had always been that he wanted to ensure that England was back on its feet after the war that had nearly wiped out his generation, and then would he turn to his own affairs. He supposed he knew that the truth had something more to do with an Earl’s daughter in Yorkshire. He and Mary had been out riding when he received word that his father had died.

It was a total shock. Of course, he knew that he would one day have to deal with the responsibility of being Viscount, but he had hoped rather irrationally that it would have been years away. Grimsby’s advances into modernization and the industrial empire the Napiers had built helped defray the taxes in the wake of the elder Lord Branksome’s death, but keeping both streams of income going kept the younger busier than ever. The marriage was once again postponed.

“Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“Lord Branksome.”

“The old codger from Dorset?”

“No, his son—he just inherited!”

“That makes him one of the most eligible bachelors in London.”

“Not very eligible—he’s engaged. And they say he was having an affair with an Earl’s daughter.”

Mary nearly choked on her champagne, and had half a mind to interject that Evelyn Napier would never do such a thing, when the man greeted her. “Mr. Napier—or Lord Branksome, sorry. It still takes some getting used to. I’m so sorry.”

“Please—just Evelyn.” he answered, shaking his head. He looked tired, but his smile was genuine as ever all the same. “Thank you—I received your letter as well, I’m sorry I haven’t responded to it. Everything has been rather chaotic of late.”

She nodded in understanding. “Are the wedding plans going well?”

“They’re in a sort of limbo.” Evelyn confessed. “At least until things settle down. I’m just sorry that Father won’t get to see it. It’s all he ever wanted.” It was no secret that there had been a rift between him and his father, but Evelyn had never told her why, and not wanting to pry, she had never asked. “How are things up north? How’s George?”

“They’re good. He and Sybbie are keeping Nanny busy. He’s gotten to the age where he has a mind to go exploring.” she explained, brightening at the mention of her son. “And I’ve met someone that I believe is a mutual friend of ours—are you familiar with a Henry Talbot?”

Evelyn racked his brain for a moment, before nodding. “I saw him at my club a few times. He’s a car driver, isn’t he?” That was all he ever talked about to anyone who listened to his often tipsy tirades.

“He is. He was wondering if we could all get together for dinner in London—you could bring Catherine?”

Evelyn hesitated, as the idea of spending an evening listening to some car aficionado talk shop wasn’t exactly appealing, but it was for Mary… “I don’t see why not.” Her smile made it worth it.

“And then I circled round the bend, Carter on my heels…”

Evelyn hid his amusement with another sip of his wine. He didn’t know what was more surprising—the fact that Henry hadn’t changed from before meeting Mary or that Mary had met a man with whom she couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“How exactly did they meet?” Catherine asked him in a low tone, and Evelyn merely shook his head in bafflement.

“I spun completely out of control, and then Carter’s car set on fire…”

Evelyn glanced over at Mary, who looked rather uncomfortable. “I think the ladies could do without the theatrics, old chap.”

“They’re not theatrics—it really happened. Of course, some people can’t appreciate the thrill of it.” Henry responded with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“I can’t understand why you find it so amusing to continue to put your life in danger—and for what?” Mary interjected.

“The excitement. The prize money. The glory!” Henry exclaimed, incredulous. “It’s not all that dangerous if you know what you’re doing. It’s the rank amateurs that end up crashing, who have no business being out here in the first place.”

The table grew so silent that one could hear a pin drop. Mary stood up, visibly upset. “Excuse me. I think I need some fresh air.”

Evelyn immediately rose, looking after her in concern before turning on Henry. “Are you daft? I told you what happened to Mr. Crawley.”

“A rank amateur. Didn’t know a gear shift from his own cock. It’s sad but it’s true.”

“Have you no decency at all?” Evelyn shouted, which finally got Henry to stand.

“You know you’re a real piece of work, Napier. You lecture me on how to court her when you don’t have the balls to do it yourself. If I di—” Whatever Henry was about to say next was interrupted by a swift punch to the jaw from Evelyn.

Unaware of the ruckus inside, Mary exhaled as she watched the cars fly past the restaurant.

“Are you alright?” She turned, surprised to see Evelyn’s fiancée, Catherine standing beside her.

“I’ll manage. Thank you.” She smiled. The two had only met a couple of times before, and her opinion of her was that she was the sort of sweet and decent kind of woman that she would have expected Evelyn to marry. They were a fine match.

Catherine nodded. “I can’t imagine what that was like. Arthur died across the Channel. We were supposed to marry on his next leave but…” She shook her head, wiping her face.

“But at least you have a second chance.” Mary supplied with an encouraging smile.

“Yes. I adore Evelyn—I do—but the truth is…I know that will never be enough. Not when he’s in love with someone else.”

Mary looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” Catherine appeared as if she wanted to say more, but a disturbance at the entrance to the restaurant diverted both of their attention.

“Get your filthy hands off of me! I’m forty men from an earldom you disgusting little pricks!” Henry slurred as he was carried out by two police officers.

Evelyn watched them take him to their squad car before massaging his knuckles and approaching Catherine and Mary. His hair was askew, his tie was undone, and his tuxedo was torn. “I’m terribly sorry but Mr. Talbot has had too much to drink, it appears.”

“What happened? Did he hit you?” Mary asked, her eyes looking him over in concern.

“I’m perfectly fine. I’m sorry the party didn’t turn out how you wanted it.” Evelyn replied sincerely. “I’ll take you both home.”

After dropping Mary off at 35 Belgrave Square, Evelyn’s car took him and Catherine to Elwood Place, her family’s London home. Once at the doorstep, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“We promised that we could be honest with each other, didn’t we?” Catherine’s voice was even, but he sensed that there was more than she was letting on.

“Of course, darling.” Evelyn tilted his head.

“Then tell me the truth—are you still in love with Mary Crawley?”

He dropped his gaze, his eyebrows knitting together. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because I already know the answer.” When he looked up at her, Catherine was smiling, though her eyes were tearful. “Tell her.”

“It’s irrelevant.” Evelyn shook his head. “I’m marrying you.” Even as he uttered the words, he knew he was trying to convince himself more than her.

“But would you truly be happy with me? When she’s out there?”

“But she and Henry—”

“She’d be a fool to go back to him after tonight.” Catherine dismissed with a chuckle. “Besides, I saw the way she looked at you.”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.” Evelyn insisted helplessly.

“I’m saying that I’m calling it off. For both our sakes.” Catherine kissed his cheek before retreating to the door. “Goodbye, Evelyn.”

The next time he saw Mary was at Lord Grantham’s funeral. He expressed his sincere condolences, but kept the conversation short, returning to Dorset on the train after the service instead of accepting her invitation to stay. Another three months passed. They exchanged Christmas cards, as they usually did, and hers included an invitation to a New Year’s Eve gathering—they weren’t to have the annual shoot that year, but nonetheless hoped he could be there as she wanted to spend the holiday with her friends and family. He accepted, mentally steeling himself for what he knew he had to do.

“I’m so sorry about your engagement.” Mary told him over tea the afternoon before the party.

“I seem to be rather bad at them.” he joked with a wry smile, shaking his head.

“When we were in London, Catherine said something about you being in love with someone else.”

Evelyn wasn’t surprised at all by his ex’s boldness—it was certainly part of what had drawn him to her. “Did she?”

“I thought she was mistaken, but then Henry told me that you defended Matthew. Those weren’t his exact words of course…”

“He was completely out of line.” Evelyn shrugged.

“Yes, he was. I wanted to thank you…and to tell you that I feel the same…if it isn’t too late.” Mary lifted her gaze tentatively.

Evelyn’s eyes widened, before a smile broke out on his face. “Too late? You’re just in time.” He found himself leaning over the tea table and she met him in the middle with a kiss.

“Three…two…one—Happy New Year!”

Evelyn turned to Mary with a smile and the pair kissed for the first time publicly.

Cora gasped.

“Finally!” Edith rolled her eyes with a smile.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mary asked, glaring at her sister.

“Only that we were all waiting for you to admit what everyone except you saw all along.” Edith explained with a laugh.

Mary’s face softened, and she shook her head with a reluctant smile.

“This house could use some good news for a change.” Cora stated, beaming.

“Before we make things official, there’s someone’s permission I’d like to ask.” Evelyn glanced over at Mary and she nodded.

“Excuse us.” Mary took his hand and the two ascended the staircase.

“Unca Evelyn!” George hopped to his feet excitedly, and Evelyn swept him off his feet with a laugh.

“Hello, George. Happy New Year. I have a belated Christmas present for you.” He pulled out his handkerchief and set it on the palm of his hand. Lifting it, he revealed a miniature train engine. He was something of an amateur magician, which the children had found entertaining on his visits to Downton.

George clapped his hands and took the engine. Mary cleared her throat. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, Unca Evelyn.”

“You’re welcome.” He set him down with a smile. “George, there’s something I’d like to ask you. I—I love your mother very much, and since you’re now the man of the house, I was wondering if you’d be alright with my marrying her?”

George’s eyes widened, but he was soon beaming, but then sadness entered his gaze. “If you marry Mama, I can’t call you Unca Evelyn anymore. Will we still be friends?”

“Of course—and you can call me anything you like, George.” Evelyn insisted.

The boy smiled and hugged him. Evelyn turned around with a smile to face an equally ecstatic Mary as he carried him over to her. “Happy New Year, Mary.”

“Happy New Year, darling.” she whispered as she leaned up to kiss him.

#downton abbey #fanfic #evelyn napier #mary crawley #evelyn x mary #mary x evelyn #marvlyn

4 notes · View notes

forthedingoes · 7 years

Photo

Dingoes (Canis Dingo) are a unique canid species with a wide variety of phenotypical traits, this means physical characteristics like build, colour, ear, leg, tail length, coat colour and length. These ‘types’ of dingoes are distinguishable by people familiar with the species, and can be recognised on sight due to these traits in combination and context. Dingoes are a separate species of canid to dogs, however as canines they share some characteristics that are outside the oldschool ‘rules’ of what a dingo looks like. This leads to confusion and the ambiguity is frustrating and creates a mess of problems. Misinformation is a problem here, but this misinformation is perpetuated by government council bodies, dingo breeders/ sellers, and members of the public who have little to no dingo experience, or with misinformed, rigid ideas of what a dingo should look like. In 2014, dingoes finally had an official taxonomy, which details the biological research undertaken to determine the evolutionary history of dingoes, as well as their physiology pre-invasion day when domestic dogs were brought into the country. So, everyone, this is just a post to check out the diversity among dingoes and the interesting ways they have evolved, and their physical/ developmental differences to domestic dogs.

