Amy Rae Durreson's Blog, page 13

The Lodestar of Ys blurb and playlist

At some point within the next few weeks, my free novella The Lodestar of Ys will be released as part of the Goodreads M/M Romance group’s Love Has No Boundaries event. In the run-up, there’s a busy little discussion thread , complete with extracts, going over here, and today I’m trying something new. Firstly, have the official blurb, which I don’t think I’ve shared yet, and then, under the cut, a playlist of some of music I listened to as I wrote, with quotations from the story to go with each track.

The Lodestar of Ys

Prince Sjurd of Axholme is convinced that Celyn of Ys is the most irritating man alive. It’s a good thing that Celyn is engaged to Sjurd’s brother, not him, because Sjurd loathes the brat, and it’s quite mutual. When an elopement and the threat of invasion force the two princes together, however, they have no choice but to marry and fake true love to keep their countries safe. Can warrior Sjurd and diplomat Celyn find any common ground?

On Spotify | On Grooveshark

1. Come Fly With Me     Anna Ternheim

The first time Celyn met the oaf was aboard the flying ship Llinos, on the eve of their betrothal feast. 

At the start of the story, poor Sjurd really isn’t fond of flying. Of course, he’s also buckling under the weight of his responsibilities, and can’t see the joy in something as frivolous as just flying away.

2. En Route     The Morriston Orpheus Choir with the band of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders

In the wake of their destruction, the legions marched, ready to garrison every town and offer the terrorized people the “mercy” of Imperial law and order.

The Empire is coming, and the kingdoms of Challoner, Axholme and Ys are the last free lands on the continent. So the armies of Axholme march to defend their border… (If you’re listening to the Grooveshark version, you’ve got Natalie MacMaster’s Flora MacDonald instead, which is an extra Mathilde song. The real Flora MacDonald is famous for smuggling Bonnie Prince Charlie off the island of Benbecula, and I thought both the music and its subject were fitting for Mathilde’s steady courage).

3. Breton Medley     Azam Ali

They watched as Mathilde rode swiftly away along the causeway that crossed the fens, growing smaller and smaller by the second. 

Another instrumental piece, waiting for the Empire to make their move.

4.  From my Own True Love (Lost at Sea)     The Decemberists

Celyn looked through it, but he couldn’t pick out much more, just a shadow lumbering out of the dawn. He was a child of Ys, though, and his instincts knew what he was seeing. “She’s damaged. I’ve seen wrecks move like that as they drift back to land.”

Not so much lost at sea, perhaps, but the mood is the same.

5. Grey (Llwyd)     Karl Jenkins / West Kazakhstan Philharmonic

There was something too sad in his face for Celyn, though, as if he were made of cracked glass.

I can never quite decide if this is a sad song or a hopeful one, and I feel the same way about this character and his plot thread. All the lasting things are grey.

6. Who By Fire     Leonard Cohen

Where in the world did he belong? Would he ever have a place, or a man, who would be a true home for him?

Just because these boys are both looking for the same thing, and annoy each other too much to know it.

7. You Can’t Hurry Love     The Supremes

“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who dislikes me more on acquaintance,” Celyn remarked, waving extra hard at the next clump of people, not least because the farmer was a very handsome lad.

“You surprise me,” Sjurd muttered. 

Yeah, this one’s just in here to annoy Sjurd. I can feel him glowering at me from here It definitely takes these two a while to warm up to each other.

8. Green Island Serenade     Vienna Teng

Celyn tried to imagine how it would feel to see the Falls of Rhaeadr and dawn over the inner isles for the first time.

Welcome to Ys.

9. Corryvreckan Calling     The McCalmans

Out here in the further isles, the rest of the world seemed very far away. By the time they reached Luaith, it felt like they would be traveling forever, moving from island to island until the world faded into a final sunset.

This was the key song for this story. I kept coming back to it. It’s a song about islands and following your dreams, and it was the one that made me realize that these two needed to go to the islands before they could breathe freely enough to fall in love. I spent a few unforgettable weeks backpacking around the Hebrides a few summers ago, and they’re in this story. Listening to this, I can see them too. If you don’t listen to anything else, listen to this one (on YouTube).

