October 12th, 2009


He Who Wins Shall Be the Conqueror

The laurels are not mine: there shall be no triumph, no confetti, no preseerves... Despite my sterlingest efforts (4100 words! In three hours! In a sixteenth century castle!), I am defeated. Oi, moi, woe is me, alack comma alas...
desperance, sir, I bow beneath your chariot wheels. Name your cake!

In other news, at least the eternal emo book is finished. Yay. Now I can think about something else, though no doubt it will now need re-writing. The sun is shining, we are surrounded by early modern splendour and I am on holiday with only one skirt. (Long velevet and lace and so on burgundy.) The marquis scents castles ahead and is growing restive... I must away. Be good out there.
Goth marquise


We are finally on Dartmoor, at the Rock Inn, Haytor, indeed. The marquis has tracked down five castles to their lairs and says:
Berkeley, Gloucs 'rather entertaining; strange connectivity, multi-layered squiggle, nice remains of a shell keep.
Thornbury, Gloucs 'Very nice -- scrambly bits and bits you can stay in all in one castle.' (He also liked the wine list and the food -- anef take note).
Taunton -- 'Much played with and being messed about with more even as we speak [type, typist]' Our views on the town: 'T*unton: a bit cr*p, really'
Tiverton 'closed, bah humbug'. Looks to have a good square tower.
Bickleigh 'not really a castle at all'.

THe non-castle experience was the National Arboretum at Westonbirt. I have now seen a 2000 year old lime coppice, which looks like a copse and it all one tree. And many beautiful maples. And birches and beeches and lots and lots of extremely happy dogs.

I have not yet looked at the book. I don't want to confront rewrites at once. Tomorrow, she said, firmly.
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