Dingoes have evolved so that their progeny are suited to their environment. In these examples,dingoes born in temperate zones in southern states are on the left, through the coldest seasons (where it reaches up to -10 C in winter) for the first two, then to autumn, spring and summer. The dingoes on the right are found in tropical or arid regions. The sable juveniles in the topmost photo are from K’gari (commonly known as Fraser Island) in tropical Queensland. The dingo below is from far north tropical Queensland. The black dingo below this one is from western Queensland, the one below it found in Southern Australia (which is located in the centre of the country for followers overseas). The last dingo on the right is from the northern territory, near central Australia. Now the reason I have included all wild born dingoes in this post is to also bring in the topic of captive bred dingoes. Like these little fluffclouds. These pups are bred in Victoria, in the Dingo Discovery Centre and are a Type categorised as Alpine dingoes which are officially categorised as extinct in the wild. When they grow up, they’ll look like the dingoes you see in zoos.. because this is where 99% of captive kept dingoes have come from. Very few parks, zoos or people looking for a family dingo (”pet”) take on rescues that are wild born, when these animals are specially bred to be suited to domestic life and environments wild dingoes would be unlikely to cope with. You will not find wild dingoes that look or act like them, and visa versa. This is an important issue that needs to be emphasised, because many people see these ones and can’t recognise a dingo in the wild. Or, they will opt to take on a wild born rescue after knowing captive bred dingoes and get a hell of a shock.

Too much focus is given to coat colour, we’ve established that it is a tiny characteristic which is too ambiguous to rely on alone. What I want to focus on are traits these dingoes share across the species, and have variations of between ‘Types’. Lets start with ears. Dingoes have pricked, rounded ears that do not have the flexibility of a domestic dogs, and will come up from approx 5 weeks of age. However, the length of these ears varies between types, and that in itself influences their rate of growth. Dingoes in cooler climates have slightly smaller ears compared to those in tropical areas. Captive bred Alpine dingoes are much smaller ears than wild dingoes, which naturally mean their ears pop up younger. Coat length and density is entirely related to their home range, or in the captive bred dingoes case, they are fluffy as hell because Alpines were native to Victorian Alps… and people think they’re cute and will buy them. Wild Dingoes in New England (in New South Wales) deal with some serious cold (it’s like hell froze over, i shit you not), so the dingoes in the first two photos will be a good example of how thick a coat can get to cope with the harshest australian winters. Dingoes in tropical areas can have an undercoat (which drives me insane.. the SHEDDING) and will blow their coat in spring. Dingoes in very hot areas like the the far north, western Qld or central Australia can have a thinner undercoat or a single coat. In arid regions where resources are harder to find, dingoes have longer legs for travelling longer distances than those in forested areas, where it pays to have shorter legs for climbing trees and balancing. Alpines have very short legs which were suited to climbing mountain ranges and having a better grip on the snow. Common traits found across types of dingoes include hard, angular eyes unlike dogs softer, rounded ones. Their jaw hinges behind the earline, creating a wider gape than dogs, their canines are pronounced and grow longer than the gumline. The teeth are larger in general, and are spaced further apart than a domestic dogs. Looking at a dingo pups teeth, they will look like a dog pups, if they were two to thee times their actual age (this causes confusion when professionals estimate the age of pups, thinking they are domestic puppies). Their head is the widest part of their body, and is the same width as their chest, which is always narrow. They do not get dewclaws on their hind legs, only their front, and have rotating wrist joints for added dexterity (seriously, they can open jars and turn doorknobs). Dingoes have a distinct gait and track when they walk, carrying their weight lighter on their paws which stand more upright than dogs. Their shoulder muscles do not bulk outward like dogs, but will dip inwards (making it damn near impossible to find a fitting harness). Dingo tails sit high, and they have a scent glad which is marked with a dark spot ¾ of the way up their tail, near the base. They have furred bellies, and their tail will develop the bottlebrush shape after they reach 1 - 1.5 years of age. Dingoes are very lean, and cannot digest starches, carbs, fatty meat or fruits/ veggies in their diet. That isn’t to say they won’t eat them if there isn’t any option, but it doesn’t go down well and makes them sick. They grow at double the rate of domestic puppies, and they are born at the same time, once a year, in winter. They can survive separation and weaning much earlier than dogs, and can survive from 3 weeks old without milk. Most die from culls, either poisoned themselves or from starvation, exposure or predators. Surviving dingoes are independent and mature at 4 months, and will stop growing at 15 months. Their coat will continue to change, and will typically lighten with age. Pups are born darker, with most almost black, and very pale pups typically turn white. In stable populations, there is one breeding pair which will inhibit the breeding of their decedents who live in territories extending from their own. Dingoes are highly territorial and do not form flexible social packs like dogs or wolves, but are predominantly solitary. They form strong bonds with mates, and will often remain monogamous. Non breeding females will sometimes nurse and cooperatively raise pups within a family group, and kin groups will occasionally organise a group hunt on large prey. Dingoes are hyperflexible, and can flip their head all the way back to their spine, and hold their legs out at over 90 degrees without pain or injury. Females typically have a ‘mane’ and ridge of longer hair in a dorsal line. Mostly nocturnal, they usually peak their energy at dusk and sleep throughout the day. Dingoes interact with people and dogs very differently to domestic dogs, and these behavioural, vocal and developmental differences are significant, that will have to come in another post. If you’ve read all of this - thank you - I hope you found it interesting. Please let me know if there’s anything you would like me to elaborate on. I have other posts I am working on with more details, but I’m very happy to take requests.

[Thank you so much everyone who got something out of this, it makes me super happy to see people are interested in dingoes. I don't like to militant, but if you reblog this, can you please not tag this as "dogs"? Dingoes are a different species, and having the distinction drawn between the two is really important, and largely what this post is about.]

#dingoes are not dogs #canis dingo #dingo identification #australian dingo #wild born dingoes #dingo pup #captive bred dingo #dingo traits #behaviour

559 notes · View notes

loriendragonqueen · 7 years

Text

“Guess What?!”

Pairing: Ivar x OC

Words: 5.832

Warnings: bad language; explicit;

Notes: This is the longest one-shot I’ve ever wrote. Also, sorry if there is any mistake, because I translated it quite fast. Hope you like it!

________________________________________________________

"What happened, Ivar?" she asked a bit curious.

"Nothing!" he answered without taking his eyes off the floor, frowning as if embarrassed by something.

"Okay, so I'll ask one of your brothers ..." she simply said, rising from where she was.

"Why do you have to be so nosy? You do not have anything else to do?!" he retorted angrily, almost overflowing his usual anger.

"I have, but I was curious. You did not mistreat me or curse me today, I thought you were sick. You didn’t even call me 'filthy bastard' as you always do when you see me..." and she sat again.

"Leave me alone!" he said turning to the other side and giving her his backs.

"I'll leave you alone then, if that's what you want. And, by the way, today I am going back to my kingdom in the north, where the people don’t know about the nickname 'filthy bastard and opportunist' that you gave me. Oh, and I hope that Ragnar puts some sense and wit in your head or that the gods give you wisdom. And don’t take my simple gentleness as weakness, for I will still take Kattegat from the hands of your family, just as they did with my father, no matter how foolish, coward and useless he was!"

"Still mulling over what my father did to King Horik? The foolishness is a family thing..." he teased a little sadistic.

"Actually, Ragnar did me a great favor by killing him and his rightful heirs. It was a pity that he hadn't done the same to Erlendur at the time, but, still, may he remain dead. Now, what I really want is power, otherwise you could drink from Horik's skull that I wouldn’t even move a finger to defend his memory!" and she was on her feet again. "So, son of Ragnar, may the gods smile on your behalf even among so many sorrows that are to come!"

And she took two steps toward the exit.

"Oh, and don’t become attached to a mere slave. I see in her the same I see in everybody here and that disgusts me. Mediocrity is something that gives me loathing and makes me want to run as fast as possible to faraway!" and she left, finally, leaving the stupefied young man behind.

It had been some time since she had returned home where she was almost queen, not to mention years. Since her departure, she has conquered territories and enlarged her domains, progressing as a ruler as she has always planned. It was now the time to join the Great Heathen Army that would avenge Ragnar's cowardly death on the lands in the south.

"Bastard!" Ivar yelled when he saw her coming by the land mounted on her white mare.

"Crippled!" she said in the same tone used by the young lad, making his manipulator smile transform in a smile of rage.

"It has been a long time since you left. Did you tricked some fools to grow up in life while you were away?" he asked as coldly as he could, trying to ease his growing anger.

"In fact, I was handed the spoils of my father and brother, as well as his county and other lands. Of course, after a few severed tongues, severed heads, mutilated limbs, and more. Nothing that a little blood and fear can't handle..." and she got down from her mare feeling triumphant.

"And what about the boats? Did you get any, or do you plan to ride a horse until England?" and he straightened on the bench where he was.

"I didn’t have to. Boats were delivered to me after I conquered some land from the Russians. You know, kill the ruler and everyone loyal to him, offer a new way to conquer glory before the gods and the others... Sheeps are not usually very smart, in fact." and she laughed approaching him as she held the animal by the reins.

"Impressive, for a bastard, to conquer all of it. Really impressive!" he exclaimed in a mocking tone.

"And what about you? Do you plan to crawl up to the enemy and persuade him to bend down for you to hit him? Or did your hollow head thought on something beyond the cunts you can't have?" she said in the same tone.

He looked at her as if he were about to shoot her a hundred flaming arrows.

"What? My birds have ears. Or did you really thought that I would leave Kattegat without a spy behind? Don’t be such innocent, Ivar!" and she laughed in satisfaction.

"What did they tell you?" he asked between gritted teeth.

"They told me how you could not fuck that Paris toy you call slave. But personally, I think you scared her enough that nothing would flow properly!" she answered jokingly. "No one would be comfortable enough to fuck you while you keep all your angry wolf pose. No one but one or another!"

"I believe you feel worthy of such a feat, right?" he looked at her in anger, frowning even more.

"You don’t frighten me, Ivar, you don’t give me a shred of fear. There is nothing that you do to me, there is no pain that you provoke me that I haven’t already felt and habituated. Underneath these cloths there is nothing but scarred and patched bones!" and she opened her arms to show herself.

"You are a bit arrogant, aren't you? As if I would want to fuck you. You don’t make me desire you, bastard." and he smiled at the corner of his mouth.

Thrud then handed her mare to one of the servants and finally approached the young man, whose posture became alert.

"Then why I always saw you spying on me while my bath?" she whispered after getting close enough to be able to speak in his ear. "Or why I always caught you looking at me with your mouth slightly open during the training as the sweat ran down my skin enough to glue my clothes on my body?"

He held his breath and she noticed that he was shivering.

"See? I don’t even need to do anything but come close to you to watch your body react to my presence. You want me, you just don’t admit it..." and she moved so she could come face-to-face with the young man.

She saw him look bland and speechless, which made her smile. As a tease, she bit the air between a slight growl, letting a wink escape before she gone to meet the other rulers.