10. Sunlight in a Jar     The Lucksmiths

“Brat,” Sjurd retorted fondly and slipped his hands under Celyn’s shirt, pushing it up as he stroked Celyn’s taut belly. “Take this off.”

“I would,” Celyn said and wriggled against him. “You’re in the way.”

Just because it’s my favorite awkward lovers song. Oh, boys.

11. Shelter From the Storm     Cassandra Wilson

Celyn, whose gaze hadn’t left his, even as the dusk dimmed the room around them; Celyn, who was making his own responses in a cool voice, his hands steady on Sjurd’s. 

Because eventually they have to leave the islands.

12. Speed Your Journey (Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves)

He had known the Empire kept slaves, but he had never thought to meet any here.

I can’t really explain why this is so appropriate without spoilers, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. It’s deliberately a Welsh Male Voice Choir version, rather than an operatic one, because of all the Welsh influences in the story.

13. The Blue Bonnets (or Rise! Rise! if you’re on Grooveshark)     The Corries

“Men of Axholme, to arms! To arms against the Empire!”

Because there’s nothing like the battle march of a doomed and hopelessly romantic cause to finish on. ^_^

14. No More Sailing     The McCalmans

Ys, and Celyn, and a wild hope of freedom

Because everyone comes home in the end.

~#~

Hmm, that done, they barely need to actually post the story. The whole thing’s right there.

Novel contract and the last pictures from the Road South

Firstly, two bits of exciting news. Last week I signed a contract with Dreamspinner for my dragon novel, Reawakening. I’m still a little in shock, and very excited! The provisional release date is Jan/Feb 2014, but watch this space! I also, a few days before that, sold them a short story for their steampunk anthology, Steamed Up, which is coming out in the autumn. “The Clockwork Nightingale’s Song” is a story about a mechanic, an inventor, and a brass nightingale with a broken heart

In all that excitement, I completely forgot to post the last few pictures from my trip south. There’s not a tremendous amount more to say, but both Stratford and Oxford are very pretty places, even when you’re lugging around a backpack in a heatwave The one place I will rave about, though, is the incredible MAD Museum in Stratford-Upon-Avon, which I stumbled upon and spent a happy hour in – it’s a collection of mechanical art and every piece can be operated: cogs and clockwork and rolling marbles and shadows cast upon the wall in beguiling patterns. All that, and they immediately offered to look after my very heavy bags (possibly more for the sake of their exhibits than for me, but by the end of a trip away, that offer pushes any attraction up in my esteem ^_^) and they were just lovely and friendly and upbeat.

Shakespeare’s birthplace. I didn’t do the whole Shakespeare trail, partly because I’ve done it before, partly because I can get to Stratford and back easily in a day, and partly because I’m not daft enough to subject myself to one of the most touristy things in England on a Sunday in July

And that’s the garden where Shakespeare’s house once stood. A mid-eighteenth century owner got into a row with the local council over taxes and planning permission and so demolished the place. He also uprooted a cherry tree that Shakespeare had planted because he was so fed up of it attracting tourists (nothing changes then).

A view from the bus stop in the lovely Chipping Norton. I had ten minutes here on the trip between Stratford and Oxford, and rather wish I’d had more. There can be few building materials in the world quite as lovely as Cotswold Stone.

Looking towards Merton College in Oxford very early the next morning. I only had an overnight stop in Oxford, but I got up very early and went for a wander around some old haunts before it got too busy. Again, there is little to compare to Oxford in the sunlight.

Looking up the High from the corner of Queens’ Lane. A rare picture of the centre of Oxford without any buses.

The bottom of Queens’ Lane. Some of the best gargoyles in Oxford can be found along here, if you know exactly where to look up (they’re also very hard to photograph well, so you’ll have to take my word for it).

At the other end of the lane, with a beer lorry unloading under the Bridge of Sighs (this is the back entrance to the Turf Tavern, one of the oldest pubs in Oxford).

