Author: Alison

The Axe Tomb by Meckles Gugglebrock

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I’ve worked as a Digger at Rookpot Museum for over twenty years – best job ever.

I started as an apprentice way back when, and did my training and learning in the Museum. I’ve been all over the county – from the mountains to the coast – and dug in forests, cities, islands, and even under the Lake of Doom.

I got my name from one of the digs. I found the largest collection of meckles ever (I framed the certificate from the Museum Director and put in on my living room wall). Meckles look like small, smooth polished stones, all different colours. They have been highly prized as jewellery by human and wolvern communities for centuries, and once their true origins were confirmed by Museum experts (and Trugarog the Dragonslayer), they were even more coveted. My horde now sits on permanent display in the Dragons in Farynshire exhibit in the Museum. Changed my life, did that horde, and my name. Nobody ever calls me Peter any more!

But this blog post is not about the meckles. It’s about my favourite place in Farynshire. Well, one of them. Definitely in my ever-changing top five.

The Axe Tomb is the only place where there is evidence that wolvern and seafolk interacted. We have always assumed they had minimal contact because wolvern live in the mountains (these days at any rate) and seafolk live in the ocean. The Axe Tomb challenges these assumptions (love it when that happens!).

It is located about twenty miles south of Riversouth, in a cliff in one of the least accessible coastal areas in Farynshire. Be prepared to trek over a mile of rough ground from the road to get to the cliff edge. The Tomb itself is carved into the cliff face itself (cool, right?). Also, take a rope and maybe some grappling hooks – these will make getting into, and out of, the only entrance to the cave: a hole in the roof, known as the hatch shaft.

The shaft is about ten feet from the cliff edge, and about ten feet straight down into the Tomb. Keep an eye out for it: there is no marker, and it’s often hidden by grass and flowers. The best times to visit are on a clear dawn, or a night with a full moon.

As you descend, the first thing you see is the beautiful mosaic floor. It’s worth hanging from the roof for a few minutes to take a good look. The mosaic is made up of jayds, saffyres, roobis, dymunds, and other precious jewels and stones from Wild Wolvern Mey. The image is of a wolvern female (according to experts) and a mermaid exchanging garlands of flowers, standing on a pile of broken axes (hence the name of the Tomb). The mosaic is completely intact, and the colours glow in the light that spills through the cave entrance.

The cave is completely dry. Everything is preserved as though it was built yesterday, and yet you can feel the many years that have passed. Researchers from Rookpot Museum have tried to date the Tomb, but it has proven tricky because everything is so pristine. I think what they would really like to do is ask the wolvern or seafolk themselves, to determine if this Tomb is known within their cultures or histories. For now, us humans can only guess, speculate and try and deduce. The latest theory is that the Tomb must be at least three hundred years old.

The casket itself sits upon a low dais at the back of the cave. It is slightly larger than a modern coffin, and it is made from grey rock that was transported from the Mountains, which can not have been easy. It is encrusted with thousands of shells and jewels, and each one has been carefully embedded or stuck stuck onto the stone. In the dawn or moon light the casket seems to glow with an unearthly light, and there are theories that the jewels and shells were arranged deliberately to produce this effect.

So who rests for eternity in this incredible place? Who lies in the ethereal and unique tomb? Who was the rich and intricate mosaic laid for? Is it a wolvern or a seafolken? It must be someone of great importance, because the whole Tomb is such a labour of love. Its location was chosen with care: overlooking the ocean, high in a cliff so that the sunrise floods the cave, and the moon rise fills it. It is difficult to get to, yet stone and jewels were transported from the Mountains, and shells brought from the ocean.

Maybe you won’t believe this, but the tomb is empty.

Diggers from Rookpot Museum have used x-ray equipment to investigate the casket using the least invasive method available. You can imagine the astonishment when the machine showed that the casket had no occupant!

Many Diggers (myself included), academics, researchers and obsessives have studied, catalogued and written about the marvels of the Axe Tomb. And each one of us has been left with more questions than answers. This has caused much frustration amongst my esteemed colleagues and peers, but the mystery makes me love the Tomb even more. I love the not knowing!

Who was the Tomb built for?

Were they from the wolvern and the seafolk?

Were they ever laid to rest there?