Thrud appeared with a somewhat triumphant entry. She wore her inseparable black bear skin as a sign of power and irrevocable status. Her walk was confident and her people seemed to idolize her, for, honoring the name she had, she was as furious and fearless as the Valkyrie herself. She was simply divine and mortal.

"Did you miss me?" she asked to the other heirs of Ragnar already inside the palace, where the festivities were taking place.

Surprised, but somehow pleased, the four men welcomed her with open arms in tight embraces. It was truly a surprise to see her so haughty and back to Kattegat, from where she had come out being less than an Earl in pursuit of claiming her rights and practicing her duties.

"Where are your men and women besides your ships?" Ubbe asked, handing her a mug full of ale.

"They will arrive in the morning and in time for the great sacrifice. Look for sails and black boats, with shields as bright as the sun around each one at the first ray of light. You will know then that the gods have reached and blessed your destiny!" and she laughed before taking a sip of her drink.

"Always in riddles, Horiksdottir..." the man retorted with a faint smile.

"That's where the grace lives. Loki himself wasn’t used to being straight in his speech, so why should I?" she smiled openly.

In the morning, as soon as the sun had risen, twenty large, all-black boats appeared on the horizon carrying shields reflecting the sunlight. Nearly two thousand men and women disembarked under the curious glances of that people who didn’t even know their origin. When they saw their ruler with open arms in the form of a welcome, they all knelt as a sign of loyalty, leaving the other people open-mouthed and unresponsive.

"Welcome!" she said, bowing in a sign of respect and they stood up.

Ragnar's heirs were stunned by the grandeur of that small army, the size of its individuals - giants and titanics, even the women.

Seeing the wide eyes of the hosts, the young lady then shouted:

"Who are you?"

And more than instantly, they answered in unison:

"Thrudbarn, Thrudbarn, Thrudbarn!”

"Who is the filthy, opportunistic bastard now, Ivar?" she asked the young man, now facing him, with a smile from ear to ear, one step closer to the mischief.

He remained silent.

"Speechless? That's new!" she mocked and then turned back to her little army. "Settle the camp behind that hill and you will find a little gift that I managed to get for you!"

And then they marched, after bowing, to obey the camouflaged orders of their near-queen.

"What's the gift?" Hvitserk asked curiously.

"Ten carts full of mead, wine and meat. A little treat to keep my people even more faithful to me!" she said after a slight laugh.

In the evening, before the banquet with the other commanders and rulers, Thrud joined her people and began to celebrate. She danced and sang, joking and fighting with whoever would be able to face the incarnated Valkyrie. Then, in her simple, rather worn-out dress, she simply gone to the meeting in the palace.

"Sorry for my possible delay. I always get lost among the celebrations of my people!" she said as she straightened her wild hair in a single braid.

"You haven’t lost anything. Come, sit by my side!" Ubbe said pointing to the vacant place beside him.

"Thank you, but do you mind if I sit right here by the door? I'm feeling quite hot!" and she pointed to the place at the other head of the large table.

"No problem!" and they both sat down.

As long as it was spoken, the heat of the drinks still flowed through Thrud's body, making her shine like the sun itself through all that darkness. Everything ran calmly, as expected, until one of the Earls, sat on the right side of the young woman, found the right to touch her.

"Keep your hand close to your body, or you'll know what Tyr felt when his hand was severed!" she said with raised chin, already closing the smile in her lips.

But the man, ignoring the warning, continued to stroke her thigh, pulling up her dress and clutching her flesh willingly. Feeling enraged, Thrud laughed incredulously and looked at each of the men, as if to say "this will be a beautiful show." Ivar watched everything in anticipation of seeing blood that night. And he would see.

Thrud smiled and gently touched the hand of the man who now was about to shamelessly reach her groin. She entwined her fingers in his as she stared at his face still smiling, whilst she brought his hand to the table and laid it flat on the wood. Believing that he had won her, the man let himself go and didn’t even notice that as she used her left hand to stroke his skin, her other hand had already taken the knife she always carried on her ankle.

"So insistent..." she smiled and took a deep breath without turning her gaze from the man's face.

And with a laugh, she planted the blade in the back of the man's hand with all her strength, nailing it to the wood so that the only solution he would find to get rid of it would be to cut his hand off. There was a general commotion when the man's cries began to fill the place.

Thrud then stood up ready to fight those who could attack her in the name of the bleeding man at her side. But no one had shown an interest in defending him, not under the sight of her sadistic look on him, pressing the knife down further. Ivar laughed at that moment, as did King Harald and his brother Halfdan.

"Enjoy your moments of god!" she said taking her mug and taking a sip. "Oh, and keep the knife. It's a gift!"

The young woman then left the palace and went to the hut nearby, which belonged to her.

In the middle of the night, while she slept peacefully, someone sneaked through her abode. Like a snake, he slipped close to the bed where he sat in a chair made of oak. Thrud woke up in alarm for he dropped her small image of Thor carved from wood that was on the side table.

"Fuck, Ivar, what are you doing here?" she asked, lowering the ax that she had grasped with fright.

"I thought you'd like to know what they did to Earl Borsson. Are you not curious?" and he picked up the figure from the floor.

"He lost half of his hand, didn’t he?" and she sat on her bed.

"How do you know?" he retorted with a small smile bordering the mischief.

"I took the caution to hit him horizontally, cutting off his tendons. Losing half of the hand was obvious!" and she laughed as she rubbed her eyes, still sleepy.

"You should have seen his face when they finally got the knife out. He cried like a little child!" he chuckled.

Thrud watched him for a few moments before she could speak again.

"And I believe you didn’t come here, now, just to tell me this. What do you want love?" she grinned.

"Oh, it was only now that they were able to detach Borsson from where you pinned him. I thought you'd like to know about it most readily." he said trying to show the innocence he never possessed.

"Why so helpful Ivar? What do you want, in fact?" she insisted suspiciously.

He remained silent.

"You wanted to see me, of course. After the blood splashed across my face, marking my white skin. His screams echoing through the room, my laughter... You got excited, didn’t you?" and she got on her knees and hands on her bed, wide awake.

He paled a little with the tone she used.

"I know Ivar, you want me." and she sit on her heels with her thighs apart, pulling up her sleeping garments high enough to almost show her intimacy, making her face more innocent, since she could do such a thing.

Ivar breathed deeply, almost in a sigh and without blinking.

"Or am I mistaken, and you just wanted to make me aware of all the pandemonium?" and she bit her lower lip trying to show doubt, looking down at him.

Thrud then got down from the bed and stood kneeling in front of the young man breathing with some difficulty. She touched his knees gently, dancing her fingers over the cloth. Then she decided to stand up high enough to come face to face with him, feeling his heavy, fast breathing, in a way, invade her face.

"You just need to ask, blue eyes, just ask!" she whispered, sliding her lips down his cheeks, as well as the tip of her nose, inhaling his musky, male essence.

The young woman reached his hands that were still, as made of stones on his lap, as if they were guarding something. She touched him gently, but passionately, entwining her fingers in his, tightening them, smoothing them.

"I... P... Please..." he tried to get the right words.

"Yes or no?" she almost touched their mouths.

"Yes..." he said as a sigh, closing his eyes in an attempt to hide his vulnerability.

Thrud smiled and then pressed her lips to his, guiding her hands to his face, holding him with a certain passion. The tips of her fingers trailed behind his ears as the palms of her hands warmed his flushed cheeks still so cold even with the blush.

"Do you trust me?" she asked after pausing the discreet kiss.

"Not even a little!" he laughed unobtrusively, opening his eyes and staring at all the inquiring brown of the woman's orbs at his feet.

"At least try tonight, then. You won’t regret it. Take this as a truce, a gift!" and she touched her forehead to his with a calm smile, now without malice.

"A gift like what you gave to Borsson?" he joked.

"No. I may even draw some blood from you, but believe me, if all goes well, who will be shouting before the dawn will be me!" and she laughed feeling the mischief taking care of her again.

Ivar opened his mouth still in a smile, as if he was not believing in what he just heard.

"So, you trust me?" she insisted kissing his lips quickly, trying to convince him.

"But what if..."

"I'm not a slave, Ivar, I'm not doing it obliged. I want to give you what just a few men have ever felt. I want to fuck with you for the rest of the night!" and she whispered that last sentence in a half new smile.

Ivar felt a shiver running down his spine and something inside him began to manifest.

"I want to see you fall apart on me..." she kissed his cheeks, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing her chest on his.

The young man swallowed dry. Thrud was apparently ready to eat him alive.

"And so, blue eyes? Do you trust me or not?" she licked his lower lip in a seductive way, staring at the bottom of his soul.

He hesitated, but he nodded briefly, making the young woman smile openly.

Thrud took her right hand to his chin and let her fingers slip through his cheeks, squeezing his face with a certain force, smiling devilishly. Then she kissed him with some urgency, leaning over him and making him lean back in his chair. It was a deep kiss, where both tongues met and danced pleasantly, making the act of breathing become something optional between them.

"Not bad," she finally said, pulling away just a little so she could speak. "But I'd love to feel those big, strong hands on my ass, squeezing me. Don’t be shy..."

She slipped her hands over his arms, finally leading him to her bountiful butt, making him grab her flesh willingly - and he did, drawing a faint sigh of approval from her. He then, using his admirable strength, pulled her into his lap, which made her bite her lower lip and smile in a mean manner, separating her legs and leaving them wide enough to fit perfectly over him.

"Well ..." and she slipped her hands through the collar of his tunic, trailing her fingers over the soft skin of his back, over each tense muscle.

"What do you want me to do now?" he asked in a low tone, his voice reverberating in his chest and sounding like music to her ears.

"Guess what?!" she said with the most mischievous smile she had, as if her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

Ivar slammed in one the butt cheeks between his hands with a certain force, which made a soft moan drop from her lips.

"Stronger..." and she laughed, squeezing his back.

And he obeyed, but he hadn’t been so successful, since she was still in her nightgown and the cotton had stopped the blow. Ivar, impatient, then rose his hands up the middle of her back until he reached the top of the dress so he could tear the halt in half. Thrud's smile remained unchanged.

Anyway, he spread both hands tightly over the white skin, leaving red marks, pulling a satisfying "ah" out of the woman's open mouth, feeling her nails scratch his skin. He smiled, finally embracing the mood that grew as one reacted to the other's acts.

Thrud kissed him with greed and he responded, now accustomed to the rhythm and sweet taste of her. She seemed hungry, thirsty for eating him whole. Then, between the passionate kiss, she took her hands to the hem of his tunic, ready to withdraw it without losing any more time. But to separate her mouth from his didn’t seem so easy, since he responded to her with the same intensity. It was when she, repeating what he had done, held it by the collar and ripped the cloth without any ceremony, making a growl escape from his mouth. She'd felt every muscle on his abdomen twitch at her touch and then relax.