The entrance to the Sheldonian and Broad Street from the steps of the Bodleian. Including the ubiquitous crane (there are always cranes in the centre of Oxford). As always, I was a little loath to leave, but I also wanted to finally get home and catch my breath, and Oxford will always still be Oxford.

 

This is why we write (fiction, identity and a tearful moment)

So, I have to share this because it just brought tears to my eyes. Some of you know I have roots in fandom, and a while back I wrote a Merlin story where Merlin was diabetic. It was in response to a kinkmeme request and I grabbed it because I’m Type 1 diabetic and I didn’t want to let someone else write that and get it wrong. It was a very personal story and, ironically enough, probably the most popular thing I ever wrote in fandom (and, no, I’m not linking to it, because that’s not the point of this story).

Right from the start, people started responding to that story by sharing their own experiences of diabetes and by thanking me for actually writing about it. It blew me away. You get used to thinking you’re the only one in a group, the one who’s constantly having to explain why things work differently for you or the one being grateful to colleagues or acquaintances who picked up the pieces when it all went wrong.

I’m not in fandom any more. My fics are still up, but I’m not active, and I only check my emails once every couple of months. Today was one of those days. I found this message sitting in my inbox:

I remember reading this a few weeks ago and enjoying it. I loved sweet protective Arthur. I didn’t know very much about type 1 diabetes at the time, so that aspect was particularly interesting. Well, last week, my 8 year old daughter was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. While we were in the hospital, I found myself thinking about this story a lot. It helped me have some context for some of the information the nurses taught us about managing things for our daughter… and I dunno, I think it just helped me cope with everything just thinking about Merlin with diabetes. So I just wanted to thank you for your story!

And, yeah, so I cried a bit, and answered her comment, even though I don’t usually.

But this is the thing – there aren’t many stories out there about diabetic heroes. There weren’t when I was a kid, either. The only diabetic character I can recall reading about was Stacey in the Babysitters Club, and I had nothing in common with her except our disease. I still read all her books obsessively, though.

I’ve seen a discussion happening this week about the vital importance of getting LGBT characters into young adult literature as well. It matters. It matters because so many of us aren’t in the stories, for one reason or another. Nobody writes fantasy novels about diabetics, y’know (as a kid, I used to read those books where people crossed over into another world, and I used to dream it would happen to me, and that there would be a magical healer waiting on the other side to get rid of the diabetes). The Tardis would have been offlimits to me, and time travel a death sentence. Nobody ever tried to address those fears and tell those stories. I wanted so desperately to exist in the world of the imagination.

And I could write exactly this if I’d been an outsider for another reason, whether it was race or sexuality or gender identity or any of the wonderful disparate identities which make us special. When you’re a kid and you’re standing outside the group, looking in at everybody else’s ‘normal’, it matters to know that you’re not alone. It matters more than anyone who hasn’t stood there and looked in vain for their reflection could ever understand.

The Road South, Days 3-5: Following the Staffordshire Hoard

Part of the reasoning behind this extended trip was to take advantage of being in the Midlands to go and see the Staffordshire Hoard, the huge collection of Anglo-Saxon treasure that was found in 2010. I studied Anglo-Saxon literature at uni and pop into the British Museum to say hello to the Sutton Hoo finds every time I’m in London, so I’ve been wanting to see this for ages. Not all of it is on display, of course, because it’s still being investigated, and it’s split between a number of sites in the Midlands, hence my route over the last few days.

The biggest part is in the Potteries Museum in Stoke-on-Trent, which I reached by a succession of country buses (bus is the way to cross the Peak District – every time you drive round a corner there’s a new stunning view to enjoy). Once there, I found out that the two crosses have gone to Durham, which is a very long way from my route, but I got to see the horse, which is actually only about an inch and a half long, and admire the garnet and filigree work on the sword fittings.

I was staying back in Hartington that night, which was an advantage, in so far as all I had to do on that very hot afternoon was sit on buses with one bag. The next day, however, I headed south, to Ashby-de-la-Zouch via Derby and Burton-Upon-Trent. I didn’t stop to sightsee much, because my bags are heavy and it was very hot again, but I did wander around the various town centres and spent a happy hour exploring Ashby-de-la-Zouch Castle.

