As the snow continues to fall outside Trevelver Castle, casting a serene and peaceful atmosphere, Sylvia's living room is a haven of warmth and tranquillity. The well-upholstered burgundy-coloured leather armchairs add a touch of elegance and comfort, their rich material reflecting the soft glow from the blazing fireplace. They are perfect for sinking into with a good book or a warm drink.

In the heart of the room, the fireplace casts dancing shadows and fills the room with a comforting scent, adding to the room's cosy atmosphere. The cherry logs glow warmly, their sweet, woody aroma mingling with a subtle hint of lavender to create a welcoming ambience. Above the fireplace, the tambour-style clock stands on the mantelpiece, its rhythmic ticking and soft chimes blending with the crackling of the fire, resonating softly in the quiet space.

To the side of the room, a grand mahogany bookshelf stands tall, filled with an array of books, their spines showcasing a rainbow of colours. Some are well-worn classics, their pages yellowed with age, while others are newer additions, their spines uncreased. Each book is a testament to Sylvia's diverse interests and intellectual pursuits.

Near the window, a writing desk sits, its surface polished to a shine. On it, a sleek fountain pen and a notepad rest, ready for Sylvia's thoughts and ideas. The desk is a silent witness to Sylvia's reflections and dreams, a place where she pens down her musings and aspirations.

A large, ornate mirror hangs on one wall, its gilded frame reflecting the room's warmth and elegance. The mirror not only adds depth to the room but also reflects the flickering firelight, creating a mesmerising play of light and shadow. The room is adorned with tasteful art pieces, each carefully selected to enhance the room's aesthetic. A beautiful landscape painting hangs above the fireplace, its vibrant hues echoing the natural beauty outside the Castle.

Eli's painting captures the rugged beauty of the Cornish coast. The azure sea stretches out to the horizon, its surface shimmering under the golden rays of the setting sun. White-capped waves crash against the jagged cliffs, sending a fine mist into the air. The cliffs, a dramatic palette of greys and browns, rise majestically from the sea, their tops carpeted with a lush layer of grass that sways gently in the sea breeze.

Nestled in the cliffside, there is a quaint fishing village with its huddle of cottages, their grey slate roofs blending harmoniously with the rugged landscape. The slate, gleaming wet from the sea spray, adds a unique charm to the scene. Smoke curls up from the chimneys, adding a sense of life and warmth to the scene. Nearby, a lighthouse stands tall, its beacon a solitary star against the deepening twilight.

In the foreground, a meadow of wildflowers adds a splash of colour to the scene. Poppies, cornflowers, and daisies dance in the wind, their vibrant hues a stark contrast to the rugged cliffs and the endless sea. A narrow path winds its way through the meadow, leading the eye towards the sea and the setting sun.

The artist has captured not just the visual beauty of Cornwall, but also its spirit – the sense of peace and solitude, the harmony of land and sea, and the timeless charm of this coastal landscape. Every brushstroke, every hue and shade, brings the scene to life, making it a window to the beautiful Cornish coast. It is a painting that tells a story, a story of nature's grandeur and the simple, unspoiled beauty of Cornwall, a scene that Sylvia can lose herself in, time and time again.

Every element in the room, from the comfortable armchairs to the ticking clock, contributes to a sense of harmony and tranquillity. It is a space that invites relaxation and introspection, a perfect retreat from the world outside. Despite the falling snow and the winter chill, Sylvia's room is a haven of warmth, comfort, and timeless elegance. The world outside may be blanketed in snow, but inside, the gentle chime of the clock, the cosy armchairs, and the blazing fireplace bring a sense of calm and order, a reminder of the steady passage of time.

In the tranquillity of her surroundings, Sylvia's thoughts wander unspoken. She finds herself pondering over the series of events that brought Jeremy and her together. She imagines her mother in her cosy, oak-panelled study, perhaps seeking guidance from the stars. She pictures her father, his gaze unwavering, approving as her parents peruse a confidential file. This file holds a flawless photographic portrait, a work of Norman Parkinson, the same English portrait and fashion photographer who had captured her own image on her fourteenth birthday in the Castle grounds.