"We should go to bed ..." she said breathlessly, trying to regain her senses. "Or else ..." and she leaned back securely by the hands now at her waist, curbing any eventual fall; and pulled her furs to the carpet made of sheep at the foot of the bed.

It became a kind of nest, but it seemed comfortable enough to receive the two bodies eager to explore further.

"Come!" and she leaned farther, enough to finally fall on the floor, pulling the young man over her, wrapping his waist with her legs.

"Oh ..." he murmured over her, finally ripping off both torn clothes and being able to see her completely naked.

She came out from under him, and before he protested, she smiled as if to say "wait a little" and stood up to light some candles and light the place that was partially lit only by the hearth.

"I want us to see everything!" she said unhurriedly, moving fluidly around the room, humming the tune of one of the songs she heard with her people.

The young woman danced just like the flames she placed on each candle scattered around the room. Her hips danced as she walked and moved according to the melody that flowed from her chest. Ivar mesmerized with that image, but he was even more surprised to see all those scars scattered all over her body, many of them deep. Even when she bathed, he had never noticed them all, even because he saw her hidden and aware of any possibility of being discovered by spying on her.

Thrud danced seducing him even more, not even averting her eyes from the crystalline immensity that restrained his gaze with a huge roaring and rising fire. It was when she decided to walk up to him, smiling, touching her right foot in the center of his chest, pressing him a little, but not enough to make him lie down as he lay on his elbows.

"Who do you think you are?" he asked, looking at her from beneath his eyebrows and with his usual wicked grin while touching the top of her foot with the fingers of his left hand.

"With luck, I'll be the one who did the cruel and scary Ivar The Boneless scream with pleasure for the rest of the night and for much of the morning!" she replied haughtily, biting her lower lip in the middle of a smile and wagging her eyebrows up and down.

The young man smiled.

"What about you to scream?" and he raised his fingers to her calf, squeezing her at the end.

"Hum, that depends on how well you're going to be!" and she smiled from the corner of her mouth.

Feeling that that was a kind of challenge, he pulled her down hard, making her fall with her legs apart and knee over him, turning their position and keeping her under his body, ready to take that mocking smirk from her lips.

Thrud kicked the chair behind them with one motion so that the object would not disturb them. Instantly, with the breach, Ivar snatched one of her discreet breasts, sucking it hard as he squeezed the other with his left hand in the same intensity. She moaned low, arching her back and making his actions even easier. He then bit her, making her grab his hair and pull them hard enough to make him drop her so she could admire the extremely foul smile on his lips.

"Oh, this is how you want it?" she asked as if she didn’t know the answer, slapping his face, laughing mischievously and waiting for his reaction.

Ivar bit his lower lip and, like a predator, bit her neck to the point of almost making her bleed. She moaned loudly, digging her nails into his shoulders in the same intensity.

"You taste so good ..." he said at her left ear.

"You have not really eaten me yet. I'm even better down there..." she replied in the same tone, ready to change positions with him.

In a fluid movement, she placed herself on top of him, pinning his hands above his head and kissing him again, moving her hips in circles right over his, feeling the growing bulge that was still inside those brown leather pants. He sighed.

"Do you want it? Or is the great Ivar too good to do such a feat?" she teased him with a chuckle at the end.

"You just have to ask..." he said defiantly, squeezing her thighs hard enough to make them purple.

"Oh, so it will be like this?" she asked, and he pulled her up, ready to make her bite her tongue.

He snatched her without any shame, making a shocked "Oh." jump from her lips.

"And you know what to do?" she continued in the same tone, being surprised by his exploratory tongue that touched her from her entrance to her sensitive spot that was getting more and more swollen with the stimulus.

"I heard stories..." and he continued to suck and lick her interspersed with pauses to make his speech. "Men boasting... For knowing... How to... Make their women... Cry out their names..."

"Oh, Ivar..." she groaned, holding onto her bed and trying to keep focused on those eyes that did not even deviate from her face, showing himself to be devilish in a way.

As much as he had no practice at all, his awkward, yet dedicated, movements were causing a knot to form and tighten within her as he continued to suck her so devoutly, paying special attention to the latent place that always made her moan gloriously as he worked his tongue around and over it.

Her breath became choppy and quick, causing him to feel her twitch above him, implying that that knot would break down at any moment. And, after a few more motions, she groaned willingly, pouring herself over him.

"Ivar..." she said in a high-pitched growl, clutching his hair, tossing her head back behind closed eyes as he continued to work on her.

He sucked her to the last drop, feeling the small explosions diminish in intensity as she calmed down.

"But what a surprise you are, huh?!" she said at the summit of her lust, licking her lips and looking at him as if he had woken up some kind of monster.

And in response, he bit her inside both thighs that still flanked his head, looking at her with the face he always did when various thoughts permeated his mind, leaving his inner demons free to do what they wanted.

"Did you know that I love it when you look this bad?" she bit her lower lip with him still between her legs, caressing his head.

He arched both brows as if to ask "Really?"

"I find you irresistible like that, when you look at me from below your lashes, snorting, as if you were going to attack me at any moment, punishing me whenever I confront you, for being extremely annoying and picking at your foot." she giggled.

"So, instead of fear, I make you desire me?" and he licked quickly between her lower lips, making her leap.

"From the first time I laid my eyes on you. It's okay that two or three of your brothers tried me, but I've always wanted to see you up close, to feel you whole in me..." and she sighed.

"Two or three? Whom?" and he frowned, almost pushing her back down so that she would fall.

"I'm not going to say it, anyways..." and she laughed teasing him.

And he pushed her as he sat down, making her lay her back on his lap; while still holding her thighs at the height of his face, leaving her with her bottom up.

"Whom?" he insisted, leaning her legs forward so he could have free access to her ass, hitting her and making her laugh.

He became angry and hit her harder.

"Oh, Ivar... Why would I tell you?" she provoked even more, almost giggling.

"Bjorn?" he asked with pursed lips.

"Maybe..." she smiled.

"Ubbe?" he narrowed his eyes.

"Who knows..." and she felt another hard slap, making her let out a slight "hum".

"Sigurd?" and he narrowed his eyes even more, frowning.

Thrud laughed harder.

"I have no interest in the golden curls, don’t worry!"

"And there's Hvitserk left..." he laughed out of the corner of his mouth.

When she heard the boy's name, she arched her right eyebrow and licked her lips, humidifying them with the meanest features she possessed.

"Well, well, well..." and he stamped her again, biting the back of her left thigh tightly whilst he stroked the other with his free hand.

Ivar had then held her legs together and lazily licked the full extent of her intimacy, tilting his head a little to the side to nibble lightly at all the flesh from there, pulling out a groan as she breathed in.

"Ivar, Ivar, Ivar... What am I going to do with you?!" she asked almost rhetorically, leaning to the side and emerging from the rather uncomfortable position she was in.

Thrud finally brought her hands to the straps that kept his pants in place. She needed to have him, to give him any and every kind of pleasure possible.

As she untied that piece of leather with one hand, with the other she tried to get rid of his boots - an even more complicated task, as he continued to explore her with his hands, clutching her breasts often. Then finally, after a little while, the young woman left him naked and realized that he was not yet fully ready. Embarrassed, he breathed deeply and closed his eyes, perhaps because he was angry with himself.

Without ceremony or warning, the she sucked the head of his dick without even holding it with her hands. She wanted to surprise him - and she did. He opened his eyes with a certain astonishment after a slight jump. Thrud smiled and then sucked a good part of him, sucking him without the help of her hands to keep him on its own.

"Whoa ..." he murmured with his mouth half open, leaning back and leaning on his elbows, struggling not to let his head fall back and lose eye contact with the brunette who looked at him with such longing.

After a few deep sucking, she let his member slide down her tongue and stand upright, hard enough to keep glued to his abdomen. She smiled in satisfaction, and then, just then, she slipped her fingers all the way through him, following each vein, ready to hold him properly.

"You..." he sighed, not quite sure what to say.

"I said I'm not a slave..." she whispered at his left ear, standing over him, which shivered whole.

Thrud sat on him after letting his length slide inside her, which made a long sigh and a groan come out of both mouths. With a sly smile, she started a slow ride, curling her hips with every climb and every descent, causing an inexplicable pleasure in Ivar, who only rested his hands on her thighs, feeling her to the fullest. She seemed to dance on him, holding him close with her arms wrapped around his neck, feeling the shallow, unrestrained breath invade her face and slide down her neck.

Her rhythm increased when he finally reached her ass and grabbed it hard, helping her up and down. And each time he hit her more deeply, pulling her down, she digged her nails even deeper into his skin, scratching him, losing herself even more in the moment.

"What... What do you think of... fucking me in your... Way now?" she asked breathlessly, and he laid her on the furs immediately, keeping the rhythm of the in and out.

The young woman then hugged his waist with her legs, crossing them high enough to maximize the reach of each thrust, making him strike her deeper and deeper, tearing out loud moans from her, making her scratch her back like a natural reflex.

The rhythm, after a short time, had become frantic and almost brutal with him hitting her very end. The moans were loud coming from both mouths, and neither of them even cared if they could bother the neighbors, or whoever came by would eventually listen to them.

Thrud came first, feeling the electric spasms flow through her body and making her scream the name of the one who kept his movements almost unstoppable.

"Oh, Ivar..." she said almost breathless, still being stimulated; which made her orgasm last longer.

The young man fucked her until his body finally reached its apex and his seed was poured into her, which still seemed to enjoy between a few loud cries and groans.

"Arght," he breathed, gasp, slowing down until he finally stopped and kept himself inside her, falling and sticking their sweaty bodies into each other.

"By the gods, Ivar ..." was just what she had managed to say as he nestled into the curve of her neck, gasping for breath with a huge smile on his lips.

"You are delicious!" he said with shallow breath, nipping her skin softly with his teeth.

"And you should fuck me more after our little rest. I have never felt this way before. Never!" and she smirked sliding her fingers through his thick hair, pulling it to make him look at her.

"What a hunger... I like that!" and he bit her lower lip, grinning.

"This is just the beginning. I bet you are as hungry as I am. You don't even know how great you are, how delicious, how heavenly your touch is... I could fuck with you for days in a row!" she sighed at the end feeling her body burning for him again.

"We can do that... Now... Because, somehow, I am still hard." he whispered, what made her entire body shiver.

"I think that this little truce will be glorious!" she said and the whole ritual begun again, but with different movements, sounds and pace.