Day 5 took me another 70 miles, via two more hoard sites, Lichfield Cathedral and Tamworth Castle, a beautifully preserved Motte and Bailey Castle/Tudor Castle. I finished in Birmingham, where the final part of the hoard is kept, but here I was thwarted. I got to within about 100m of the gallery, but by then the surrounding streets were filling up with police in riot gear and there was a very nasty looking crowd between me and the gallery. Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, I retreated (Birmingham is just close enough to home that I could get there on a day trip). I found out later that it was the EDL ‘protesting’ with the help of broken bottles and lots of booze. Yet another reason to hate those racist fuckwits.

From Birmingham, I got one more bus, and arrived in Stratford-Upon-Avon just before seven. It took me another hour to find the hostel, twelve hours after I’d left the previous one. Amazing day, but my feet still hurt this morning! Pictures under the cut!

Hartington Hall Youth Hostel in the early sun. Such a great place to stay (I was in the old coach house round the back, but it was still one of the nicer hostels I’ve stayed in).

A random street in Derby. For some reason, I thought Derby was more modern than this, but the centre is really pretty.

The keep at Ashby-de-la-Zouch Castle. You can climb to the top of this, but the appeal is being able to see the shape of old rooms – there’s a fireplace at the top if you look closely. This castle also comes complete with a secret underground passage from the keep to the kitchens!

Lichfield Cathedral, with its three spires. It’s gloomy and Gothic inside, with some amazing medieval treasures in the chapter house.

Tamworth Castle. Fantastic place, which is set up really well for visitors with lots of interactive displays for kids in amongst the lovely historic buildings.

The centre of Birmingham. About 30 seconds later, police in riot gear started running past and I retreated.

The Long Road South: Buxton and the Peak District

*waves* Hello from the Peak District. I’m on a very wobbly wifi connection in the Youth Hostel in Hartington, which is a gorgeous little village about 12 miles from Buxton. The Hostel’s pretty swish, too, being the old manor house, where Bonnie Prince Charlie supposed stopped for a nap on his way south. Mind you, they put me in the coach house (I know my place, guv, honest). This is going to be a short post, because I’m constantly distracted by teenagers running riot up the corridor behind me. They’re clearly nice kids, but overexcited, and as far as I can tell, their teachers have pissed off down the pub. Now I know why people are always so complimentary when we take our lot out – they would not be allowed to behave like this. Gah.

I’ve come to the realization that I’m a country girl at heart. My spirits rose the further out of Manchester I got yesterday, and my muses perked up at the first hint of green, whereas I was stressed and on edge a lot of the time I was in Manchester. I had a lovely lazy day in Buxton, where I decided it was too hot and my bag too heavy to do much and so spent most of the day reading in the park. I did get to refill my water bottle from St Anne’s well, which flows right up from the actual Buxton spring (for non-British readers, Buxton Mineral Water is an ubiquitous brand of bottled water over here). Under the cut is a picture of the well and a few snaps from the long (and incredibly warm) country walk I did today.

St Anne’s Well. As a sat in the park above, I watched people queuing up to fill their water bottles. One older couple even turned up with a carload of empty three litre bottles. It did taste good.

Fields near Hartington.

The River Dove running through Wolfcote Dale.

The Long Road South: Day One, Manchester

Hello from Manchester! I’ve been up here since Saturday evening, and will be travelling back the slow and interesting way over the next week. I’m not sure how good the wifi access will be, but do expect a few posts.

I was here, of course, for the UK Meet. Unfortunately, work meant I couldn’t get here in time for the first day, but I enjoyed the Sunday. Everyone I spoke to was lovely, and it was wonderful to be in a room full of people who were passionate about the same things as me. I was a little nervous about walking into a room full of strangers who all knew each other, which meant it took me a while to relax enough to start talking to people, but everyone I did talk to was lovely and next year I won’t be so shy Sorry to anybody I missed – I completely failed at putting faces to online names

Since 200 miles seemed like a long way to come for a single day, I treated myself to an extra day here, and am taking the rest of this week as a holiday. I’ve been busy sightseeing and riding trams all day. I spent most of the day in the amazing Musuem of Science and Industry. I probably only saw about three-quarters of the exhibits before my feet started to hurt too much, but it was all fascinating stuff. There was a demonstration of the various machines that turn cotton from raw fibre into woven cloth, with some very chilling stories about the dangers of the machinery, especially for child workers, an exhibit on the history of Manchester’s sewers (complete with smells), various marvellous steam and hydraulic powered machines, and lots of old aircraft. Once I’d stopped making googly eyes at their Spitfire, I hopped back on the tram and went out to Salford Quays where I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting by the water and reading contentedly.