Why have the valuable artefacts not been looted?

To the last question: We know the Tomb has been visited by many individuals over the years (maybe centuries), and yet the resting place itself, the coffin, has remained undisturbed. Diggers and academics from Rookpot Museum have sent many expeditions, and never removed anything. In recent times the preservation of sites has become more important, but this was definitely not a concern for Diggers of yore (as the many wolvern and seafolk artefacts in the Museum’s Vaults can attest to). So why is nothing ever removed from the Tomb, by looters, souvenir hunters, academics, or anyone? Is it cursed? If it is, it is a very effective one!

I hope you can see why I love the Axe Tomb so much. It’s beautiful, unique and full of mystery! A Digger’s dream!

The middle of Llyn Dawel by Mervyn Griswold

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My favourite place, and not just in Farynshire, is the glass lake on Mount Tlws, one of the Bloon Peaks.


Its real name is Llyn Dawel, and it sits in a hollowed out scoop (there is probably a more scientific name for this) halfway up Mount Tlws. It is surrounded by high crags, beloved by daring climbers. The tallest and most indomitable is Winter Grit, a dark twisted column that soars into the grey winter skies. Only the most daring climbers dare scale the sheer spike, and they insist that the view of the lake from the top cannot be bested.
I can well imagine, and I wonder how far down into the depths of the lake they can see from way up there – maybe right to the bottom that isn’t there.
For me, the best way to experience Llyn Dawel is by boat.


The only permanent human presence by the lake is a boathouse, several life preservers scattered around the perimeter of the lake, and signs informing visitors that swimming is strongly discouraged. The Bloon Peaks were made a Natural Park in 1887, and no new buildings have been allowed since then – so the boathouse is pretty old! The local Gully family dragged the stones up the mountain slopes, and their descendants maintain the boathouse to this day. They hire out the only craft allowed to sail on the lake – well, I say sail, I really mean float.


The long coracles are barely more than rafts, with raised sides that are just high enough to stop water lapping on to the thin deck where you sit. The coracles are well looked after, and you would never know that they are over a hundred years old. They are made from iron-threaded swordhemp, a local grass so tough that it is used to as thatch for the rooves of squat mountain cottages throughout the Peaks. The small flat paddles are also made from swordhemp, and push through the clear water leaving no ripples.


There is no current in the lake. No rivers or streams flow into or out of it. Some say that the waters run straight from the slopes of Mount Tlws into the lake, and it is this journey, through tree roots and over mountain rock and earth, this that gives the water such purity and clarity. Others say that the lake is an entry way to another world, and the water comes from that other place.


This is why you must not go alone to Llyn Dawel, and definitely not for your first visit. As you float out on to the lake you will be tempted to look down, to see another world. But you must resist temptation and always look ahead. Those that ignore this advice become mesmerised by the other world. There are records of some people who have been stranded in the middle of the lake for days, until they are rescued by Park rangers or mountain walkers.


I have been to the lake many many times. The first few times I heeded the advice and went with a friend, and we took turns in looking into the waters. Since I have started coming alone, I bring an alarm clock with me. I set it for ten minutes, and I look into the waters.
You can see the other world as though you were looking through a mirror. The crags, the mountain slopes, the wild sky, all crystal clear in the depths below, shimmering and dark. It is said that some have fallen into the mirror world, and some of them have never returned. They probably did not even know what had happened. They were mesmerised, and reached out to the beauty below, as their mirrorself reached back up to them. Once the two selves touch, it is said, then the person is lost (or at least has to be thrown one of the life preservers).


It’s up to you whether you believe the legends. But the lake is worth a visit even if you don’t. Just heed the advice.

Travels through Farynshire:  The last post

AlisonLeave a comment

And here we are. The last blog post about our epic Farynshire trip. I have enjoyed re-living it – and I hope you have as well. Thank you for your company.

I already loved this county, even before we set out, and our travels just made me fall in even deeper. There is so much to see and learn.

I have carried on that learning. I am currently studying for second Masters at Rookpot University, this one focussing on Musril Writings about and for the Peoples. This will lead on to my doctorate next year – can’t wait!