#ivar the boneless #ivar's heathen army #ivar ragnarsson #ivar imagine #ivar x oc #vikings #imagine #one shot #loriendragonqueen

45 notes · View notes

roadjanus · 7 years

Text

Wales Woes

South Wales was a bust. Well, not really a bUst but not really worth the amount of trouble it caused on this trip. So there are two sections to Wales, the south and the north. Both worth seeing. We are interested in Roman ruins, so we thought we'd catch them. I booked a South Wales tour. Wye Valley, Roman ruins, Tintern Abbey. It only went on June 2, a Friday. Sounded good. So then I started looking for rooms. No problem May 31 and June 1 but nothing if I included June 2. Couldn't figure it. I read, investigated, talked to the tour company. They gave me a suggestion or two. BUT NOWHERE DID I SEE, NOR DID ANYONE TELL ME, THAT THERE WAS a GIANT EU FOOTBALL CHAMPIONSHIP EVENT😤😤It was never mentioned. I figured there was something going on that weekend, but no venue nor tourism site mentioned it. Why would that be? Crazy! So I end up with this complicated scenario. Booked May 31 and June 1 in Cardiff, (hotel had no lift, 41 stairs up to our room;made the man carry the suitcases!) return from the tour at 5:30, and then catch the last train to our next destination. Book a hotel right at the train station cause it would be very late arriving in Chester. Did all that but didn't book the train because it was ruinous. Like $300 for two people to travel 3 hours. Gee! What a rip off. I held off 'cause I was mad about it. Three days before our arrival an email from the tour company. The tour has been cancelled. Not enough tickets sold. 😫😱😡Still no mention of the big event. We arrive like lambs to the slaughter! Everything is booked because the UEFA Championship game is in Cardiff. Real Madrid and a team from Italy. Europe is coming. One of the players is a Cardiff boy. Friday and Saturday.roads blocked, 180,000 people expected, traffic snarled for miles, security everywhere, castle closed to the public, hop on hop off bus 🚌 rerouted, National Express Bus rerouted, traffic snarls. Warning that we would always need photo ID, AND THAT IT MIGHT BE HARD TO GET OUT OF TOWN. Anyway, we were leaving on Friday because of the room situation. So I bought us bus tickets to Birmingham England, and then up to Chester. Luckily we could leave town at 3 because there was no tour to be had. Kicked around town, walked by the Animal wall, across Bute Park - very beautiful- then off to THE Black Pig 🐖 for lunch. Excellent. So here we are, on the bus! Never been to Birmingham. The bus is also fighting the traffic. We re-routed. But we are on our way. Now that rant is done, ✅ I'll tell you the good things about the place. Very lovely people. I think service people from Canada should come here for a training course. Just pleasant, helpful, knowledgeable, cheerful. Lots of young men waiting tables. Seemed happy to be there. Smiled. A young man at an Italian restaurant asked if we wanted dessert. I said "No, in this little box beside me are Pastel de Nata, a Portuguese dessert to die for." He said, "let me bring you plates and you eat them here!" At The Black Pig we ate, drank then spent two hours just taking up space as we waited for a bus. No problem, no glares, no ignoring us. They stopped by, spoke to us, asked how our water was. Just nice. Young women in the stores. Chatty. Helpful. They were lovely. I applaud them. A really nice change from the surliness and ennui often encountered in the service industry at home. Cardiff Castle is a highly decorated place. Rooms decorated and Designed by Burgess for the Marquis of Bute are incredibly fancy. I think the most highly decorated castle I've ever been in. The Keep is a shell keep, which means that there is a wall with some apartments and a full rampart and then an empty space I. The middle for people, livestock and other such things to take shelter in. Very different from the one at Carrickfergus Northern Ireland, where the keep had specific rooms and no central open space. Interesting. We had an excellent tour of the castle then toured the grounds. They had set up giant tents for the teams coming to the football on Sat. Lucky we toured yesterday 'cause the Castle is closed today. We checked out the air raid shelters from WWII and did a quick walk through the military museum. Walked the walls of the castle, imagining how it must have been for someone who had to be on watch. After the castle we headed down to Cardiff Bay. There we encountered security who checked our bags. We were a little ahead of the major shut down, but they were ready. Barricades ready to go up to stop cars/trucks from driving in. Lots of things set up for kids-- longest soccer kick etc. Loud music. I think they were showing the game on a big screen there tomorrow. Saw the Millennium Center. What a gorgeous building. It's for events, concerts, music 🎶 etc. That was it for our touring. Then off to the National Museum and Art Galley to see the French Impressionists. The museums are free. What a great idea. Easy to stop in and see just a bit, then come another day. Canada, take note. There is unlimited shopping in Cardiff if that's your thing. Streets are lined with little shops, but when you go in you find the shop is very deep and goes up 4 stories. Their specialty is the Arcade. So halfway down the block an opening appears between shops. It is a little street of shops. There usually is a glass roof overtop. It's this extra street that leads you from one street to another. Like a shortcut. Very cool. I could have spent quite a bit of time shopping, but lacked a partner😫 North Wales here we come!

#wales #cardiff

4 notes · View notes

ramosalaplaya · 7 years

Photo

How George Saunders became the only British footballer in South America

When George Saunders’ parents swapped Islington for Spain the young footballer gave up his dream of playing for Arsenal, but a new adventure was just beginning.

Being the only professional British footballer in South America might seem a daunting prospect for some but George Saunders isn’t fazed by the challenges of his unusual career path. “A lot of people are in the comfort zone but sometimes in life you’ve got to take a risk,” he says. “You never know what’s going to happen. I took a risk coming out to Colombia and now I’m living the dream.”

Saunders is the first Englishman to play in the Colombian top flight since the El Dorado era of the early 1950s, when a Fifa-imposed suspension on the league allowed clubs to sign players without having to pay transfer fees, thus enabling them to offer vastly increased wages.

The English trio of Neil Franklin, George Mountford and Charlie Mitten were just a few of the many renowned footballers to flock to the country – Alfredo Di Stéfano being another – as Colombia briefly became the leading destination for top players. Franklin lasted only a handful of games, but Mountford and Mitten, who was part of Sir Matt Busby’s first Manchester United team and earned the nickname “The Bogotá Bandit”, stayed for an entire season.

Saunders is now in his fourth year and plays for Envigado, who are currently third in the league – on the same points as leaders Atlético Nacional, who were crowned champions of South America in July when they won the Copa Libertadores. Recent Manchester City signing Marlos Moreno played a starring role for Atlético Nacional. “He’s a huge talent,” says Saunders. “Hopefully it will go really well for him in Spain and he can break through at City.”

After joining City in August, Moreno was immediately loaned out to Deportivo de La Coruña for the season. It is the sort of circuitous journey that is familiar to Saunders, with the 27-year-old appearing for a host of different clubs in three countries on two continents.

Born in London and raised in Islington as an Arsenal fan, Saunders was invited to join the club’s academy as an eight-year-old. It was the same year his father’s construction job took the rest of the family to Spain. Saunders remained in England at first, staying with his uncle and training in the youth teams at Arsenalas he lived every young boy’s dream.

“I went to watch them almost every game,” he says. “I was lucky to play a few games on the pitch at Highbury. But I missed my mum and dad and brothers and sisters. So one summer I went to Spain and was spotted by Villarreal in a summer camp.”

The four years he spent at Villarreal is the longest period he has remained at any one club. “That’s where I learned the language. That’s where I learned how to play football. I’ve got a Spanish style but with the English aggression.”

It was all going well until, in what seemed a decision more consistent with English academies, he was released because of his small build. Moves to Torre Levante and Espanyol followed, with his two years in Barcelona including a call-up to the Selecció Catalana, an experience he recounts with pride. “I think I’m the first ever English footballer to play for the Selección Catalunya. My mum and dad still have the photos. I was in the Under-17 side with Bojan Krkic, Thiago Alcântara, Raúl Baena, Iago Falque, Victor Ruiz and Jordi Alba. They were brilliant players.”

While that sextet remained on the gilded road to success in Europe, Saunders’ route deviated. He left Espanyol and joined Segunda División side Eldense, before eventually being approached by Leyton Orient. “I went for a trial and did really well. I thought ‘They’re definitely going to sign me.’ At the last minute, Russell Slade came up to me and said: ‘You’re more than capable of playing in this league but with our budget we need someone who has played this level before. It’s difficult for a trialist to come over from Spain and for us to take a bet on them.’ They didn’t sign me and then the Colombia opportunity came up. I thought, ‘I haven’t got anything to lose’.”

Like many British players who move abroad, Saunders turned rejection into opportunity. A Colombian friend he had made in Spain was giving business advice to América de Cali chairman when the club’s new Brazilian star suffered an injury shortly after signing. They were in need of a midfielder and Saunders was flown in for a trial.

“I didn’t know anything about them so I looked them up,” he says. “All I looked at was their fans. I saw their amazing videos and massive banners and thought ‘Yeah, I love that’.”

For the first six weeks Saunders waited patiently to be selected. Knowing the language from his time in Spain was a significant advantage, helping him to make friends in the dressing room and understand instructions in training. He also learned that América de Cali had only recently been cleared from the Clinton List, which had imposed crippling financial sanctions on the club owing to previous connections to the country’s drug cartels.

“It was a bad time money-wise,” he says. “But I can only say good things about the club. They paid on time and I was really happy there. It was very different at first, a totally new experience. But I’m the sort of person who can adapt quickly. I’m very chatty and I love a banter with all my team-mates, so I settled in really well.”

When his chance finally came, Saunders grabbed it with both hands. He was picked for a cup game and delivered a man-of-the-match performance. In his second appearance he impressed again, setting up a goal in a crucial league match that earned him a welcome reception from the crowd. After establishing himself in the first team, everything seemed set for Saunders to sign a new contract at the end of the season. But he was suddenly forced to change his plans.

“The fans in Cali loved me but I had a problem with the trainer so they didn’t renew my contract,” he explains. “I was suspended for a game one weekend so had a glass of wine with my girlfriend over dinner one night during the week. I went to training the next day and they asked me about it. They were really strict about it because there are players here who have a drink and might not turn up to training the next day. They took it to another level.

“At that time I was one of the best players in the team and the crowd loved me, but they made a big thing out of it. It was in the papers. Really, the Brazilian player who was injured had recovered and they wanted to put him in the team. But to do that they had to take out a foreigner because you can only have so many in the squad. When you want someone out you can make up any excuse.”

It turned out to be a good move and, just four months after beating Fortaleza 3-0 with América, Saunders returned the favour with his new team on the road to promotion. “It worked out well because I left America and became champion with Fortaleza. We played America five times, beat them three times and drew twice. I had a good game every time, which I suppose sort of rubbed it in a bit, but that’s life, that’s football. Now I’ve got a good name in Colombia and have been playing in the first division ever since.”

A subsequent move to the coast and Union Magdalena didn’t work out – “I had a really bad time there as I couldn’t handle the heat” – but Saunders is now settled in Medellín with Envigado. It is the part of Colombia previously home to Pablo Escobar’s notorious drugs cartel, but the city’s bloody history – which has been dramatised in Netflix series Narcos – doesn’t worry Saunders.

