The Grand Staircase of Trevelver Castle, adorned with intricately carved bannisters and illuminated by crystal chandeliers, swept downward in an elegant, serpentine curve. Each step seemed to whisper tales of centuries past—nobles descending to galas, lovers stealing clandestine moments, and dignitaries making their grand entrances.

As Giles and Eli stood at the top of this magnificent architectural marvel, they faced a choice. The staircase divided into two curving sections – one beckoning to the left, the other to the right. For a breathless moment, their eyes met and locked, a cosmic charge crackling between them as unspoken possibilities sparked and smouldered in that heated gaze. Then, in unison and with an inexplicable certainty, they turned and descended the left-hand staircase, their fingers entwining as their hearts echoed the rhythm of the promised waltz awaiting in the Great Hall below.

The castle's ancient stones of Cornish granite seemed to hum with shared histories, and the flickering lanterns along its walls cast dancing shadows upon the sett floor. In this castle of dreams, the Grand Staircase and the Great Hall stood as silent witnesses to countless stories – a tapestry of chance encounters, longing glances, and the vibrant promise of magic shimmering in the air.

At the foot of the staircase, a vaulted stone corridor beckoned, its arched ceiling adorned with vibrant frescoes depicting mythical realms. Scenes of the fabled, long-lost Atlantis unfolded, as did visions of the voyages of the revered Twelve: the Poet, Physician, Farmer, Scientist, Magician, Architect, Astronomer, Musician, Philosopher, Artisan, Guardian, and Historian. And dominating the corridor's end, the arrival of the Last Queen-Priestess – the revered founder of the very female line that would, centuries later, adopt the name Trevelver from its family seat. But beyond this mystical, crimson-carpeted passageway lay their much-anticipated destination – the Great Hall itself.

The Hall was impressive and lofty, its sturdy walls of granite quarried from the ancient Cornish landscape. Though not opulently adorned, it exuded an aura of stately grandeur. Massive oak beams supported the vaulted ceiling while the walls were hung with richly woven tapestries. One sprawling textile captured the clashing knights and banners of the famed Battle of Sampford Courtenay – a pivotal medieval conflict during the Cornish Rebellion of 1497. In the Hall's heart, a cavernous fireplace of carved marble crackled with warmth and invitation. Lanterns flickered with dancelike movements, their buttery yellow glow casting kaleidoscopic shadows across the granite sett floor.

The Great Hall beckoned Giles and Eli inward like a charismatic promised land – an invitation to step into a realm where laughter, music, and giddy anticipation whirled like the snowflakes swirling outside. They stepped forward in sync, their souls converging, their hearts echoing the tender cadence of the waltz awaiting them amongst the growing revelry.

Quote from: njee20 on May 24, 2024, 03:21:35 PMNo first hand experience, but someone on Facebook reported they weren't good. With Electra back up and running under the new owners I'd be asking them if they've got gaps in the range.

Hope to see more decals from electra
In fact, I converted nearly junk 43 to Midland pullman livery, and if I get class 91, going to make 91110  Battle of Britain memorial flight.

No first hand experience, but someone on Facebook reported they weren't good. With Electra back up and running under the new owners I'd be asking them if they've got gaps in the range. 

In ebay, user named Chris code trees sells n gauge decals for hst/coaches.
I tried Electra's decals for my old farish's class 43, and curious about Chris's vinyl decals.
At least, it has more options than Electra's, but is it worth?

I'm finding it rather odd that no manufacturer has produced Yeoman PGAs, apart from the old Farish Poole version. Loads of haulage possibilities.
Pre-TOPS blue diesels too —there's no 55 or 47 to go with the reversed blue/grey Pullmans.
Oh yes, Commonwealth bogies for the current Mark 1s too.

I enjoyed it but they seemed so studious it was almost like the first time they'd played it

Quote from: Roy L S on May 02, 2024, 01:31:21 PM

Quote from: Carmont on May 01, 2024, 08:28:31 PMNBL Type 2 Class 21/29
MK1 TPO Stowage Van & TPO Stowage Brake
Oakbank Oil Co./BP 40 Ton bogie tank wagon

Good shout, I would love a 21/29. Sadly I think that when RevolutioN proposed it as a crowdfunded initiative back in 2015 it was maybe a bit too early in their existence and the crowdfunding model not well proven.