Adam Court asked me to say what my favourite place is – but I think I am going to duck this one. I can’t choose. Rookpot is in my heart, my favourite city. The Bloon Peaks are beautiful. The extraordinary diversity of Farynshire’s wild places – Gnivil, Oes, the Wild Gift – blew my mind. And Riversouth, the jewel of the county. I love that there are so many different places in Farynshire. I love how we can see how the places and the Peoples have shaped the county – and how the county has shaped the places and its Peoples.

Sorry, Mr. Court – I love it all!

If you have been inspired to find out more about Farynshire from my travel blogs, a good place to start is the posts on exhibitions at Rookpot Museum, the first one is an exhibition called The Cold Earth.

Maybe you will fall in love with Farynshire like I did – and go on your own road trip around this ancient, mysterious and beautiful county.

By Mabel Govitt

Travels through Farynshire: Silver, a steam engine and puffins

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And so we come to our final place: Tor Calon.

I imagined a picturesque sleepy fishing village with white-washed cottages overlooking sandy beaches, maybe a small harbour, and wooden dinghies floating beyond in a wide bay. I hadn’t realised (and Felix had never said) that Tor Calon is an island. It lies about three kilometres off the coast of Farynshire. And Felix’s family owns it.

The ferry leaves from a small jetty; both badly constructed from what appeared to be soggy, disintegrating wood. This is the only way to get to the island, unless you are one of the privileged few who can use the ap Hullins’ private helicopters. Despite the very real danger of not surviving the trip, tourism is the most important and lucrative industry on Tor Calon. You would think one of the richest families in Farynshire pay for a new ferry, maybe by selling a helicopter …

The island is just over two square miles. I mention that because I have terrible spatial awareness, and Tor Calon seemed to be at the same time quite small, but also have a lot on it.

You can’t tell the size at all as you approach (assuming you are brave enough to look toward the island rather than cowering in a corner of the ferry or hurling up over the side). Tor Calon Harbour nestles at the foot of towering cliffs, creating a safe haven for the small boats that are tethered there. Huge gulls swoop from their nests on the cliffs, screaming at visitors, before diving into the sea, or landing on the ferry.

We staggered up the slippery steps to the harbour wall and made our way through the tunnel that cut through the base of the cliffs. The track to the top of the cliffs is steep and winding – not an appealing prospect for anyone with luggage. Luckily the island has its own steam engine!

This, I suppose, is in lieu of any other motorised vehicles. Anything with an engine is forbidden on Tor Calon; tractors are shipped across from the mainland when farmers need them, but they (and the beautiful little train) are the only exceptions. Not that the steam engine goes very far (or fast). The rickety narrow rails lead up from the harbour, and then on to the Dust Track. This is the main (for want of a better word) road on the island. The steam engine runs behind the General Store and the Post Office. A few people got off at the stop here to have lunch in one of the two restaurants or three pubs on the Track. Then the engine bounced on, exacerbating everyone’s sea sickness.

It feels like being transported back in time. The plume of steam followed us like a cloud as we trundled across fields and around two of the five tiny villages on the island. By the time we reached the final stop, only Felix and myself were left on board. There was no platform, just a set of ornate silver gates.

And this is where Felix lives.

The ap Hullin family estate consists of a magnificent manor house at the end of a long drive, and it is surrounded by a wonderland of gardens. One of Felix’s forebears brought exotic flora from around the world and created what is now known as the Tor Calon Botanical Gardens. One of the trails open to the public makes its way passed a representative of every plant, shrub and tree that lives in Farynshire.

Felix’s parents welcomed us into their home. I was given a whole suite of rooms for our one night on the island, with magnificent views over the wildflower meadows rolling down to cliff edges, and the wild seas beyond.

I don’t want to go into Felix’s home life on this public blog, so all I will say is that this is the first time I have encountered a dress code for supper, and I’ll leave it there.

There was really only one thing I wanted to come to Tor Calon for, and that was to see puffins.

Felix and I got up early the next morning and went to the far side of the island, the farthest spot from the harbour. This is where the silver mine is, and few tourists reach this point. The mine has not been in operation since the last century, and Felix says that there is still silver there, but it is too dangerous to try and excavate it. I tried not to think about this as we scrabbled down the precipitous cliff to the sandy beach and rocky outcrops below.

