Hermitage Castle, Borders - acrylic : Elizabeth Waugh
Holiday self-catering 1
Mere words are not enough, dear home-owner offering a romantic self-catering hideaway. In the internet age, show me a picture - of your bathroom.
The views from the Juliet balcony are all very well, as are the pictures of local attractions, but I want to know the size and equipage of your ablution resource. Bath only? bath with shower over? shower cubicle? walk-in shower in wet room? Upstairs with the bedroom? downstairs with the kitchen?
The ideal, of course, is one up and one down.
Trawling sites to find the best fit for two crumblies who enjoy comfort, the novelty of walking out of their front door into a village or small town, a handy pub or late-opening shop for a bottle of something I see cottage after cosy cottage in an array of styles from House and Garden to god-blooming-awful dark red cut moquette and flowery patterned sheets, but very few adequately show their bathrooms. If I'm lucky the "facilities" column tells me something, but not always the whole story.
And sometimes, you can't see the whole story, because the photos are out of focus, or the owner has happily uploaded them more than once, so the "10 photos" comprise three exteriors, one interior living room, and either bedroom or kitchen, or possibly, again, a glimpse of a green field out of a window.
For there has come a time in my life (actually, it arrived when I was 34, and my rented house had room only for a shower) when I don't want to fold into a hot bath I can't get out of because it's too shiny, I'm too fat or there's nothing like a handle to help, but I do want the comfort of a hot shower, cleanliness and space. Walk-in replicates my home, and is the shower of choice; cubicle, if pictured, may also answer the need. The ones that don't are those upright wet coffins with a flimsy curtain keen to swaddle or strangle the user, or the over bath solution which rarely has adequate pressure.
So, after five days net-crawling, I found one. It is yet to be tested, but one up and one down came good.
ANON
Northern Gannet : Tom Langlands
Eagles Over Schiehallion
Like a Japanese artist
Painting beneath his mountain
At easel in his paper house
Above the snow capped mountain soars
After rain the burn roars
It's way to the Loch
Carrying its burden of foaming melt
From the snow peaked mountain above
In search of peace
We take the narrow road North
Journeying for all we are worth, until
Beneath this mountain we pause
The value of a poem can be weighed
Metre assayed rhythms played
All fear allayed
As a Japanese poet might
I consider writing Haiku:
Capture the essence
Above the mountain warm air
Eagles uprising
Here, where mountains are
Weighed and found not wanting
A certain calm descends
As eyes are raised to the hills
Geoff Smith
Love letter prompt
"For the love of death"
No matter
how close we get,
our skeletons will
never touch.
We will rot together
but be together no more.
Our dust and bone
will become friends,
hold hands and
settle in the earth.
Our love is undying,
our love is real.
Daniel Gillespie
Harvest of Bliss
I remember the day so well, when first we kissed:
conveying its intimacy
conveying tenderness
Throughout my body,heart,mind and soul...
...A kiss of life
which left me whole.
I remember your touch still;
the gentleness of the caress:
The tingling of skin, as we slowly undressed;
to explore deeper, that; which cannot be seen,
and lost myself
within a dream...
....For the dream was of Heaven,
and its light- therein;
guiding our movements,closer; akin...
...A joining: becoming soulmates,
a harvest of bliss,
All created with the touch of a kiss.
Kath J Rennie
Lockerbie Writers
Dragons prompt
Of Mice and Men
Dad's at it again.
I wish he'd stop
but he won't listen.
Mind you he was right,
the last guy was a numpty,
all armourchest beating.
Wanted a feather for
for his helmet. Do me
a favour. But this one,
oh this one's fine, looks
delicate, but I've felt
his hard core and he can
read.. Aye read – hard
to believe. Doesn't even
move his sweet red lips.
So Dad's challenge. Kill
the dragon -again. We're
nearly out of dragons. So
I've slipped him one
of my potions. Smear
his javelin, stab the beast.
Its scales aren't what
they're cracked up to be.
Is anything?
Then we're off.
He's got a wee castle
in Burgundy.
What's not to love?
Finola Scott
Fighting fire.
mighty dragon,
your fire, tradition tells
consumes with searing heat
the love Nietzsche ascribed to the wise.
yet I see your impotence cloaked in nauseous gas,
fetid as the breath of any master of violation.
so
I would stifle your fiery breath,
deflate your bellows,
snuff out your furnace;
melt your abyss of inexhaustible heat
into eternity.
but my greatest fear is in defeat.
by banishing fear I’ll destroy your power,
be free, able to love all creatures, even you.
denial of your existence does not work,
you exist in all;
to pretend you are fictional,
merely mythical, unhinges me.
I’ll not revel in the loss of myth,
I'll see beauty in your tarnished scales,
sceptical I may be
yet I am wise so fight your fire with love.
Steph Newham
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