Eight of May was a mega-hot day, discouraging a ten-mile hike. A day for the beach, and the cliffs, and the pier, and sea-mists. A day for a day out at Cromer.
Cromer, as seen from the ‘end of the pier’: Photo 8th May 2018
#2018picoftheweek: From a Distance
The title of the post is a bit of a cheat since I was standing half way along the pier when I took this shot.
(Would be easier to spell)
Rhododendron: Photo 20th May 2018
Although my usual plant subjects are native to England, this Rhododendron leapt in front of the camera, the sun full upon it, begging to be pixel-captured.
Rhododendron: Photo 20th May 2018
An excerpt from Regin-yorl posted May 2013 (‘Neve‘, an Asaric Tale)
Original image by JSKlingemann
Again, Raesan’s memories spooled into Neve’s head, again of Eldsland and of Regin-Yorl’s hall.
He showed her Gudrum. Startling blue eyes and an ankle-length coat—red-brown leather, similar to the coat she had glimpsed before on Regin-yorl. Around its yoke, worked in gold thread and silks, was the Tree of Life, though probably his name for it was Yggdrasil. Beneath the coat flashed an ornate buckle, the belt securing a tunic of blood-crimson silk. She was surprised to see he held only a staff. No spear like the other men. As far as she could see, his only bladed weapon was the seax sheathed at his belt, and that barely visible.
He served Regin-yorl?
Regin, Regin, Regin, Raesan snapped, annoyed at her continued interest in him. Of course he served Regin. Gudrum’s only a fourth nock, while Regin-yorl is Cesar’s son.
Which Cesar? She had seen three sitting around Cesar’s Well, all named Cesar.
There’s a difference? he asked. They’re all the same.
Raesan’s memories jumped. Skimmed over events he didn’t want Neve to see? Again, she saw Kazla as again she hugged her brother Razimer. They were way at the back of Zemowit’s procession. Zemowit, a full-blooded Asar, was lord of this Eastern Province. But this wasn’t what she wanted to see. She wanted a closer look at Regin-yorl.
Much to Raesan’s chagrin, Neve had discovered she could view through other eyes, access others’ memories—so long as the Bellinn chosen was of the same or lower nock than she. She looked around for someone to join. And there by the door stood Vindalf.
As soon as she joined with the boy, the scene changed, taken with Vindalf into a memory. The boy was still in the hall but now it was empty but for Regin-yorl’s men. An icy draught cut through the door. Vindalf ignored it, his eyes only for Razimer. Razimer—Rat—was the boy’s sole hero amongst Regin-yorl’s men. And it looked as if Rat knew it well. He was up on the raised stage where Regin-yorl’s empty throne sat, hammering at the drums hung there. And while drumming he leapt and pranced, seen here in a medieval Eldsland, yet every part the rock star. He started to chant. Neve wouldn’t call it a song. But what was the language? None that resembled any Neve knew. Eilif, standing off to the side, was egging him on, clapping and stamping. Then silence.
Vindalf turned. To see Zemowit, his Asaric aura like dazzlingly bright Christmas tree lights, garbed in silks of every green hue, held by a low-slung gold belt, lapis-studded, a cloak long and voluminous of a deep golden yellow, heavily beaded in gold. Oddly, his feet were unstockinged in his gold strappy sandals. Such wealth for one who seemed still in his teens.
Now might be a good time for Vindalf to leave. He was only here to deliver a message to Raum from his mother, that if he found moss while out in the woods would he fetch it home for her. Vindalf had repeated it, not knowing what it was with women and moss, and Eilif has taken the piss, as usual. Vindalf started to edge his way out. But Zemowit still blocked the door.
The boy’s eyes flitted from the winter-lit door to the shaded corner beyond the stage. Neve hadn’t noticed him there, his presence blurred by his swirling blue light: Regin-yorl, feet up and beer-swigging with Gudrum. He set down the drinking-horn with deliberate care. Lowered his feet from stool to floor. And stood.
‘Weapons!’ Zemowit barked at him. ‘Not allowed in here.’
Vindalf glanced back to the others of Regin-yorl’s band: Eirik and Eida and Raum. They sat in a ragged circle, each surrounded by a stack of weapons.
Regin-yorl prowled with deliberate step towards the door, eyeing the swarthy eastern Asar with open scorn. ‘You think to wear costly things makes you a lord? You live still in the past when people fell at your glittering feet. Times have changed. Our swords rule now. So don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. Besides, as I remember, I was here before you.’