I would have preferred to stay on the sheltered spit of orange sand, but Felix insisted that we had to clamber over the slippery seaweed rocks to get the best view. And he wasn’t wrong. There are dozens of puffins here.

They bobbed on the waves, and sat on the wet rocks, preening their sleek coats with colourful bills. It’s probably not the most insightful observation made about one of the most charismatic birds in the country, but they are so cute!

We watched them for ages. They ducked under the water, and took whatever they caught to the tops of the cliffs, back to their burrows. They did not seem to mind our presence at all, and we got really close. I have hundreds of amazing photos.

We were leaving on the afternoon ferry, so we walked back to the Dust Track without returning to the ap Hullin estate. In the General Store we bought some fudge, and I bought a pair of puffin earrings made from silver.

I braced myself for the ferry ride, sucking ion a large piece of fudge (maybe that helps?). Felix, who had been quiet and subdued on the island, seemed to relax once we were on board and heading back to the mainland.

By Mabel Govitt

Travels through Farynshire: Glawdolydd

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We could have gone straight to Tor Calon, our final destination on the coast, from Boggy Ditch. But I wanted to see Glawdolydd.

Farynshire does not have many castles – there are a few in the mountains, and I suppose the Meyrick’s White Palace could be considered a castle. Glawdolydd is a proper castle, built in the thirteenth century (about the same time as the foundations were begun for Rookpot Cathedral) when it was known as Kel Afon Castle.

These days it is called Glawdolydd, and it is another unique community, which Farynshire seems to have quite a few of!

The Kel Afon River (named river thrice: Kel in Musril, Afon in Welsh, and River in English) is at its widest in this valley. We arrived in the height of summer, and the river was like a flat still lake, barely contained within its shallow banks. We trudged across squelchy meadows to get to the steep hill Glawdolydd sits upon, casting long shadows over the surrounding countryside. It is said that Kel Afon bursts its banks every time it rains, and from late autumn through to late spring, the whole valley is flooded. And the flooding is what led to the unique community of Glawdolydd.

Hundreds of years ago there were villages scattered across the fertile floodplains, and you can see the remnants of them; we wandered through a few grass covered lumpen ruins that were all that were left of houses or other buildings. I wonder how long they suffered the frequent flooding, kept rebuilding their homes and lives, before they had finally had enough and realised they had to abandoned it all. One by one the villages were abandoned, as the villagers moved to the one place that never flooded: the castle on the hill.

A drawbridge leads to the ever-open castle gates. In centuries past the drawbridge could be raised to slam closed over the gates. Now the drawbridge is overgrown with weeds and moss, and the gates are so encrusted with rust and mould that I think they would crumble if anyone tried to close them!

You walk straight into the village square, once the central castle courtyard, the bustling heart of the castle. The daily market has stalls built into the castle walls, and villagers and visitors buy pretty much whatever they want or need here. I really love the small post office that handles all incoming and outgoing mail – and even employs flock of carrier pigeons during the months of flooding!

It is really easy to get lost in Glawdolydd! Cobbled streets weave between the high walls, and well-swept wooden steps lead up to the walkways that encircle the ramparts. We got stuck in quite a loop on the ramparts for nearly an hour, wondering if we would ever get down. We did get amazing views over the castle grounds: the lines of the residents’ allotments, the Stewards’ gardens, the water wheel in the Wellhouse, all the red-tiled rooves. Once we finally did find a way back down, we found the small tea shop overlooking the plum and apple orchard and had a refreshing cider and a selection of cream-filled puffcakes.

The prolonged wandering did give us an appreciation of just how well-preserved this place is. It is a modern village, but the olde worlde aesthetics have been strictly maintained. The residents live in terraced houses converted from castle rooms, opulent penthouses in the turrets (with magnificent views over the countryside), apartments atop the gatehouses and in cottages converted from chapels and outhouses. A bit of real estate advice: it is nearly impossible to buy a property here – the last property to be sold on the open market was in 1976. This community is very tight, and you have to be selected to live here. That sounds elitist (and it is), but I suppose the Village Council and Castle Keepers want to ensure that newbies commit to community workdays and all the chores they must have to do to maintain the castle’s unique beauty.

