Month: April 2022

Travels through Farynshire: Ale and sausages

AlisonLeave a comment

It’s called Mother Aloth, and I am going to generously call it a restaurant solely on the quality of its sausages.

The setting itself is quite modest: a room in one of the squat rock buildings in an alleyway just above the station. The windows are small and filled with thick, pearled glass. The many cream and melting candles cast flickering shadows on the rough grey walls. The small tables crowd together, each draped in a red and white checked cloth. We showed up without a booking and were seated by the cave-sized empty fireplace.

A red-faced young man who cheerfully introduced himself as Col handed us each a piece of card. On one side was a list of local beers and ales, and on the other was a list of local sausages.

“Were we supposed to bring our own veg?” I asked.

“I think you get thrown out if they see any plants,” said Felix. “On the plus side: not just pigs.”

“What do they have? Horse, chicken, deer?”

“You’re in luck: they do have sausages made from local venison.”

We decided to order beers first to help facilitate the more perplexing extensive sausage choice. To be honest, I wasn’t aware Farynshire has quite so many ales. Of course I had heard of Sylnmouth Sailor’s Froth, though I was surprised it was served in the mountains, the pubs in Rookpot usually have it on tap. The lager-like Canny Tongue is also popular amongst students. Dark Golden looked quite appealing: it is from a brewery in The Crundles, a hamlet just outside Rookpot. But I thought I should try something more exotic. The Jolly Jouster looked like a possibility; the Last Green less so – though Felix was tempted.

“You have to try a green one here at least.”

Green ales are a Farynshire speciality, and Felix was forever trying to get me to try one on our pub crawls around Rookpot. But not even at my most inebriated would I try something that looked and smelled like industrial-strength toilet cleaner. Most of them are produced in the many micro-breweries nearly every Farynshire town seems to have – usually a shed in someone’s back garden. Tropsog boasted that it had one brewery for every thirty people.

“Look,” Felix scrutinised the list of ales. “This one is called Skinny’s Own – it’s brewed right here! You have to try that one.”

I decided I might as well get it over and done with. But I was resolved not to finish it if I didn’t like it – I heard learned that lesson one fated night leading up to Christmas when one of our friends decided that brandy rum shots were the ideal way to keep warm. I had not liked the taste, but the idea had been appealing. According to other people, I was quite ill for quite a while. It’s probably best I have no recollection of the subsequent couple of days.

Once the ale had been chosen, we had to select the sausages – which was even more of a gamble, as I had not heard of any of them. Mother Aloth is not a friend to the vegetarian. Felix chose grilled blood sausages. I closed my eyes and stabbed at the menu with my fork: Selsig Hog it was, then.

The tables started to fill up as we waited for our ales. Most of the diners were locals who did not need a menu and just ordered their usual.

Skinny’s Own seemed to pulse with a dark emerald glow – though it may have been the candles backlighting it. I regarded the tankard suspiciously: I didn’t want to spend my few days in the mountain ill in bed.

“They wouldn’t serve it if it made people sick,” said Felix encouragingly.

It probably didn’t make the locals sick. Their stomachs had been hardened through a remorseless sausage and ale diet. But I had only been in Farynshire for just over a year, and had spent that time in cosmopolitan Rookpot. I regretted now not preparing more thoroughly for this trip by indulging in more local cuisine.

I sipped the ale, letting as little as possible pass my lips. It was surprisingly sweet, with a definite vegetable twang – parsnip, maybe, or a young carrot. My throat burned a little as it made its way down, but it wasn’t toxic, and I could see how it could be a pleasant winter warmer. I decided, on balance, that I quite liked it.

The sausages arrived. Two plates with seven bursting, sizzling snorkels on each, accompanied by a basketful of assorted local breads, and a brick of yellow butter. We were suddenly very hungry indeed, and were already wishing we had ordered two plates each or a medley of sausages.

The room was now full of chatter, drinking, and the rich smells of many varieties of sausage. And this was in summer. I could only imagine how overbooked this place must be in the cold winter months when the absolute best thing must be a plate piled high with sausages and a tankard of ale.

It was dusk when we emerged into the cooler, fresher mountain air. The Myttens were gilded in bright gold as the sun sank behind them, and the slopes of Skinny Peak were bathed in the draining light. A train pulled out of the station below, blowing its whistle in farewell, chugging back to Rookpot.