A few photos, for those who like visuals…

This was one of the machines in the textiles room of the museum. I think this one spins the thread thinner and stronger. They used young children to clean the machines while they were going at full speed. This wasn’t the most dangerous one, though it could still kill someone who wasn’t concentrating fully There was one which was so dangerous the mill owners didn’t ask their workers’ kids to clean underneath it, but just went to the local orphanage and pretty much bought unwanted children to do the job for as long as they survived. Horrible stuff.

The museum buildings are in the preserved station and warehouses of the original Liverpool-Manchester Railway, the first intercity passenger railway. The preserved station is the world’s oldest surviving railway terminus. This was the line Stephenson’s Rocket ran along. *railway geek*

And there was also a whole hanger full of old planes and cars. The triplane in the background is a replica of the first all-British plane to actually fly, and the blue one in the foreground is an Avro Avian from the 1920s (Amelia Earhart flew an Avian). I love early aircraft – there’s an elegance and bravado to them which gets lost a little once computers and jet engines come into play.

Salford Quays these days is very shiny and modern and glossy, but you can still see the shape of the rough old port underneath. It was a nice quiet place to sit for a while, and I was only disturbed from my book by the occasional holler and splash of some local lads jumping off one of the bridges (rather them than me – that water looked filthy).

Tomorrow I head off to Buxton and the Peak District. I’ll be trying to check in, not least because my LHNB story is still in the queue somewhere (have I mentioned that here? If not, there’s a whole thread of extracts and chatter happening over on Goodreads. It has/will have flying ships and floating islands and snarky princes. I will put a proper link and blurb up here when it goes up, of course. Watch this space!).

A New Free Story to celebrate summer finally arriving ;)

Ah, the hottest day of the year so far, no urgent deadlines approaching, and a British player winning Wimbledon. I have wine and strawberries and all the windows open, and haven’t felt so relaxed in months. ^___^

I even picked up pen and paper while I was watching the Wimbledon Final earlier and wrote a quick little piece of English summertime. I finished A Day For Miracles a little way into the third set and then had to put my pen down to clap my hands over my mouth and hope a lot. I was rather worried that not only would poor Jason and Ian not get a happy ending after all if Murray lost, but that I’d jinxed the whole thing by letting Jason get his hopes up

I’m in a little bit of a limbo writing wise. I’m waiting to hear back about Reawakening and the piece I submitted for the DSP Steampunk Anthology (which has the best cover art ever). My Love Has No Boundaries story will be up soon, but I’m not sure when, and it may well be when I’m away. I nearly burned out on the steampunk piece, so realistically I’m not going to get a decent Christmas story turned around before the 1st August, which is the DSP deadline this year, especially as I’m away from the 12th to the 22nd July (UK Meet plus coming home the pretty way). It feels a little unprofessional not to try, but mismanaging my workload to the point where I can’t cope with life isn’t very professional either, so there it is. 

I’ve decided to work on a mid-length piece until I hear about Reawakening, but haven’t picked which yet (probably the really bittersweet 1950s timeslip romance, but I might wimp out yet). For this week, when I’m tired, I may focus on short freebies to give myself a break.

Hope you enjoy the story (it’s PG-rated, so the faint-hearted can follow the link safely).

New Diana Wynne Jones book!! *squee*

Like most people, I like to slack off and browse the internet during my lunchbreak. Of course, my time wasting sites of choice are the BBC News site (I check the local news for quirky story prompts) and the Guardian books page. I was delighted when I stumbled across this article. It seems that Diana Wynne Jones’ sister has just finished off the book Jones was partway through when she died, The Islands of Chaldea.