There are a few exclusive guesthouses, but we could not afford to stay in them, so we left Glawdolydd in the late afternoon with a few puffcakes to keep us going on our journey.

Glawdolydd is an odd place. Very welcoming to tourists, with its uncloseable gates and gift shops, but also and at the same time very insular and protective of its unique community. I like it; but I don’t think I would like to live there.

By Mabel Govitt

Travels through Farynshire: Boggy Ditch

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Of course we had to go to Boggy Ditch! The name compels visitors, even if it is a tad misleading. Nobody who goes to Boggy Ditch leaves disappointed, though.

The village lies on the Kel Afon, pretty much equal distance from Oes and our final destination, Tor Calon.

We visited Oes first and then moved on to Boggy Ditch, but many people use the village as a good base from which to explore the forest.

You approach it along a muddy track, which abruptly drops off in to what, to my inexpert eye, looks like a swamp. A vast sunken squelchy terrain, filled with still brown pools and soggy clumps of bracken, which smells of earth and decaying vegetables. Boggy Ditch sits above this swamp (which Felix’s The Living Forests insists is not a swamp but a complex freshwater wetland).

A damp wooden bridge connects the “mainland” to the village. There are a few of these at various entry points, and only one is wide enough to accommodate anything larger than a bicycle. The one we used is very narrow, with no handrails, and I was in constant fear of falling into the brown ooze below. Reader, you will be relieved to know that we managed to safely cross.

The village of Boggy Ditch is made up of wooden buildings that sit on stilts: long poles driven deep into the pools below. Elevated walkways (mostly damp and often wobbly) criss cross the village, connecting the wooden buildings.

The Wild Gift feels as though it has been reclaimed by nature, and humans are no longer welcome; but in Boggy Ditch it feels like humans and nature co-exist in something close to harmony. As you carefully walk along the creaking planks of the walkways you feel like you’re in a secret world – maybe the same world that Oes occupies.

The views from the walkways are frankly surreal. The bogs are often obscured by a mist (which seems to exude from the surrounding dampness), as though Boggy Ditch has its own unique micro climate (again, like Oes). The mist drifts around the elevated buildings and the deep still dark pools below.

The thing I love most about the buildings is their roofs – they’re made of moss! Thick, spongy moss that acts as insulation. It just adds to the overall strangeness: like you are on an alien world, in a lush forest of tall, misshapen trees.

There are a couple of large buildings on the outskirts of the village which act as visitor hostels. It’s all very basic: each room has stripped wooden floors and walls, and there were live green shoots growing out of the walls of the room we stayed in. It is mostly dry, but I would still recommend bringing a few jumpers, especially if you come in autumn or winter, as there is a constant draft. Each room has five or six beds, and a large en suite. There is a shared kitchen and living area on the lowest floor. Massive glass windows look out over the mossy roofs and the bogs.

The one night we stayed was the quietest night if my life. There are no motorised vehicles in Boggy Ditch, none of the street noise of other villages and towns. Just the constant soft water noises from the pools and the bogs: the slurpings, sloshings and burblings. And the wildlife! Most visitors to Boggy Ditch are birdwatchers – and they certainly get their money’s worth. There are so many birds swooping everywhere, nesting in the roofs of buildings, paddling in the dark peat pools. They disappear at night, leaving the sky free for the bats.

We were so lucky to get a clear night, and the stars filled the sky. That was jaw-dropping in and of itself, but then the bats flew in. Everyone came out on to the walkways as they zipped all around us, diving and turning, suddenly changing direction to zoom off again. I tried many times to track the flight path of a single bat, but it always twisted away and I lost sight of it.

What a memorable stay. Boggy Ditch and the Forest of Oes appear on all maps of Farynshire, but I’m still convinced that they are really another world, a strange and beautiful fantasy world.

We had to re-join the real world the following day, to continue our journey, the final leg.

By Mabel Govitt

Travels through Farynshire: the Lost Valley of Oes

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There are no roads around the Wild Gift. Luckily for us, the mud tracks that lead away from it are dry in the summer. You have to walk for ages (the map says it’s three miles – I don’t know what scale they’re working to: it feels like at least ten) to get to the nearest village. This is Cawr Collen, which consists of a few houses, including a Cawr Collen Welcome House, a pub, a post office and a bakery, all clustered around a jetty that sticks out into the wide, slow moving Kel Afon river. The crumbling buildings with exposed rotten wooden beams felt like a return to civilisation after the wilderness and humanlessness of the Wild Gift.