She recalls how her mother had chosen Parkinson for his unique talent in merging fashion with nature and infusing his work with humour. She remembers the attire chosen for her portrait, a creation by Christian Dior, renowned for his revolutionary 'New Look' that accentuated the feminine silhouette.

Time seems to stand still. Sylvia's thoughts drift further, perhaps to the ancient queen-priestesses, their voices eternally resonating within her, guiding her towards love, towards the ultimate journey when two become one. Could it be that these voices, this guidance, had somehow led her to Jeremy, to love?

I've got man flu 

Gutted. 

Just gutted.     

The first time since God was a boy that the Aurora Borealis has been visible in deepest Sussex AND WE MISSED IT!! Mrs P and I have never seen it and Friday night would have been our best chance but we were tucked up in bed as usual. It wasn't till the next morning when a neighbour started sharing photos of the event that we realised what we had missed. We stayed up last night but of course nothing happened. The sun is very active at the moment so we hope the chance comes again, but we're not holding our breath.

Bother, bother, bother.

Not 'appy.

Not 'appy at all.

Chris

Revolution Trains Class 59/1 59101 [RT-N59-HM-101]

"And Sylvia's destiny?" asked Jeremy, leaning forward, his sea-green eyes bright.

Lord Trevelver leaned back as he carefully considered his reply. "To protect a unique legacy of power and knowledge. To honour the matrilinear line. To wield her gifts wisely and well."

"And mine?"

"To love her", Lord Trevelver said, "unconditionally. To be the lighthouse that guides her through tempests to safe harbour."

The room seemed to blur around him. Atlantis, a mystical lineage, and magical abilities—it felt like a tale spun from storybooks.

Sylvia, the girl whose photographs he had admired but had yet to meet, held secrets beyond imagination. Jeremy wondered if he was dreaming.

Questions surged. What kind of abilities? How did they manifest? Could Sylvia control them?

Jeremy's naval training had prepared him for storms at sea, but this—this was uncharted territory.

Her father's words echoed: "You are the anchor". Jeremy understood. Sylvia's awakening, her powers—they depended on him.

Duty had always been his compass. Now, it extended beyond naval charts to Sylvia's heart.

Sylvia's sixteenth birthday—the surge of her abilities—in two years' time. What if he faltered? What if he could not ground her, protect her?

Jeremy's palms dampened. Love was not just about shared sunsets, drawn-out kisses, and whispered confidences; it was about safeguarding magic itself.

Trevelver Castle, ancient and enigmatic, beckoned. Jeremy envisioned Sylvia within those walls, her deep brown eyes alight with hidden knowledge.

He longed to explore her visions, to unravel the threads of fate alongside her.

Sylvia's destiny was intertwined with his. Jeremy vowed to be her lighthouse, guiding her through tempests to calmer waters.

Lasting love, he realised, was more than a sailor's longing—it was the compass that would steer them both.

And so, amidst the oak-panelled walls of 'The Rag', and the resonance of ancient inheritance, Jeremy embraced his role—the protector. Sylvia Trevelver—the vessel of magic, the keeper of secrets—awaited him. Their destinies entwined, they would navigate together the complexities of love, legacy, and the very fabric of existence.

Lord Trevelver then leaned forward, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. Jeremy listened, captivated by the tale that unfolded—a tale of power, ancestry, and the magic that coursed through Trevelver women.

"Jeremy", he began, "our family's legacy is unlike any other. The Trevelvers trace their roots back to Lost Atlantis—a civilisation steeped in mysticism, awe-inspiring powers, and forgotten knowledge."

Jeremy's curiosity flared. "Atlantis, Lord Trevelver?"

"Yes", Sylvia's father affirmed. "But it's not that sunken land that needs concern you, young man. It's the lineage—the matrilinear descent—that defines the Trevelvers."

He continued, "Our family's unique power flows solely through the female line. From mother to daughter, generation after generation."