“I’ve been up to the favelas here at Christmas and if you’re with people they know you won’t have any problems. I think anywhere in the world, if you go somewhere you’re not invited, or you go into an area where you shouldn’t be, then you’re going to be in danger. Since I’ve been here I’ve been told ‘Wherever you go, make sure you’re in an area with people you know’ and it’s all been OK. Out of all the cities I’ve lived in I love Medellín the most. I get a lot of attention but I feel very comfortable here because people are really nice to me and polite.”

As well as the right city, it seems Saunders has also found the right the club after a career on the move. He currently plays alongside two former Colombia internationals and relishes the opportunity to play professionally.

“Here in Envigado we have Andrés Orozco and Bréiner Castillo, the goalkeeper. They’re veterans now but they played for Colombia and have had a really good living out of the game. There are a lot of talented youngsters here but many of them don’t have the opportunities money-wise. A lot of them join clubs but then disappear because they come from poor backgrounds and haven’t got the security to be able to carry on playing.”

Saunders’ own journey has finally reached a period of stability in Colombia’s top flight. He lives with his girlfriend in Medellín and sounds content as he talks about his future.

In the background, his friends are cheering on Colombia in their World Cup qualifier against Venezuela. “We’re just watching the game,” he says. “They’re playing in Barranquilla on the coast and it’s so hot there. I played there at 3pm once and it was a joke.”

Having previously remarked that one of the few things he misses about England is pie and chips, Saunders says he barely even thinks about that anymore. He has found new comforts in Colombia, with family the only thing on his mind when he thinks of home. “The only thing I miss is my family. My dad and my mum have been out. My mum was here for my birthday not long ago.”

More than 5,000 miles from London and bridging a 60-year gap in English football exports to Colombia, Saunders is a modern pioneer. But his trailblazing exploits don’t bear a great deal of personal significance. In reality, he’s just a boy from North London who turned up looking for a game. He now hopes the adventure will continue for many years to come.

“I love everything about Colombia: the weather, the people, the food. I’m doing something I’ve always loved. There’s nothing better than waking up and doing what you want to do. Sometimes in life your destiny is written and I think I’m supposed to be here.”

#George Saunders #Envigado #Envigado FC #colombia #un buen muchacho #una buena lectura #muy diplomático le pareció a mi mamá #also when are british footballers getting off their high horses and start playing outside their league #fpc

1 note · View note

notwithoutsincerity · 7 years

Text

Southern England: ‘Tis new to thee’

One would think that someone who had both taught Shakespeare and written a dissertation on the Globe playhouse would have made an early visit to England to know what he was talking about. Not I. Instead I waited about 25 years to visit, and not for a professional reason, but for the opportunity to visit Chris, a friend from my undergraduate days, and Adrienne, his wife.

Chris is one of those rare people who have the ability to “speak the truth in love,” as if he can both see something troubling in a person and still see the person. In other words, my blind spots do not create his own blind spots (and this observation refers mostly to our undergraduate days, if, as I hope, the blind spots are diminishing).

(What follows is a map of the places we visited, leading to an in depth description of the places—basically a travelog that could save you a journey to Southern England or, may I humbly suggest, make your journey richer.)

Adrienne carries on domestic duties in a conventional way while Chris is raking in the money teaching English. Both of course could imagine spending their time differently, but the arrangement apparently suits them both. While Adrienne is good at being flexible, she could, if pushed too far, trounce a person...it was something about the way she swims in the English Channel year round without a wet suit or drinks apple cider vinegar, garnished with crushed egg shells, that earned that recognition. She sometimes teaches at the English school, gardens there and at home, and, as she calls her wanderings through nature, "forages" whenever possible. Not wanting to disrupt the obvious balance of their lives, I behaved my best while in Southern England, staying at their home in Bournemouth when we were not driving or biking to various sites, mostly historical or, better, those that combine something ancient with natural beauty.

English Channel, Bournemouth - looking toward Purbeck

Part of Chris’ job is being a tour guide to his students who come from around the world and have an interest in learning England as well as English. A trip to Oxford University, Chris has found, is about as far as a day trip should be, and that was as far north as we strayed. One way (motor vehicle) or another (bicycle), we had five outings, listed approximately from north to south:

Oxford

Oxford University, like Hamlet and the Grand Canyon, is so familiar to me through reading and photos that I cannot separate what I saw recently from what I expected to see, and at the same time I admit a truly superficial knowledge of the place and its traditions. It's hard to imagine spending one's time studying in a place like the college of Christ Church: On one hand, the ambience seems perfect for a cloistered scholar, while on the other, the pressure of succeeding, coupled with the long leash allotted between exams, could lead some to sabotage the situation.

Of special interest to me was Magdalen ("Maudlin") College, where C.S. Lewis taught for most of his life: In spite of the beautiful grounds and his noted accomplishments at Magdalen, Lewis wrote to Tolkien, “I am certainly a much, and perhaps an increasingly, hated man"[1]. In the words of a former student of Lewis, "Oxford dons objected to Lewis, not for becoming a Christian, but for advertising the fact. His way of putting intellectual and moral pressure on people in print for the purpose of converting them was an offence against academic etiquette. Unspoken rules of academic decorum required one to be decently secretive about religious convictions."[2] Within a year, no doubt encouraged in part by these conflicting sentiments, Lewis moved to Cambridge. There he taught at Magdalene (with a final "e") College, remarking that his new Magdalene at Cambridge was the redeemed and consecrated Mary Magdalene (unlike Oxford's). It's a nice ending to the story, except similar prejudice met him in Cambridge, but this time he wore his rejection with a difference: he had been unanimously elected as a full professor, something Oxford had failed to do.

While on the topic of Lewis, let me mention our related stop at The Eagle and Child, the Oxford pub renowned for the meetings of the Inklings, where Lewis, Tolkien, Charles Williams, and others spent time reading their manuscripts aloud: Inside the pub, a quote from C.S. Lewis appears at least two times, once in chalk and once in paint: "My happiest hours are spent with three or four old friends in old clothes tramping together and putting up in small pubs . . . ." It surprised me that Lewis', and not Tolkien's, was the name most obviously being capitalized upon. No doubt, the "hated man" quote does not appear in the pub, while if I had poked around, I would have uncovered references to Tolkien, making currency of his name, too. The writers did, at any rate, put the pub on the map permanently and unregrettably. It was quite busy by our mid-afternoon visit, our small party finding a cramped table where, in order to shift seats, we spilled only a part of a beer.

One Oxfordian treasure that Chris led us to was a college, Keble, whose grounds and buildings are gloriously maintained. It is, by English standards, relatively new, being Victorian. In an anteroom of the chapel hangs "The Light of the World"—an allegorical painting by William Holman Hunt. The chapel itself, with a student playing the organ, awoke in me a hint of the attachment that many Christians (and others) feel for such chapels and cathedrals.

The cumulative effect of standing in this chapel that day and several others the next week was that I thought, "Here, I could believe in God." Next, as the thought lingered, I added, "Except I already do believe in God, the God with no boundaries, and I belong to church, the church without walls." Even then, a peaceful, easy feeling accompanied me beneath those high ceilings built who knows how by men that risked their lives for an ideal and enough food to keep their families fed.

Up to map

Winchester

To my guide I owe, among many other things, these two facts: (1) to be a city in England, the community must house a cathedral, and (2) "chester" as in "Winchester" refers back to the Roman occupation of England (43-410AD), derived from the word "castrum" for military camp. Accordingly, although Bournemouth has over four times the population of Winchester, it is a town, and Winchester, with its Cathedral, is a city. The military aspect of Winchester presents itself several ways, including through the two medieval gates still standing (Westgate and Kingsgate), as well as a castle and other fortifications.

Most of these buildings originated in the 12th and 13th centuries, many of them having been restored, modified, and expanded up to the present. Below is the outside of the Great Hall: Inside the doorway (where the person is standing) one can enter the Great Hall (except when it is closed, such as when we showed up, our visit coinciding with a memorial service). Peeking in we could still see what is called King Arthur's Round Table, hanging high on the wall like a giant archery target, painted alternately white and green. The table dates to the 13th century, placing it much later than Arthur (5th-6th century) and a little later than the Arthurian Legend (12th century). Its current paintwork dates to the 16th century, which the Wikipedia article considers "late" relative to the table itself. The obvious giveaway for the date of the current paintwork is King Henry VIII's image at the twelve-o'clock position, seated in Arthur's chair.

Winchester Cathedral dates to the 11th century, remains the longest Gothic cathedral in Europe, and holds the remains of Jane Austen. What captured my imagination and respect, however, was the bust and story of William Walker: His fame arose from the fact that, around 1905, it was discovered that the foundation of Winchester Cathedral was degrading quickly. Sitting on several feet of peat, the building was sinking and tipping as the peat was saturated by ground water. From 1906 until 1911, six hours a day, six days a week, Walker put on his clumsy diving suit and descended into the mud, in complete darkness. He would remove boards and peat, replacing the old material with bags of concrete (25,000), concrete blocks (115,000), and bricks (900,000). Once he finished his work, the ground water was safely pumped out and the cathedral sat (and sits) on a solid foundation. One should remember that all this underground work was performed where bodies had been buried for hundreds of years. William relied on a smoke from his pipe every time he emerged in order to disinfect himself. Kudos, William the Conqueror of Faulty Foundations.

The "close," or the immediate area, surrounding Winchester Cathedral contains other historic buildings that come in quick succession. One passes Winchester College, which, according to Adrienne, is, "the oldest continually running school in Britain. It was built during the black death to give an education to poor scholars. Now it's for the very rich - about £60,000.00 per year!" A few yards away lie the ruins for Wolvesey Castle, also known as the "Old Bishop's Palace" (12th century). In Shakespeare's The Tempest Miranda, who has been stranded on the island since infancy, seeing men swimming to shore—the first men she's ever seen beside her father, Prospero—proclaims, "O brave new world," to which Prospero replies, "'Tis new to thee." So I noticed that this England was a new world to me, and that the older the architecture, the braver and newer the place seemed. While the Great Hall sits on the high end of High Street, a statue of Alfred the Great (849-899AD) guards the low end of High Street. Whether it was for defending Britain against the Danes, reviving learning and monastic life, or establishing a code of law, Alfred's fifty years on earth and twenty-eight as King of Wessex justify that title.

Little do I remember of Beowulf, the 11th century poem that might glance back to Alfred's reign, albeit indirectly (since Beowulf defends that Danes against Grendel the monster). One relatively trivial line, however, somehow entered and never left me: Hylde hine þá heaþodéor --hléorbolster onféng eorles andwlitan Loosely translated: The war-bold one [Beowulf] lying down, the pillow received the earl's head. It's memorable because of the active role assigned to the usually passive "pillow"—it receives his head instead of his head touching the pillow. This grammar echoes Christ's, "upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." Again, the usually passive "gates" are the agents of the sentence, instruments of offence, not of defense, as though there's something quite impatient and indiscriminate about hell. Words, as do buildings, transport me to the past, to a world that I couldn't predict, even though it all already happened.

