A weather eye on the horizon

I am a very lucky girl sometimes. 

Of late, I have been particularly affluent to receive an exquisite gift from Mr Quinn. This, below: a stunning moleskin notebook, detailed with Smaug of the lonely mountain. 

 

Inside there is a secret compartment with a two-sided map of Tolkien's Wilderland. The skin is silky soft and the pages are ivory kissed with the richness of gold. It is flawless. There is no sharpness to it's corners; no threat of the paper attacking you with a sly, searing slice. It welcomes your need to stroke the cover and feel it brush down your fingers as you let the pages fall, reminding you of those enchanting fairytale libraries that ascent higher than the building in which they stand and your hunger to consume the infinite amount of literature.

I adore every bit of craftsmanship put into this book. Anyone who panged with jealousy as Belle entered the library of the Beast's castle will understand my appreciation. It is almost too good to write in. I mean, how could my rough scrawl possibly be worthy of such a workbench? It seems I should practice calligraphy before unleashing my unruly pen on it. And, the most baffling of things: I hadn't a clue what to write!

I graffiti on everything lately. Various notebooks, scraps of paper, envelopes etc. Every momentary thought must be captured on some surface, in some illegible writing, to be deciphered and cross referenced against other post-its later, to eventually formulate a sort-of structured sentence. Surely, I wasn't short of ideas?

The answer came off the back of a pointer given on a course I have started. It is a course on writing for children which was purchased from - now, don't you scoff you cynical cats - Groupon. Actually, it has proven itself rather insightful already, and draws you to seemingly obvious practices. For example, keeping a weather diary. Of course, I should already be doing this; noting how the sun and sky work together at different times of day, the actions and severity of different winds against plant life, the cold and warmth, and the feelings that each evoke. What better way, then, to be able to reference appropriate climate settings?

So this is what I will record in my journal. It deserves only the most idyllist and conscious writing, after all. I hope I do it justice.

Tittles and Crosses x

Vikings, Fairies and Medieval Merriments

I'm currently pining at the nearness of Georgia's third birthday. I haven't helped myself by wrapping all of her presents over a month in advance. Nearly-three-years has flown, and though I am excited for her to open goodies, I'm listening to how clearly she is beginning to speak and I feel short-changed of time. My baby is getting too tall.

Anyway!

Mr Quinn took us into Warrington, yesterday, for ale tankards and donkey rides at the Medieval Market, neither of which we saw. Instead, we pottered about some book, craft and nik-nak shops, and we were in our element. There were maidens, men donning chainmail and armours, and an archery pitch where you could aim at a live knight target - with sucker ended tips, thankfully.

Amongst our haul, Alastair found a quirky little Viking and a broken, but exquisite, metalwork musical church. I did have to refuse him taking home a tankard shaped as a bust of Henry VIII. The only place I could accomodate that would have been in the bin. He's lucky he got the Viking.

Of course, I found fairy things. Lots and lots of fairy things. A gorgeous photo album...

... and a lovely decorative for Georgia's bedroom.

 I must confess; I did encourage Georgia's inclination to all things pink and intricate as a facade to aquire our (my) own wonderfully hand-crafted fairy. 

 
Fairies Ofthe - threefairies was the first stall I noticed when we got to the market, and knew immediately that, before we left, my must-have urges must be met. Mr Quinn, fell for our ulterior motives, obviously. Hook, line and batted-eyelashes. Regardless, it would have been sinful to walk away from these, the sweetest little fair folk.  

Every fairy lover should have one.

She sits atop an equally beautiful treasure chest - also, purchased at the medieval market - which beholds a purple stone. Georgia calls her fairy "Pink", which is fortunate as most other characters are limited to a naming choice of "John", "Bob" or "Steve".

The stone within the chest was, yes, another purchase from yesterday. Since a stint of gold panning, at a farm we visited earlier in the year, Georgia has developed a precious fascination with stones and rocks. We did rock painting a few weeks back - thoroughly enjoyed by aforementioned nearly-three-year-old - and practically have an itinary of little boulders to account for before bed. Let me tell you; nearly-three-year-old never forgets, and no stone gets left behind! Our bedtime register will now include "na-nights" to Pink Fairy, John, Bob, Steve, and Purple Rock.

Back home, we tested out our new face paints by turning Mr Quinn into a Smurf.

I'll say no more about Daddy's face. As for nearly-three-year-old; I may be biased, but you can't disagree that she makes one adorable tiger cub.

And finally, I got books. For research. Two books. One retelling a vast collection of Celtic fairy tales. The other covering off Celtic Otherworld, and significantly, the Mythological Cycle and Tuatha De Danann.

Tonight, I will work.

Walking Dead, season three: you will not stop me this time!

Tittles and Crosses [12271]

From the mind of a pacifist

By my fourth post, I feel I really should have touched on writing. Especially, considering I put in such effort to justify my motives for this lark.

I love description. This isn't any news. What I don't enjoy quite so much is dialogue. It doesn't help when you're as socially hushed as I tend to be. I am a Smiler; I sit to the side, smiling and nodding, letting others rattle off their stories. Only those who appreciate long-windedness get the privilege of my anecdotal goose chase. So when talking isn't a sport that comes naturally, it stands to reason that I should find creating fictional dialogue challenging.

However...

And, first, let me predict that I am not the only person to do this...

Earlier, I was stomping around, still bubbling over a fresh conflict, replaying the conversation in my head, analyzing tones and expressions. Then I realised that I was still arguing. Getting my word in edgewise was feeling good, and getting opinions off my chest felt even better. I won't go as far as to write exactly what I wanted to say for, probably, the same reason I could not bring myself to say it in the first place: too profound for words. Of course, this was all taking place in the asylum of my mind, which is mighty good as I'd be admitted to an actual asylum if they'd caught me acting it out in public.

But I seized the lines and practised them over, and over, until they were no more my insults, than an argument between characters. And then it escalated, and I was rebutting myself. Only, this wasn't me. It was the other character. And the exchange was no longer where my conflict had started from, but had become an explosion of imaginary dialogue.

I'll go back to stressing how thankful I am that this played out in only in thoughts. I just hope I didn't make the accompanying facial contortions. Now, that would have been a sight.

Tittles and Crosses [12271]

P.S. Mr Quinn would completely disagree with my acclamation to peace-keeping.