We had booked a couple of rooms in Cawr Collen Welcome House, and it was a relief to have a shower and then crash straight into sleep on a clean, soft bed.

The next day, after breakfast, we set out for Oes – sorry, the Lost Valley of Oes. It’s an odd name for one of Farynshire’s famous Natural Parks. It was (thankfully) very clearly marked on our map, and there are frequently placed signposts on the nearest roads. But when you see it, the name makes sense.

This area of the county feels like it is trapped in the past. Quiet lanes pass through fields that surround villages smaller than Cawr Collen, a smattering of quiet farms, and … not much else, really. It’s like wandering through a Famous Five novel. Until you come to Oes – then it’s like you’ve gone back to the time of the dinosaurs.

As soon as you lay eyes on it you can see that Oes is a completely different forest from Gnivil. Gnivil has pleasant groves of flowering shrubs, wildflower meadows, tall smooth-trunked beeches that inspire a reverent hush, and shimmering green canopies penetrated by sunbeams that dapple the forest floor. Oes is more – I can think of no better word than forbidding. It looks like a forest that can take care of itself. It lies in a wide sunken gorge, riven by ravines. From a distance it looks like a cloud has fallen from the sky, filling the gorge between two dark rock walls. As you get closer you see the valley – and it is all the greens: the greenest greens I have ever seen. Closer still and you can see through the dark jagged walls of the narrow ravines that criss-cross the valley, and cut into the walls of the gorge. Ferns and vines hang from the rock, and they seem to grow straight out of the shiny black rock.

According to Felix’s The Living Forests, Oes is Farynshire’s only rainforest. I didn’t even know that rainforests exist outside of the Amazon, and surely the UK, let alone Farynshire, had no rainforests? This is true enough: we do not have tropical rainforests like the Amazon, but we do have temperate rainforests – though unfortunately not many anymore. What little we have left is concentrated in small scattered isolated patches across the country, like Oes.

I strongly advise you wear wellington boots if you come here (learn from our mistake). It is a wet place, and you notice this immediately as the dry mud lanes quickly transform into squelchy mud as you approach the slope that leads down into the valley. Clambering down the steep slope is not easy. We had heard in the Welcome House that if a foolish sheep fell down into the valley it was never seen again (there were stories that carnivorous foresteens ate them). The rocks are covered in what I think is moss – it’s thick, green and spongy, and in places full of so much water that you can squeeze it and wring out enough to fill a flask. The trees at the bottom are covered in bright green vegetation; it coats their trunks, their branches and right to the tips of their twigs. Ferns grow everywhere (according to The Living Forests a new type of fern is discovered every couple of years in Oes, and the current count is over twenty seven) – at the base of every tree, sprouting out of the lichen-covered boulders, rising so high as we scrambled over the rocks that their wet fronds soaked our coats and hair.

The air! I wish I could have bottled the air! My lungs had never known anything like it. It was so fresh, so pure, so healthy. I could have stood there for hours, filling my lungs with that air. I’m sure it added a few extra years on to my life.

Sounds fill the forest. The calls of birds, swooping in and around the branches, hunting the abundance of insects (second tip: no matter what time of year you come, wear trousers and long sleeves or you will be eaten alive by midges). The sounds of water fill the forest: constant dripping from the vegetation, and the rushing water in the rivers and waterfalls.

We were advised to remember our route, and stick to only one ravine, less we became lost. We picked one that was close to the slope, and kept a close eye on it.

We kept going down the steep tree-covered slopes, and came to a river, rushing along the bottom of valley, and disappearing into a ravine that split the rock wall. Ferns grow out of the rock, drooping over the rapids so that their fronds trailed in the white water. Waterfalls cascade down on either side of the dark opening of the ravine, and the air is full of fresh droplets. We scrabbled over slippery boulders and crazy rock formations. More than once I feared I was going to lose my footing and fall into the tumbling rapids, but I somehow managed to cling to the rock, and we entered the narrow ravine.