It wasn’t particularly late, but we were full of ale and sausages, and tired from travelling, so we both had an early night.

By Mabel Govitt 

Porthmey by Margot Grey

AlisonLeave a comment

The gentle lapping of the waves on the shingle are hypnotic. The waves roll in before breaking softly on the stones, then the water draws back a foot or so before another wave forms and rolls up the beach, never the same as the preceding one.

The still bay of Porthmey is dotted with boats and dinghies, bobbing on the grey-blue water.  Closer to shore the breaking waves are brown as they roll over the shingle, whilst further out the deep water looks green. 

The Front runs just above the shoreline.  Here are a few gift shops, the old Ferry Hotel with its veranda restaurant, the even older church, seafood restaurants, and a few private houses.  Most of the inhabitants retreat to their scruffier houses in the steep hills during the summer months when tourists descend on Porthmey.  Many of the visitors stay in the Ferry Hotel or the guesthouses in the village, but most stay in Penmey Town, across the bay, and come over on the regular ferry service.  The one coastal road that leads into Porthmey is often washed out, so the ferry is the most reliable and convenient way to visit the village.

The ferry docks at Porthmey’s small pier, jutting out into the bay in front of the Ferry Hotel.  The small information hut at the end of the pier handles all the ferry and boat tour bookings. 

The most popular tours are, of course, the seafolk sighters, in business for over a hundred years despite not a single seafolken encounter.  This abysmal record has not dampened the enthusiasm of the many optimistic tourists only too eager to pay for a local expert to show them the favourite caves, islands and beaches of the seafolk.  Or search for the (entirely fictitious) nesting shallows.  Or travel beyond the sheltered bay, and dive in the deeper waters hoping for a seafolk experience.

Fortunately there are things to do in Porthmey that do not involve seafolk.  In the summer months, children paddle kayaks around the pier.  Closer to shore are the swimmers, enjoying the summer sunshine.  Small yachts glide gracefully over the waves, skipping around the forested headland and out of sight. 

In the evening people sit out on The Front, under the blossom of trees whose branches have been twisted by fierce winter weather.  Or they wander along the beach between the upturned rowing boats that sit above the highwater mark.  Some of these boats are for hire, and others belong to Porthmey residents who regularly cross the bay to Penmey Town to get any supplies that the local shops do not stock. 

In the winter months there are no tourists.  The calm seas of summer turn grey and wild, waves rushing up the shingle onto the Front, storms battering shutters and whistling through empty streets.  The villagers can see the lights of Penmey Town across the channel, but in these months it is too dangerous to try and cross.  Porthmey is cut off and self-sufficient, relying on its resourceful people to get through the cold, dark winter.  Volunteers staff vital services like the local ambulance and lifeboats.  During the day residents gather for Book Club or Coffee and Crochet in the library, or maybe afternoon tea or soup in the church hall.  In the evening the local pub, the Lobster Trap, does good trade, and the ballroom in the Ferryman’s basement is opened up for a Buffet with contributions from anyone who attends.

As soon as the road and sea routes become safe to traverse again, Porthmey goes through a spring clean.  Boats, guest houses and signs are re-painted; flower pots are replanted, and lawns are mowed and tidied; shops are re-stocked; the pier is checked, repaired and re-opened; the gallery puts on a new exhibition.  Soon everything is ready for the new wave of vistors and tourists, and the everyday Porthmey residents retreat back into the hills to wait for next winter.

Market Square by Milford Glower

AlisonLeave a comment

I feel hugely privileged to be the first to write for the My Farynshire section of this blog. 

I thought long and hard about the place in Farynshire that meant the most to me – there are so many!  Do I choose a natural wonder, a beautiful village, one of our most spiritual places?  In the end I chose Market Square in Rookpot, the place of protest, dissent and rebellion.

The most famous of Rookpot’s Squares is Dameg, surrounded by the Library, the Council Chambers, The Museum and the Cathedral – it is the heart of the city.  EassenBren is its soul, and I like to think of Market Square as the city’s conscience. In many ways it is the opposite of Dameg Square.  You can see immediately see the contrast between the two when you go through St Fulk’s Cut, the high-walled alleyway that connects them.    