I hope they revisit the 21/29 at some point.

Craig

Quote from: Jim Martin on May 23, 2024, 03:55:27 PMAre this:

Quote from: Carmont on May 01, 2024, 08:28:31 PMOakbank Oil Co./BP 40 Ton bogie tank wagon

and this:
https://flic.kr/p/RFLGUE

the same thing?

Jim

Yes that's it.  Only three produced, I understand.  At the very least only three taken over by BP Shell.

I came across this track this morning by Chris Forsyth.
It's a cover of Meditation by John McLaughlin from the fabulous Love, Devotion Surrender of 1973.
For all the guitar loving folk out there, you might like this one. We'll see :
https://youtu.be/h2NT-XhqnpU?si=ca8bDhSAoLzAytMD

It's a shame that the band don't really seem to be enjoying themselves much.

At the head of Trevelver Castle's magnificent Grand Staircase, Jeremy felt the weight of impatient anticipation as he awaited Sylvia's arrival. Memories of their first fateful encounter in the library of the Trevelvers' Chelsea townhouse came flooding back – the moment he had first glimpsed the devastatingly beautiful fourteen-year-old ingénue, a tempestuous storm of emotion swirling through his heart.

Sylvia's eyes, limpid pools of pure innocence, contained latent passion in their fathomless depths. They reflected the rich, dark brown of earth—a warm embrace that held both mystery and tenderness. Whispered secrets borne on the wind seemed to dance within their shimmering depths, dreams spun of infinite stardust. When she turned her gaze towards the far horizon, she did not perceive boundaries, but endless, thrilling possibilities. Her gaze held both wonder and longing – a compass eternally seeking new, distant shores.

Her voice rang out like a lilting melody, carrying hope's fragile song like a bird winging its way through sun-dappled meadows, weaving spellbinding tales of love and deep yearning. When she spoke, it was as if delicate petals fell from her lips to scatter poetry across the earth. Sylvia's words cradled the ethereal promise of radiant sunrises and whispered secrets – a language the heart alone could truly comprehend.

Within the porcelain vessel of her breast beat a fragile yet resilient heart. Love bloomed there, as delicate as petals kissed by the morning dew, yet she loved fiercely, unafraid of heartbreak's sting. For Sylvia believed in the alchemical magic of love's transformative power. Her heart was a secret garden, tended by pale moonlight, where dreams took root and blossomed into brilliant, transcendent life.

Sylvia pirouetted through her life as if dancing, her skirts catching stray moonbeams. Her laughter rang out like a cascade of silver bells echoing through hushed, hidden gardens. She twirled amidst the shadows, her steps spinning her ever onward towards an unseen destiny. Each footfall left an ephemeral imprint upon the path of pure wonder and delight, a shimmering testament to the vibrancy of her spirit. As she danced, she wove a magic that lingered like a sweet fragrance in the air long after she had whirled away.

Her story unfolded like an intricate tapestry woven of moonlight and stardust. Upon arriving in the cosmopolitan heart of 'Swinging London', Sylvia encountered rogues and poets, princes and paupers alike. Each new chapter revealed both her extraordinary inner strength – the resilient bloom persisting through any trial – and her transcendent fragility, the petal too soon fallen. Sylvia was something far greater than a mere young woman; she was a constellation entire, no, Jeremy reflected, an ever-shifting celestial map of constellations innumerable, guiding all who looked upon her towards their own true north star.

And it was this radiant vision of Sylvia that Jeremy carried with him – the ingénue who had danced away leaving indelible footprints etched upon his very soul, the woman whose whispers first sparked in him dreams of love and infinite possibility. She was the living canvas upon which he had become utterly determined to paint the brushstrokes of his own story – a tale woven of longing, fleeting glances, and the invisible cosmic threads which bound their two lives together across the unknowable dimensions of fate.