The two walls almost touch, and the water surged just below our feet. But it was only a few nervous metres later, and the walls grew apart, as though they had been pushed away from each other by an impatient giant.

And now we were in an open space, with a very strange landscape. Oak trees, twisted and ancient, grow up between dark and dripping boulders. Their trunks branches grow in arthritic, lumpen shapes, sleeved in orange and white lichens. They did not move, nor show any inclination that they were anything but trees, but I am sure they must be foresteens. They look as though they are alive, and as soon as you are not looking at them their eyes will open, and they will stretch and move again. We hurried passed them, just in case they were the carnivorous kind, and had not a sheep to snack on in a while.

The water calms down here. The white water spills into a wide lagoon, and becomes so clear that we could see the multi-coloured stones in the shallows. Felix took a sip from the lagoon, and declared it as refreshing as the air. Other trees – birch and holly according to The Living Forests – grow out of the nooks and crevices between the misshapen and various sized boulders that surrounded the lagoon. Lichen bubbles over them, and tendrils hang from the larger branches like dead skin.

On the far side of the lagoon is a vertical rock wall. Rivulets of fresh water make their way down the rockface, flowing over stunted trees and clusters of thick dripping ferns that sprout all over it. The late day sun managed to touch a few of the dark rocks, but it is a chilly place, even in summer, full of cool greens, the gentle murmur of the water, and the cheeping of the birds flying about. And then we realised that they weren’t birds, but bats, hundreds of them, swooping over the surface of the lagoon, skimming the water, and then zipping back to the steep, dark rocks. They were mesmerising, and I could have watched them for hours. But we had not prepared to stay overnight (and Felix was very reluctant to stay in Oes in the dark; probably worried about the carnivorous foresteens).

We began to climb up the slope so that we could make our way out. There was no path, of course, no human path, but there was a line, maybe made by rabbits or deer, that led to an outcrop. Oes had a parting gift for us. Below the outcrop is a precipitous slope that plunges down into a wide, low bowl. The bowl was full of shifting mists that sometimes drifted and thinned to reveal and open glade, full of soaking ferns, ghostly in the mist.

It was nearly dark when we reached the ridge that overlooked the Lost Valley of Oes. I now understand why everyone calls it that. It is easy to feel lost when you are inside it, as though you have left our world and entered another. It is mysterious, slightly creepy, its own place: a precious fragment of a nearly lost ecosystem. It needs to be protected, and perhaps the best way to do that is to ensure it remains “lost”.

                                                                                                                                           

By Mabel Govitt

The Sylnmouth Sentinel by Moselle Gilbry

AlisonLeave a comment

I always feel that Sylnmouth gets overlooked.  It is Farynshire’s third largest city, but it is not as celebrated as Rookpot (which you could be forgiven for thinking is the only city in the county, given all the attention it receives) or the Meyrick’s Riversouth.  Arguably, Sylnmouth is more important than either Rookpot or Riversouth.  OK, I am probably the only one who argues this, but hear me out.

Sylnmouth is Farynshire’s biggest harbour, only cruise ship terminal, and crucially, its only commercial port.  It keeps the county fed and supplied, because it is the only way to get large quantities of anything in, as not many lorries make it over the Daggerrock Mountains. I suspect this is why Sylnmouth is overlooked: it is too mundane and practical.  It does not have the turbulent history of Rookpot, so entwined with the history of the whole county, nor the mystery and aloofness of Riversouth.

Not that Sylnmouth is boring.  I wouldn’t want you to think that.

It has its own fascinating local history, packed with smuggling, pirates, and tales of extraordinary adventure on its wild seas.

I could pick out many areas of interest in Sylnmouth and write about them for the My Farynshire series – the quayside with the packed fish market; the marina with its new apartments, roof gardens, sailing ships and swans; the walks around the harbour walls; Freebooter’s Cave, the best seafood restaurant on the Farynshire coast, most of which is still housed in the two hundred and fifty year old pirates’ inn.  These are all places you should visit.  But I have been allocated a limited word count, and I have used quite a lot of them to get to this point!

So the rest of my words will be used on what I think is the most special place in Sylnmouth: its lighthouse, known as the Sylnmouth Sentinel.