The most immediately obvious difference is the graffiti.  Unlike its pristine neighbour, Market Square is covered in graffiti – some of which has been dated to before 1400, and some of which is still wet from last Tuesday.  Market Square is Rookpot’s public forum, the Square of Ideas, and a lot of them are scrawled on its steps and walls.

But most ideas are conveyed via well prepared speeches, or, more often, incoherent shouting. 

Every potential Councillor has to give a few speeches here.  Before live feeds, the Council Clerk stood on the steps and recited the minutes of every full Council Meeting.  I suppose if the wifi ever goes down some poor secretary will have to do this again.  All important announcements are made here. 

But it is not just a place for the Council or for important announcements; in fact, these take up but a fraction of the calendar.  Market Square is the place in the city where anybody can say or preach anything.  It is also the place where, no matter who the speaker is, anyone can argue back.

This sounds like a perfect set up for authorised street fights, I know.  But the authorities treat violence (including throwing anything) in Market Square very seriously.  The offence is Wilful Destruction of Trust of the People, and the minimum sentence is a week in Rookpot Gaol.

There is also a Code of Conduct that must be adhered to:

  • All speakers are prohibited from using loudspeakers, megaphones, or any other public address system
  • Anyone who uses the Speaker’s Square to make speeches does so at his or her own risk
  • Rookpot Council will not be responsible for any prosecution or legal action by the Constabulary or civil proceedings

The Code is engraved on the left gate post as you walk into the Square, so everyone knows the rules even if they rock up on the day.  If you plan your protest in advance, like we did, you receive a copy of the Code via email.

The debates are grouped together by classes, and written up in chalk on the blackboard by the entrance.  Our student protest was in the Rookpot class, because it focused on the proposed removal of the portrait of the Digger, Meredith Roke, from the Museum Gallery.  The title of our protest was History Needs to Celebrate and Acknowledge its Thieves, Amateurs and Adventurers.  The idea was to bring the debate surrounding the controversial Digger (which I won’t expound on here; if you want to learn more there are plenty of books in The Lilac Beech and records in the Library about the Rokes and their contributions to the Museum) out of academic circles and to the public’s attention.

This is one of the Square’s main functions: to bring grievances out into the light, and rally support for petitions and causes.  Anyone in authority is always seen as a fair target, and there have been numerous protests against the Council or Peer Families – a servant once spent five days endlessly pontificating against one of the Peers.  Because of these acts of outspoken sedition and dissent, the Square has always been seen as a safe space.  Some have tried to use it as a place of sanctuary, but only those expressing an opinion are safe from arrest – you can’t just pitch a tent in the Square.

The main speakers take turns to make their case by standing on the Speaker’s Spot – a coloured circle in the centre of Market Square.  They address the crowds gathered on the surrounding stone steps that rise above them.  It is a bit intimidating to make your case in front of all those jeering and cheering faces, but maybe that is the point: your views must be robust enough to survive the mob.    

You cannot be arrested in the Square, but anyone breaking sedition or other laws can be arrested as soon as they step back across the threshold.  There have been incidents in the past where Rookpot Costabulary have blocked all exits from the Square, waiting to make arrests when people leave.  This has led to some calling Market Square a freedom cage. 

The authorities have also tried to stop people getting into the Square at all.  The Constabulary have formed a ring to stop people from entering, but this was deemed an illegal act.  One of Rookpot’s Peer Families erected concrete slabs across the entrance, but these were torn down, leaving two stunted remains left in place as testament to how important the Square is.

And then there are those who believe that having a designated area for free speech is offensive – arguing that all of the city should be free.  And whereas everyone might agree that ideally this should be the case, history has proven the value of Market Square.  Its special status has allowed everyone space and opportunity for their voice to be heard.  And this has meant that Market Square has righted wrongs, exposed corruption, held authority to account, and sparked the occasional revolution.

History is everywhere in the Square.  In the graffiti scrawled over every surface, on plaques on the walls commemorating some of the most important and memorable altercations and announcements in the Square, and simply in the knowledge of all that has come before.  You can feel the righteous anger of all the people who have stood on the Spot before you lift your voice so that everyone can hear.

So definitely make your way through St Fulk’s Cut from Dameg Square when you visit Rookpot.  And, whilst you are here, maybe check out the Gallery in the Museum, where the portrait of Meredith Roke, a rascal, a thief, an unscrupulous seller of precious artefacts, the first Digger, still hangs.