‘How could I forget, my lady’s “get”. You might remember that, too.’
The distance between them now had closed. Vindalf had taken ten, twelve, twenty steps back. And still he knew if a fight erupted there’d be no avoiding it here.
‘My hall, Zemo, Lord. My men clean their weapons here, as they and I will it.’
‘Cleaning them? Ready, eh? But your bears need no egging to violence.’
There was a metallic clatter as part-cleaned blades hit against other blades waiting. There was a scrap as warriors rose to their feet. There was a thick sense of menace. Yet Regin-yorl remained calm.
‘Zemowit-lord, for the three thousandth and sixty-second time, I use no bears. See their horns?’ Embroidered wide horns adorned the men’s coats, all but for Gudrum’s. The same horns decorated the banners hung all around. ‘Aurochs. Our beast is the aurochs.’
Rat jumped off the stage landing between his lord and Lord Zemowit. Neve didn’t know the language but there was no mistaking the tone, nor Regin-yorl’s snapped retort, to drop it. This was his to deal with.
‘Would our Lord Zemowit rather we resorted to the holy hof to settle this?’
‘Would be apt. Your holy Tyr rules there.’
‘Wrong. Lord. But what to expect of a Sauromatai. Ingvi, Ingvi rules the hof. Ingvi’s is the Road of Dead. Tyr gives us justice—a stranger to your arrogant heart.’
Vindalf pressed himself against the wall. Neve could feel his guts churning. And the worst of it, Vindalf thought himself strong. He so wanted to be one of Regin-yorl’s men when he’d grown. Neve imagined what a fight between these men would be. But it wouldn’t happen. For all Zemowit’s higher degree, a full Asar compared to Regin-yorl, son of Cesar, and the others perhaps fourth nocks, they had weapons and Zemowit had not.
Still, Zemowit seemed to grow another six inches. And still he was short next to Regin-yorl. He drew back his shoulders. Neve had seen a video of chimps in the wild in Africa. And where was the difference? Zemowit tilted his chin.
‘You give me reason to make it three thousandth and sixty-three, and I’ll order boards put on their horns. Isn’t that what you do with wild bulls?’ He turned on his heel.
Rat was straight back to the drums and hammering out a cheeky beat. The others joined in with a chant.
Vindalf remained pressed close to the wall. Until Regin-yorl noticed and beckoned him. Then, as with affection, when close enough he ruffled the boy’s ice-blond hair.
But despite now she saw him up close, she still couldn’t place where she’d seen Regin-yorl’s face.
Tuesday-last being a bright and blistering hot day I went to the seaside. Yea, I know, I live on the coast but up a piece and around the corner there’s Cromer. What I like most about Cromer are the tractors. Meet Trevor. (#2018pickoftheweek: Look at Me)
Trevor the Tractor’s Great Day Out at Cromer: Photo 8th May 2018
I fell in love with Trevor, a particularly anthropomorphic looking vehicle. I would have taken him home but he refused to be parted from his fisherfolk family. Ho-hum.
There being no convenient river as a haven, the fisher-folk of Cromer daily haul their boats ashore by tractor. These vehicles, ever exposed to the salt air, tend to rust pretty quick.
The Girl with the Autumn Red Hair: Image by Pezibear
(i)
“Stop!” he called.
“What?” she asked though she carried on walking.
“Stop. Please. Right there.”
“Do what?” she asked.
“That’s it, love. Great.”
“Excuse me?”
“I just had to take a photo of you,” he said. “Nothing personal, just you set off the scene.”
Her face said she wasn’t exactly impressed. “What am I, a tree?”
“It’s your hair,” he said, autumn-red. “It’s for a project, for college.”
“You’re an art student?” she said, making it sound like something not worth the aspiring.
“That’s right,” he said. “What about you?”
“Telesales.”
“Yea?” He retaliated, “And what do you sell, double glazing?”
She looked at him through narrowed eyes. Was that in distaste of him? But no, he realised, she was squinting against the sun. “Do I look the sort of person to sell double glazing?”
“No,” he said. “You look the sort to say no if I asked her out for a drink.”
“Would that be as payment for the photo?” she asked and cocked her head.
Would it be as payment? He ran the question. If she’d been a professional model he would be expected to pay. He nodded. She mistook it.
“Yea, okay then,” she said.
He gulped. She was agreeing? He’d only said it on chance.
“When?” he asked.
“You’re doing the asking,” she said. “You say.”
“Tonight?” he said, hopeful.
“Yea. If it’s early. Now I have to get back to work.” She checked her watch.