"And Sylvia?"

"She embodies it", Lord Charles replied. Her mother and her grandmother were all very strong, highly capable women who wielded abilities far beyond the ordinary.

"Abilities?" Jeremy leaned closer.

Her father stated, "Intuition. Always. Together with a connection to nature, to the land and the sea. Healing, empathy, and foresight."

Jeremy's mind raced. "And Sylvia possesses these?"

"Yes", Lord Charles confirmed. "They are yet to fully awaken, but her sixteenth birthday approaches. That's when her powers will fully emerge."

"What does she see?" Jeremy wondered aloud.

"Visions", her father answered. "Prophecies. The threads of fate. Sylvia's gift is both a blessing and a burden."

"And I?" Jeremy asked.

"You", Lord Trevelver stated, "will be the anchor. The one who will balance her—ground her. Your duty as her partner is to protect, support, and understand."

"Understand?"

"The complexities", Lord Trevelver smiled gently. "The moments when her abilities threaten to overwhelm. The nights when she dreams of a long-lost land or impending storms."

"And love?" Jeremy whispered.

Lord Trevelver's eyes softened. "Love, my boy, is the catalyst. Sylvia's heart, when united in true love with yours, will unlock her full potential."

"And the Castle?" Jeremy wondered.

"Trevelver Castle", Lord Trevelver said, "holds the key to the Trevelvers. Its stones remember the times before the Romans came to these Isles, for its foundations were laid by ancestors lost in the mists of time."

Sir George leaned back in his elegantly upholstered chair, carefully studying Jeremy. The shaded lighting of the private dining room accentuated the lines etched on his face—the wisdom of years lived and challenges met. His voice was measured, each word carefully weighed.

"Jeremy", he began, "the Honourable Sylvia Trevelver is more than a name or a title. She is the inheritor of an ancient family's legacy—a vibrant tapestry woven through centuries of history. But I'll let her father speak to that. Her dark eyes hold the stories of ancient ancestors who navigated uncharted waters, faced tempests, and, finally, landed in Cornwall, safe but their home destroyed. She embodies courage, not just in the face of adversity but in the quiet moments when resilience is tested to the very core of one's being. C.S. Lewis, echoing Cicero, was right when he said, 'Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point'."

He paused as if recalling distant shores. "But Sylvia's laughter", Sir George continued, "is like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—a rare and precious gift. However, beneath her beauty and charm lies a fierce determination—a fire that burns brighter when challenged."

Jeremy leaned closer, captivated. "And her vulnerabilities?" he asked.

Sir George's eyes softened. "Ah, those", he said. "They are the hidden currents—the depths where love and longing reside. Sylvia carries them with grace, but they shape her choices. Protecting her means understanding those currents, navigating them with care and attention."

Jeremy nodded, absorbing every word. "And her heart?" he ventured.

The older man's smile held both fondness and caution. "Her heart", he said, "is her compass. It points toward honour, loyalty, and duty. But it also seeks connection—a kindred spirit who can weather life's storms alongside her."

Sir George's stern expression deepened, his brows furrowing as his eyes bore into Jeremy's.

"As Sylvia's godfather, I represent her best interests, regardless of what others may wish. Her well-being is my priority—never forget that, young man. I have heard how, when a crew member made derogatory remarks about a fellow sailor's background, you intervened. Addressing the offender firmly, you emphasised the importance of accord and respect. Your courage lay in defending a shipmate against discrimination, and I expect you to display those same qualities in defending Sylvia."

And so, amidst the sounds of silverware, glasses, and porcelain, as secrets were disclosed, Jeremy's fate began to be intertwined with Sylvia's. Trevelver Castle beckoned—a promise of shared sunsets, whispered confidences, and the magic of love shared.

Joe Cocker.

Compare and contrast...............

'With a little help from my friends'

Beatles or Joe Cocker & The Grease Band?

Quote from: port perran on May 10, 2024, 08:02:23 PMThis is Badge but this time by Robben Ford.
Thoughts ?

Very weak