What really caught my eye was this statement, which sounded so very similar to DWJ in its style and rhythms (for those who don’t know, I’ve written a lot of DWJ fanfiction, and getting the sentence flow right is the key to doing it well):

I was conscious of her looking over my shoulder in many different ways. To start with, there was this disturbing feeling of fury. Then once I’d got under way there was almost a moment of rather grumpy ‘oh all right then’. I’m not a believer in any of this sort of thing but I tell you it was palpable, and quite uncanny

I’m very much looking forward to reading this. Charmed Life is the first book I can remember reading (and rereading and rereading), right down to the slightly grotty library binding and the art on the cover. I’m still in awe of the way she can make a plot so twisty and so plausible at the same time, and it’s something I always aspire to in my longer pieces. A new story when I thought I’d read everything is an utterly wonderful thing.

Do go and read the article, as there’s a lot more information there.

Closet Capers out tomorrow!

I’ve got a new story coming out tomorrow, in Dreamspinner’s Closet Capers anthology, a collection of light-hearted mysteries. It looks like it’s going to be a really fun book, with the emphasis on romance as much as intrigue. The picture will take you through to the Dreamspinner’s site to read some of the blurbs.

 

My own contribution ‘Philip Collyer vs. the Cola Thief’ is a light office romance. Phil, like his author, is a bit of a caffeine fiend, and when someone starts stealing his lunchtime can of cola out of the office fridge, this normally easy-going manager is determined to find and stop the culprit. With the help of his crush, Kester the cute IT guy, Phil sets out to catch a thief…

I’m one of those people who chain-drinks tea at work and swills cola (whichever brand is on offer as I go through it too fast to be fussy) when I’m writing. When I was thinking about ideas for this one, I cast my mind back to my office drone days, and tried to think of the most irritating thing I could possibly imagine. This one topped the list. To be honest, if anyone messed with my caffeine supply, I wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice about it as Phil is. I also probably wouldn’t be quite as creative, though Phil’s increasingly creative approaches have nothing on some folks on the internet (some of these made me chuckle, and there are many, many similar posts out there. Pretty much that anything involving actual poison or excrement is illegal, though, folks, tempting as it might be).

Dr Merryweather’s Tempest Prognosticator and other curiosities…

So, I’ve been on my travels for the last couple of weeks. I tend to take off for two weeks every Easter and just explore an area of the UK, spending a night or two in one place before I wander onwards somewhere else. This year I explored Lincolnshire and the Yorkshire coast, two areas which were completely strange to me. I’ve been to York once, and never set foot in Lincolnshire before, so I was clearly overdue a visit. I always come back not only relaxed but brimming with story ideas (I want to write about shipwrecks and lifeboatmen now, because the RNLI museum in Whitby moved me to tears).  Later this weekend, I’ll post again to talk about the impending release of the Closet Capers anthology, which contains a rather sweet and daft story of mine, but for the time being I’m going to blather about my trip.

I’m a crazed photographer on these trips, because you never know what might come in useful as a reference photo. I’ve selected some of the quirkier shots to share here, under the cut because this will be a bit photo-heavy, including the aforementioned prognosticator, a leech barometer (no, really).

Firstly, the Fens. This is a vast and eerie stretch of countryside which runs from Cambridge to Boston in Lincolnshire. It was once marshland, but was systematically drained in the early modern era to create seemingly endless flat arable fields. It’s still in constant danger of flooding and every town and village has a water tower (and a windmill, many still in working order). As the land drained, however, it began to shrink, and sink to below the level of the rivers. The rivers are all contained by embankments, but the land is still shrinking. The little country roads are all lumpy and uneven where the ground beneath is still compacting. The two metal pillars here are the Holme Fen posts. This is the lowest point of the UK at 2.75m (9ft) below sea level. The post on the right is the older of the two, and supposedly comes from the 1851 Great Exhibition. It was driven into the ground by a local landowner at that time, when the top of the post was level with the ground. By 1957, so much of it was exposed that it became unstable and had to be reinforced. The second pole was added alongside it at that time.