“What time?” he asked.
“Nearly one-thirty,” she said. “The boss will kill me if I’m late again.”
“I meant what time tonight.”
“You say,” she said, and then said, “You’d better make it eight.”
“Eight. At the Cock and Bull?”
“Sure,” she said. “I must go.”
She went, leaving him to wonder her name, this girl with the autumn-red hair.
(ii)
He was early. She was late.
He wondered, would she stand him up. But it wasn’t a real date. She’d only agreed to meet him as payment. Still, no harm in pretending.
He sat at the bar, eyes fixed on the mirror behind the optics. From there he had a clear view of the door. Every time it opened his heart did a flip. His hands felt clammy. His mouth was dry. Time for another swig. If she was much later in coming he’d already be drunk. He’d not tolerance for lager.
Then she was there, coming through the door, looking about her, trying to find him.
He stood, and the stool he’d been sitting on toppled over. Well, at least the clatter attracted her.
“It’s great to see you,” he said, still jiggling the stool to set it straight. “I was beginning to think …”
“The car wouldn’t start,” she said. “I ended up getting a taxi.”
“That’s good,” he said and she gave him a withering look.
“I mean, it means you can drink,” he said. “What are you having?”
“Vodka, lemonade, no ice, just a slice.”
The way she said that made him think she was a professional drinker. It would be no good him trying to get her drunk, hoping to have his evil way with her. She’d probably drink him under the table and walk away laughing. He ordered her drink and for himself another lager.
“Neil,” he said while the barman was occupied with the order.
“Why?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, that’s my name.”
“Oh. Nicola,” she said.
“Nicky?” he asked.
“Nicola,” she repeated like a slap in the face.
“Oh. Well, hello Nicola.”
“Hello, Neil. Nice meeting you.”
Damn! Why hadn’t he thought to add that?
The barman brought the drinks. Neil paid. She downed hers in a couple of gulps.
“Thanks,” she said and turned to leave.
“Excuse me,” Neil called after her. “Nicola?”
She waited. He frowned.
“I thought we were having a drink,” he said.
“I thought we just had,” she said. “Thanks for the payment. I hope your project gets you a credit.”
“But …. “ he grappled for words.
“Can’t stop,” she said. “I’ve a date, don’t want to be late.”
“Oh.” What else could he say? He felt a bit queasy. He shouldn’t have had that last lager. Though it could be the disappointment as well. “Have a nice evening,” he said.
“You too,” she said and was gone.
(iii)
His hand wrapped around the camera that bulged in his pocket. She was gone forever out of his life. But he still had the photo—captured as pixels, no misperceptions—of the girl with the autumn-red hair.
A reposted short story, it first appeared on this blog in July 2014 as Miss Perceive
Bridal Flowers . . . on the shelf: Photo taken 21 April 2018
The way the light catches this floral arrangement, the obvious wedding overtones, the way it perches on a tiny shelf set in the church window, all suggested (tongue in cheek) ‘‘On The Shelf’ (2018picoftheweek).
Or Sammi’s Weekend Challenge: a poem or prose to mention FOUNTAIN in exactly 53 words. Okay, challenge on:
Image by darksouls1 on pixabay
Fifty, fifty, fifty-three
Fountain counting comes too easily
Words from numbers being freed
Not from Suttungr’s poetic mead
Ought I hang on Woden’s tree
Sacrifice myself to me
Just to find a simple rhyme
To complete this verse on time.
Sad, here’s no high poetry of note
‘Metered words’ is all I wrote
image: AnamCreation
Silvered Lady in the sky
You affect my moods
I know not why
But when you’re full I’m so alive
Yet when you’re new
I have to strive
To change my world from blue
Reposted from December 2012
Last year I remarked of how early the spring flowers. Bluebells, may blossom, wild apple, were all in full flower before March was out. This might happen in the Southern Counties, but not in the eastern reaches of East Anglia. And this year it didn’t! In fact, this year it was 26th April and still the apples and pears and their kin were tight-budded. But I did find these gems for your enjoyment.
The sun sparkles on the River Wensum . . . filtered through trees: Photo 3rd May 2018
The photo was taken looking down from a bridge over the River Wensum, on the outskirts of Norwich, with a faster shutter speed than I’d usually use (the bridge parapet served as tripod), and I managed to capture the sparkles.
#2018picoftheweek: Sparkle
And here’s a shot at a more usual angle.
River Wensum at Hellesdon Bridge: taken 3rd May 2018
crispina kemp 