It is said that the vessels safely moored behind the harbour walls have crossed a graveyard of the many (possibly hundreds) that did not make it.  These wrecks are old, and mostly pre-date the building of the Sentinel in 1820.

Outside the harbour walls is Craw Island: a pile of wind-beaten, salt-soaked rocks covered in slimy bladder wrack.  Atop its craggy rockpools sits the Sylnmouth Sentry.  A grey-bricked tower with a red domed roof and a red base. 

There are tours from the west docks at least once a day, but be prepared to wait until the experienced skipper has assessed that the conditions are benign enough so that “we can probably make it”.  Don’t be too discouraged by the size or condition of the small boat – apparently it really has never sunk.  The journey from the docks to Craw Island is a good way to experience first-hand the terror that many have felt when trying to navigate the perilous waters outside the harbour.

If you make it in one piece, you will be left alone to wander up the only path on Craw Island: from the tiny jetty up to the front door of the Sentinel.

The door to the Sentinel is a made of weathered black oak taken (rumour has it) from one of Nelson’s warships[1] and embedded with rusted iron studs.  When you push it open you are in the entrance room at the base of the tower.  Ropes hang from hooks on the wall.  Fresh water was once stored in the tanks under the floor.  At the opposite end from the door is the first of two hundred and twenty steps.  These wind up and around the winch mechanism, and by the time you get to the store room you are definitely dizzy, and probably nauseous.

The Sentinel’s keepers are volunteers from Sylnmouth, and their duties these days revolve around preserving the heritage of the site more than saving lives.[2]  There’s not much in the store room, but in the kitchen and living room above it, you get a good sense of what life was like for the keepers who resided here two hundred years ago.  It is, as you would expect, pretty basic.  Along one wall is a sink, under a tank for freshwater (pumped up from the basement), a dresser with chipped plates and cups, and a supply cupboard, that contains old tins of meat, flour and biscuits[3]. The skinny lockers stand against the wall, hardly beg enough to contain a coat and a pair of boots.  The rickety table and chairs are placed close to the kitchen range, a comfort in the cold winters.  It’s all very sparse and functional.

Proceeding up the final stairs, you come to the bedroom, which has three bunks and a bookcase.  On the bookcase are the things the keepers used to alleviate their boredom.  There are weather journals here, barometers and an old thermometer.  Old examples of the radios that lived here over the years are still working: an old crystal radio, and the more recent wireless versions.  There are also piles of ancient yellow newspapers and dog-eared novels.  On the bottom shelf are puzzles, playing cards, board games and painting materials.  These may have been donated by the local museum, but I like to think that they once belonged to the original keepers.  Around the walls of the bedroom is a permanent exhibition showing off the artwork of keepers over the decades.  There are a lot of spectacular sunsets and sunrises, tame gulls, sunbathing seals, and many many boats.  There are also a few watercolours and sketches of seafolk, which at least demonstrates a healthy imagination, no doubt a result of the long periods of isolation.   

Next to the bedroom is the service room where the equipment is kept.  Old cleaning gear, and spare parts for the lamps are kept here, all lovingly polished and pristine.  Next to the service room is a wrought iron spiral stair case leading up to the lantern room.

The magnificent lantern sits (obviously) on top of the Sentinel in a massive cage.  You can walk all the way around it on the gallery deck if a) you are brave enough, b) the wind is not too strong, and c) the seagulls are not too aggressive.  You can see over the whole harbour, and up the steep slopes of Sylnmouth, the terraces of pastel-coloured cottages, and the crooked streets and alleyways.  On the other side is the wild ocean.  It is unlikely you will see any seafolken, but there are plenty of boats swaying and bouncing on the rough seas, relying on the Sentinel to guide them into the safety of the harbour walls. 

[1] What Nelson was doing off the coast of Farynshire has been the subject of much academic debate in Rookpot University, and debate with slightly less academic rigour in the Freebooter’s Cave.

[2] The Farynshire Coastal Volunteers are based in Sylnmouth.  They have stations dotted along the coast from The Maw Cauldron up to Tropsog.  The brave volunteers carry out hundreds of rescues in the wild seas and forbidding shoreline.

[3] Which I assume are empty, otherwise two-hundred-year old meat is a serious biohazard.

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.