Up to map

Downton | Stonehenge | Old Sarum | Salisbury

Having read William Golding's The Spire (1964), a novel about the building of the spire at Salisbury Cathedral, I told Chris that this was one place I wanted to visit (being generally agnostic about our itinerary). On the way there, we stopped in Downton, about an hour's drive from Highclere Castle where the television series was shot. Downton's St. Laurence Church struck me as more of a church and less of a tourist attraction. Perhaps for that reason, the woman—a church worker who arrived just as we did—admonished us to read the writing above the alter, which we then saw as we entered: The writing was elegant, but when I realized we had been directed to read the Ten Commandments, I felt knocked back to my teenage years when I was long-haired and untrustworthy. And I wondered just how irascible I still appeared.

As we arrived in Salisbury and headed toward the cathedral, Chris made a last-minute executive decision half-way through one of the many multi-lane, high-speed, clockwise roundabouts and torpedoed us north toward Stonehenge. He was right to take advantage of the sunny weather (not unusual for my visit). Once we arrived, I was fine with Chris' unconventional yet legal backdoor approach to the ruins. Even if we had paid, we would not have been able to walk right up to the immense stones—although my friend Howard used to climb on them fifty years ago before things got out of hand in that respect.

Just outside Salisbury sits Old Sarum on a hill. Old Sarum was the first Salisbury ("Sarum" being a possible corruption of "Salisbury"). On a hill top, it was protected by large ditches that were dug around it, putting an advancing enemy at serious disadvantage. In the following photograph, the hill on which the castle stood is seen from the ground upon which the old cathedral stood. (Model of how it used to look) In 1226, the cathedral was moved to Salisbury (giving the clergy some freedom from the watchful eye of the castle). Along with the cathedral came the Magna Carta, which remains housed in wonderful condition in the Salisbury Cathedral. Here Salisbury Cathedral can be seen from Old Sarum:

The Magna Carta, a major concession from floundering King John to the nobility, clergy, city of London, Welsh, free peasants, and other entities, marks a portentous power shift when the king could no longer ignore the interests of others.[3] It was annulled by the pope the same year, but as soon as King John died the following year, it was reinstated. When King John's son, Henry III, heir to the throne, came of age, he issued a substantially revised Magna Carta (1225), which became the standard version.

While the Magna Carta alone would merit a visit to the Salisbury Cathedral, so would many other features, including the spire, which was closed to visitors when we arrived, the massive organ pipes, the oldest working clock, and the recent font that is both beautiful and allows full immersion baptism (which is what "baptism" originally meant).

Up to map

Wimborne Minster

During my stay, Adrienne had been diligently picking up chestnuts from a nearby grove, cross-ing, cooking, and then shelling them. The day we set out for nearby Wimborne Minster, we stopped by some public space for more supplies. It was replete with wild horses (their hoof prints betraying their presence) and apple trees. Chris climbed trees that defied physics in supporting his body weight, all the while chiding me for letting apples fall to the ground instead of heroically diving for each falling apple as though a small bruise would end the world a day sooner.

Well, we worked through that apple patch and visited Wimborne Minster, the church. It famously contains one of the few remaining chained libraries in the world. As I recall, the librarian said it was one of four. The definition is slippery.[4] As one can see, the chains—employed to prevent theft of what were truly expensive items when handwritten, as well as at the dawn of the printing press—are affixed to the covers of the books, to prevent damage to the spine. As a result the books are shelved backwards, and only an index allows one to find the desired book without pulling them all from the shelves:

The librarian, speaking to some strangers, also allowed us to handle a few books (not on chains):

She was a tolerant librarian:

A recipe for the ink that lasts nearly a millennium (to date):

The church itself was characteristically laden with history, including the tomb of the brother of Alfred the Great, as well as the tombs of John Beaufort, 1st Duke of Somerset, and his duchess, the maternal grandparents of King Henry VII. High above the alter hangs an intricate astronomical clock. This photo of the exterior I like in particular because that gentleman could be my late dissertation director, John Murphy, if I didn't know better:

Kingston Lacy

Afterward we went to Kingston Lacy, an estate that was inhabited by the Bankes family after they, being Royalists in the 17th century, were forced out of Corfe Castle by the Parliamentarians.

The estate included gardens and foxes:

And apple trees that were being trained to grow horizontally...Chris says this is common. I suppose it makes them easier to pick:

We planned to end the outing at Vine Inn, a small pub that Chris knew, although it wasn't in reality as impressive to Adrienne as it was in his rendition. The bigger problem was that it was closed, but the bathrooms were open (yay): So we went instead to the Olive Branch, where I learned that the four pounds a friend had given me for the trip were officially obsolete by the end of the weekend in order to make way for the new twelve-sided, harder-to-counterfeit £1 coin.

Up to map

Isle of Purbeck | Corfe Castle | Wareham

And those pounds, my friend, bring us close to the end. The next day I straightway handed them to Chris in order to pay for the "chained ferry" that would take us and our bikes across Poole Harbour, so that, after a brief stop in a phone booth, we could continue on our bikes toward Corfe Castle.

Probably the highlight of the entire visit, this day involved everything an outing should: a peninsula named "Isle of Purbeck," sheep, cows, a beautiful ruined castle and a town made out of its stones (those practical Parliamentarians), the nicest chapel by my rustic standards, coffee, beer, and a final shish kabob before a train ride home—a time not unlike "three or four old friends in old clothes tramping together and putting up in small pubs." Another view of Corfe Castle: And another: Not our train in the distance: We instead rode our bikes to Wareham. Chris caught this fiery light of the setting sun coming through the windows of St. Martin's Church: Eating, we waited for the train:

And that was that. Next morning, I flew home, grateful for one of the best weeks in, as Shakespeare's John of Gaunt says, This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, ... This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings...

_____________________________Footnotes_____________________________

[1] "Lewis on Tolkien: 4"

[2] "Against the stream: C. S. Lewis and the Literary Scene," Harry Blamires, 17.

[3] English translation of the Salisbury copy of the Magna Carta, with images.

[4] According to Wikipedia there are five. Moreover, Marsh's Library in Dublin has no chains, but instead has cages for the readers (not unlike the rare book rooms I've visited).

0 notes

junker-town · 7 years

Text

7 things to watch in NFL’s Week 4: Tom Brady could set yet another record

Plus, a few heated rivals will go at it, and London-born Jay Ajayi finally gets to play in his hometown.

Tom Brady has already made NFL history this year. Seven months after setting almost every Super Bowl record ever, Brady added to his accolades once September rolled around: He became the first meme of the 2017 season, and he now has the most AFC offensive player of the week honors in league history, something we had no idea was even tracked.

This weekend, Brady could hold another record, this one a bit more celebrated than a weekly award. If the Patriots beat the Panthers on Sunday afternoon, Brady will tie Brett Favre and Peyton Manning for the most regular season wins by a starting quarterback.

If that sounds like a record Brady already owns, there’s a reason: He is the NFL’s all-time leader in career wins, which includes his (yes, record) five Super Bowl titles and (yes, record) 25 playoff wins.

Right now, Brady is sitting at 185 regular season wins:

Tom Brady is 1 win away from tying Brett Favre and Peyton Manning for the most regular season QB wins in NFL History NE hosts CAR in Week 4 http://pic.twitter.com/IJWylkwTPn

— NFL Research (@NFLResearch) September 27, 2017

The only thing that stopped him from setting the record earlier was, well, his four-game Deflategate suspension last year. But barring anything unexpected, like an injury or a surprise second Deflategate suspension, Brady should hold the record outright at some point in October.

There are, of course, dozens of other records Brady doesn’t have. Favre has completed more passes (and thrown more interceptions) than anyone in NFL history. Manning’s atop the record books in passing yards and passing touchdowns.

But at age 40 and still breaking hearts and slinging the rock like someone born in the 90s, this won’t be the last record Brady sets.

Raiders vs. Broncos will separate a playoff team from a pretender

The AFC West may be the NFL’s toughest division. Sunday’s contest between the Raiders and Broncos will provide some separation between the two teams trying to catch the Chiefs in a race to the playoffs.

Both teams are struggling to manage expectations. Oakland came into 2017 with hope that a healthy Derek Carr could follow up on last season’s 12-3 record as a starter. Denver had more modest expectations — until a 42-17 rout of the Cowboys stirred Super Bowl hype.

Week 3 was a jarring wake-up call for each. The Raiders gained just 128 yards against an average Washington defense to lose their first game of the season. The Broncos unraveled in a 26-16 loss to a Bills team that’s doing a poor job of tanking for a premier draft pick. The end result was two surprising defeats — and Kansas City standing alone atop the division.

That leaves Week 4 as a proving point for each team. Carr will have to respond after a performance that was, statistically, the third-worst of his career. The Broncos’ offense will have to make a similar leap to even approach the level at which its all-star defense is playing. The winner gets a head start on its postseason dreams. The loser falls to .500 with a tough remaining schedule on the horizon.

What’s even better than a three fire-emoji AFC West matchup? How about football psychic Tony Romo calling the game on CBS. Romo-to-Denver was the rumored offseason flirtation that never came to light, as the veteran quarterback chose the broadcast booth instead. On Sunday, we’ll get to hear him analyze the team he maybe-kinda-sorta could have been playing for in 2017.

Will the Titans stake their claim on the AFC South’s top spot?

Tennessee’s revival fell tantalizingly short in 2016, when the Texans used their division record tiebreaker to win. the AFC South crown despite the two teams’ identical 9-7 records. After beating the Seahawks and Jaguars, the Titans are primed to end their eight-year playoff drought — and getting some revenge on Houston would be a massive step toward their goal.

Mike Mularkey’s team has used a run-heavy approach to grind down opponents, utilizing Demarco Murray and Derrick Henry in a thunder-and-lightning platoon that’s averaged 5.3 yards per carry. That’s helped the Titans overcome a slow start from Marcus Mariota, who has struggled to create big plays downfield.

Mariota won’t have much time to set himself in the pocket Sunday. The Texans are coming off a dominant pass-rushing performance against New England where they battered Tom Brady en route to five sacks. Surprisingly, none came from J.J. Watt, who is still searching for his first sack of the season.

If the Titans can hold off the Texans, it won’t just extend their lead atop the division. It will also put its biggest rival in a three-game hole, and deliver the added bonus of disheartening Houston on its home field. A Titans loss all but ensures another year of chaos in the AFC South.

Will Ben Roethlisberger return to form against his archrivals?

Roethlisberger hasn’t been bad, per se — he just hasn’t been Ben. The veteran quarterback has been held to fewer than 300 passing yards in his last nine games, his longest such streak since 2009. As a result, a Steelers team that features stars like Antonio Brown and Le’Veon Bell ranks just 16th in the league in scoring offense.