Here, in the back room of the Rutland County Museum, which is otherwise most full of antique farm machinery, I found the old town gallows, tucked between a baker’s cart and the town bier. The gallows was first used in 1851, and was not a good investment for the town as it had too low a drop to cleanly finish off some criminals. It also had a placard quoting a letter from a clearly still traumatized gentleman who had been a pupil at the public school in the county town of Oakham. He and his classmates had been marched along to watch the first execution on the new gallows by their headmaster, who thought it would provide an excellent moral lesson for the small boys in his charge!

Skegness, the sort of British seaside town which decided that its windswept climate was its unique selling point, and advertised itself (very successfully) throughout the twentieth century with the slogan Skegness! It’s so bracing!. Here, I’m standing on the southern side of the promenade, known as South Bracing, and seeing some of the effect of the strong winds which had been lashing the coast all week. As my landlady put it: ‘When the rest of the country had snowstorms, we had sandstorms.’ And, yes, it was very bracing and so unbothered by the weather that I was utterly charmed by the place.

A cathedral cat! This is Lincoln cathedral on a quiet Saturday morning, and this tabby wound around the ankles of every tourist who wandered by. The inside of the cathedral was very austere, but the highlight for me was the simple tomb of Katherine Swynford, John of Gaunt’s mistress and later wife, and a woman whose love story really did change the course of British history (Anya Seton’s Katherine, although showing its 1950s values a little strongly in places, is still a compelling novel about her).

I’m not going to reveal the exact location of this, because it felt a little too secret. I took a day just to wander around the North Lincolnshire countryside, as I’ve got vague plans to set a novel in the Isle of Axholme and wanted to walk the land before I made any firm decisions. During that walk, I stumbled across a tiny pool labelled as a Holy Well on my map. It was guarded by a bright-eyed little robin and in the copse opposite, almost hidden from the path, someone had created a home for fairies. There were a couple of little doors set into the trees, plastic butterflies hanging off the branches, some carvings and pictures stuck up. It felt like the latest modern version of a very ancient impulse.

This is the River Hull, looking very grey and modern and soulless. The story here, though, is about those two faces on top of the column. The original plaster casts of these are in the Maritime Museum in Hull, along with the story of this young couple. Their names, according to reports from the time, were Memiadluk and Uckaluk, an Inuit couple from the Cumberland Sound, aged 17 and 15. The most detailed information came from a reproduction newspaper report from the time, so it’s difficult to untangle their story. They were brought to Hull in 1847 on the whaling ship Truelove, commanded by Captain John Parker, who also had a cast made of his head which is in the display in the museum with theirs. Supposedly, the girl Uckaluk was orphaned and because of the extreme poverty of the area at the time, begged the captain to rescue her from starvation. He refused to take her on board unless she was a married woman, so she and her childhood fiance were married the night before the ship set off back to England and he came too. The ship’s surgeon inoculated them against smallpox, and they were brought back to Hull where they were displayed in their native clothing in various places and at a number of lectures. Captain Parker’s stated aim was to raise awareness in England of the poverty in that region of the Arctic, which I think the British had laid claim to and then blithely ignored. When the Truelove headed off on its next whaling trip in 1848 they were on board, being taken home. Sadly, the surgeon had not thought to inoculate them against measles and an outbreak on board ship killed Uckaluk. Her husband was returned home with many gifts.

The whole story is so run through with colonialism and privilege and irony that unravelling it all would be a fascinating and important task. Someone needs to write a serious historical novel about that (not me, because I’d get so obsessive about the research I’d drive myself insane). The picture above shows the point where the ship anchored and the couple came ashore into busy, industrial nineteenth-century Yorkshire.

Okay, there’s nothing historically significant or meaningful or morally complex about this one. It’s just a big fucking wave, in Scarborough’s North Bay. Hidden behind it on the headland is the ruins of Scarborough Castle, if that counts for anything

And this is just another cool bit of coastline, on the north side of Flamborough Head. Chalk coasts erode in dramatic ways.