On Sunday, he’ll try to get back on track against a familiar opponent, but the Ravens won’t make it easy. Roethlisberger is 10-9 against his AFC North rival. His 84.3 quarterback rating against Baltimore is more than 10 points lower than his career rating against the league’s 30 other teams.

He knows he’ll have to be better after last week’s surprising upset loss to the Bears.

"I didn't play well enough to win. We lost the game because of me, because I didn't play well enough," Roethlisberger told reporters after the defeat. "It's not on anyone else. That's how I felt, that's what you've got to do is you've got to own it. And I'll own it.”

Terrell Suggs, who has sacked Roethlisberger 17.5 times in his career, isn’t buying the idea the Pittsburgh quarterback will be anything less than his best on Sunday.

Suggs is on to Ben's tricks. http://pic.twitter.com/FtM3EOtCag

— Baltimore Ravens (@Ravens) September 28, 2017

“He’s setting us up,” he told reporters Wednesday. “Yeah, you know, he’s playing mind games, the rat bastard. He’s setting us up. Tell Ben I’m on to his tricks. I know what he’s doing. I’m not going to let him fool me with trickery and Jedi mind tricks.”

One team (probably) has to win the Battle of Ohio

Both the Browns and Bengals are winless going into their intrastate rivalry. But when the clock ticks to zero in the Battle of Ohio, either the Bengals or the Browns will have their first win of the season. (Probably, that is. It hasn’t been that long since the Bengals’ last tie, after all.)

The Bengals' offense couldn't score a touchdown in the first two weeks of the season, so they fired their offensive coordinator, Ken Zampese, after Week 2. They jumped out to a 21-7 lead in the second quarter of the Week 3 matchup against the Packers. But Aaron Rodgers and Co. went on an offensive barrage in the second half and eventually won the game in overtime.

The Browns are giving it their all this year, but they have not been able to seal the deal. In a Week 3 matchup against the Indianapolis Colts, Cleveland went down 28-7 in the second quarter. The Browns' offense rallied in the second half but lost 31-28.

The Bengals and the Browns both consistently find ways to lose each week. But unless this game ends in a beautiful tie, one of them has to end their skid. Which squad will finally jump into the win column for the first time this season?

Jay Ajayi returns home to London for his first game in the UK

Jay Ajayi’s road to the NFL has taken some pretty wide turns, starting in England, swooping through Boise, Idaho, and finally coming to rest as a Pro Bowl tailback for the Miami Dolphins. On Sunday, for the first time in his career, he’ll get to play in front of his hometown crowd when the Dolphins take on the Saints at Wembley Stadium.

“It’s exciting, man, getting to go home,” Ajayi told the media on Wednesday. “My whole family is flying out. It’s a special thing. I think it’ll be even more special and I get there and it’s about to kick off and all that. I think that’ll be a great moment for me and my family as well.”

Ajayi was on injured reserve the last time the Dolphins played across the pond, and missed out on his team’s 24-17 loss to the Jets in 2015. He probably wouldn’t have had much of an impact, however — he gained just 187 yards his rookie season before breaking out with three 200-yard games in 2016.

He’ll have to hope for a breakout game in the city he was born in to put a disappointing Week 3 performance in his rearview. After torching the Chargers for 122 yards in his team’s opener, he was limited to just 16 yards on 11 carries last week against the Jets.

Will Cam Newton finally look like himself against the Patriots?

Through three games, the Patriots have yet to hold an opponent to fewer than 300 passing yards. In Week 3, they struggled to contain Deshaun Watson on the ground, as the rookie quarterback extended plays throughout the afternoon and eventually gashed the New England defense for 41 yards.

That’s great news for Cam Newton -- and it could be just the thing to snap the former MVP out of a slump. Newton has struggled for the second straight season, throwing for only 566 yards and a pair of touchdowns while adding four interceptions in his first three games. The Panthers have overcome his performance, and taken advantage of a soft schedule, to roll out to a 2-1 start anyway. But they’ll come crashing down to .500 if their offensive leader can’t step his game up Sunday.

He’ll have the opportunity to bounce back against a Patriots defense that’s declined without Donta Hightower and gotten middling returns from an all-star secondary. Bill Belichick knows just how dangerous Newton can be, and sang his praises in the lead-up to Sunday’s showdown.

“He makes good decisions, he can run, he’s strong, he’s hard to tackle,” Belichick said. He can do a lot of different things, beat you in a lot of different ways. We saw that in the game down there in ’13, so I would put him at the top of the list. Not saying the other guys aren’t a problem, because they are, but he’s public enemy No. 1.”

He shined the last time he faced New England — Newton threw three touchdown passes in 2013 to lead his Panthers to a 24-20 win over the AFC East champs.

0 notes

christinaepilzauthor-blog · 7 years

Text

The Golden Age of the Canal in England and Northern Wales

By Jude Knight If a breakthrough technology is one that offers a solution to a complicated problem, leading to explosive economic growth, canals were one of eighteenth-century England's breakthrough technologies. Not that canals were new, or even unique. The Persians and the Chinese built massive canals, and the Chinese are credited with inventing the pound lock, with a sluice gate either side and a pool in the middle that could be lowered or raised by opening one gate or the other. Mitred gates followed. With a mitred gate, the gates are slightly too large to close flat. They meet with mitred edges pointed towards the higher water level, and water pressure keeps them shut. When the level on both sides is the same, the pressure is off and the gates open easily.

Canal Lock

Europeans started building canals in the twelfth century, and the first mitred gate was built in the fifteenth century. It was probably the San Marco lock in Milan, which joined two canals at different levels.

Canals were slow but steady

The impetus, of course, was economic. Canals allowed heavy goods to be moved reliably, efficiently, and in bulk lots.

The roads, where they existed at all, were dreadful, limiting the amount that could be pulled by a team of horses or oxen. Boats could carry heavier loads, if they could move. Rivers had currents: travelling against them was hard and even drifting downstream could be dangerous after rain. Sails are fine if the wind is blowing and in the right direction, but what about when the river bends? On a river, boat captains had to wait: for the weather, the tide, a fair wind.

A canal offered still water. Even better, a horse or mule could be yoked to the boat and walk beside the canal. A horse could move around fifty times as much weight pulling a boat on still water than on pulling a cart over old-fashioned roads.

The industrial revolution depended on transportation

By the mid-eighteenth century, England was putting together the elements of what would later be called the industrial revolution. Cheap cotton from the colonies fed the textile mills. All sorts of industries began to mechanise, with more and more efficient steam engines to turn the wheels of their operations. Mechanised manufactories turned out vast quantities of goods compared to previous methods. And those engines consumed huge amounts of coal. How could raw materials get to the mills? How could the finished products get to the market. A complicated problem, indeed!

In 1759, the Duke of Bridgewater proposed a simple canal project: a canal with a series of locks to join his coal mine to the nearest river, the Irwell, which travelled through a valley three miles away. Brindley, the engineer he hired had a far more ambitious plan. He proposed a canal straight to Manchester, ten miles away, jumping the Irwell on an aqueduct and built as level as possible to avoid time-wasting locks.

Salt Mills Canal

The Bridgewater canal opened in 1861 and the duke's coal reached Manchester for half the previous cost. The great age of canal building had begun, and before it ended the whole of the South, Midlands, and parts of North England and Wales would be linked by a connected network of canals, locks, aquaducts, and tunnels.

Canals fed the factories; factories fed the canals

Others soon followed. The first canals were built by private individuals who had stuff to move. Josiah Wedgewood was one. He needed clay at his manufactory in Staffordshire, and then wanted to transport the pottery he created to market with as few breakages as possible.

Canals allowed the existing manufactories to move more goods at lower prices, and encouraged others to build along their lines.

Brindley, builder of more than 300 miles of canal, set the standard dimensions for canal locks, and those dimensions governed the length of the boats. The locks were 72 feet 7 inches long, and 7 feet six inches wide. The boats had to be a smidgeon shorter, and became known as narrowboats. They could carry thirty tons of cargo, and be pulled by a single horse, walking the towpath.

The network ran on horses and horse feed

The horses worked hard all day. They had to be fed well and regularly with high energy food, and stalled in a stable at the end of each day's journey (because a hot tired horse will become ill if kept in a cold field at night).

So the canal system was peppered with stopping places where horses could be cared for and where local farmers could sell corn, crushed oats and chopped hay.

To keep working, a horse had to be fed well and regularly with high energy food and all the corn, crushed oats and chopped hay had to be prepared and available at the provender stores all over the system. An army of ostlers and blacksmiths made sure the horses were well and well-shod. The system employed thousands of people and horses, quite apart from those who were on the water.

The railways were the beginning of a long century of decay

When I first started researching the canals, I saw them through a Victorian lens, and expected to find families living on the boats, but in the glory days of the canals, narrowboating was a male enterprise. Families lived in cottages along the banks or at one terminus or the other. Once the railways began, they offered a faster alternative for transporting bulk goods, and the rates for the narrowboats dropped to the point that wives and children came to live aboard, to save rent and to provide extra labour.

Motorised canal boat on the Pontcysyllte aqueduct

Though canal boats, most now motorised, would continue for more than a century, the golden age of the canal was over.

Images:

Salts Mill Canal.jpg

Salt's Mill from the canal, Saltaire

Salt's Mill is mainly on the south bank of the Leeds and Liverpool canal. But there is also a building on the north bank, connected by an enclosed bridge. On a Monday morning in early March, it was really quiet between the buildings, the loudest sound was the ducks quacking. Think of it 150 years ago when barges would have been loading and unloading at the large doors on the ground floor in the foreground.

Canal boat on aquaduct.jpg

A canal boat traverses the longest and highest aqueduct in the UK, at Pontcysyllte in Denbighshire, Wales

Public Domain image

Canal lock.jpg

Kennet and Avon Canal, Wootton Rivers looking north-east The lock gates don't appear to be particularly watertight. The lock-keeper's cottage is the white building to the right of the image.

Brian Robert Marshall [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

~~~~~~~~~~

Jude Knight's writing goal is to transport readers to another time, another place; to give them a virtual holiday within a compelling story with interesting company.

In her novel A Raging Madness, released 9 May 2017, her hero and heroine are fleeing villains; one near crippled after an injury and the other recovering from forced laudanum addiction. If they go by road, they'll be dead or caught. Jude sends them on a canal boat, one of the slowest forms of transport known to human kind, but so ubiquitous in the early 19th century landscape as to be nearly invisible. Researching canal boats was great fun.

Book Page

Smashwords

iBooks

Barnes and Noble

Amazon US

Website and blog

Facebook

Twitter

Smashwords

Goodreads

Amazon author page

Hat Tip To: English Historical Fiction Authors

0 notes