This is the Whitby museum, which is the kind of place I didn’t think still existed outside of Neil Gaiman’s imagination. It has a couple of side rooms, but most of its collection is crammed into one room. I’m standing in the center here, looking back towards the dinosaur fossils mounted in one corner. Around me were cases of string puppets, flint arrowheads, jet jewellery, wax dolls, scrimshaw, embroidery samplers, and assorted loot from every corner of the erstwhile British Empire. There’s supposedly a hand of glory in there somewhere, but I never found it. Perhaps it stuck on top of a display case somewhere between the totem pole, the samurai armour and the spinning wheel.

I did manage to find this. This is Dr George Merryweather’s patented leech barometer, also known as the Tempest Prognosticator, or to give it its full title, the ‘Atmospheric Electromagnetic Telegraph conducted by Animal Instinct’. Well, it’s a replica made in 1951 following the original instructions, as the real thing disappeared long ago. Invented in 1850, it was based on Dr Merryweather’s observation that leeches were extremely sensitive to changes in atmospheric pressure. Each jar contained enough water to make it a comfortable home for a leech. The leech would stay there unless disturbed by a change in pressure, which would cause it to squirm up into the tube above, which by a complicated process caused the bell at the top to ring. As one leech alone could be mistaken, a full ‘jury of philosophical councilors’ were provided. They were set in a ring around the bell for two reasons: firstly so they could see each other and not suffer from loneliness, and secondly to increase the resemblance to an Indian temple. The more leeches rang the bell, the more likely it was that a storm would occur. Simplicity itself.

There’s a lot of information about this marvelous machine online: Whitby Museum and wikipedia, with quotations from the original creator.  I’m pretty sure Dreamspinner has a steampunk call coming up: surely someone is tempted by this creation *hopeful eyes*

This is looking down from the cliffs just south of Whitby, at a relatively modern wreck. This coast is an incredibly dangerous one, and wrecks are still common. In the days when Captain Cook was an apprentice here, Whitby trained sailors were renowned for their skills and boys came from all over England to study in the local schools, where sailing was part of the curriculum, and take up apprenticeships. Ships built in Whitby crossed the world during the age of exploration and a lot of those apprentices went with them.

Many ships were also wrecked as they tried to enter Whitby harbour. This same stretch I’m looking down on here was the end of a WW1 hospital ship, the Rohilla, which broke into three on these rocks. It was on its way to the front and only 229 people were on board, most of them medical staff. 85 of them were lost in the wreck but lifeboats saved the rest. The Whitby lifeboat was too damaged to continue the attempt after two runs, but by then other lifeboats including the one from Tynemouth had reached the ship and continued the rescue.  One of the five nurses rescued had survived the wreck of the Titanic two years earlier.

Another bleak story comes from 1861. During a terrible storm that February, multiple ships got into serious trouble on the approach to Whitby. The lifeboat had already been out and rescued the crews of four wrecked ships. On their last launch, towards the collier Merchant, the lifeboat was overwhelmed by the waves and capsized. Twelve of the thirteen lifeboatmen drowned. The only survivor was the youngest member of the crew, Henry Freeman, on his first launch. The crew had been sent a sample cork lifejacket, which he had been given and which kept him afloat long enough for those watching from the shore to rescue him.

Freeman stayed on the lifeboat crew for over forty years after the tragedy, spending more than 20 years as coxswain of the Whitby boat. In 1881, his crew were called out to a wreck in Robin Hood Bay six miles south of Whitby. The seas were too high to launch from Whitby so they had to transport the boat across country. Unfortunately, it was January and the roads were under 7 feet of snow. 60 volunteers began to to dig out the road in front of them as 18 horses pulled the boat to the launch point. More men came to help with every farm they passed until they had 200 volunteers helping to clear the road. Two hours after leaving Whitby, they launched and were immediately forced back to land. The coxswain asked for more volunteers to help row and they went out again and rescued the entire crew, some of whom were so exhausted by then they had to be carried ashore.

(Lots more on the history of the lifeboat here.)

And finally, here’s the sight that most people come to Whitby for: the ruined medieval abbey that stands on the clifftops above the town.

See why I always come home with my muses quivering?