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This Christmas in Dameg Square

AlisonLeave a comment

This year the traditional blue spruce was not delivered to Dameg Square.  This meant no Christmas tree for the Square, and no tree for Rookpot.  The tree is the centre of the city’s Christmas festivities – what to do in its absence?

In years gone by, when dragging a giant spruce tree from the Daggerrock Mountains to Rookpot, and them up through the steep, narrow streets to Dameg Square, was impractical, the celebrations were focussed instead upon the tree that always lives in the Square: the bent oak that leans over the gorge.  The oak has bare branches in December, and so every household in the city creates three leaves, usually from paper or cloth: one red, one golden, and one green, to cover the tree in bright foliage.

This led to exploring other forgotten Christmas traditions, hidden in the Museum archives.  These traditions grew from the close relationship between the Peoples, and when the wolvern, foresteens and seafolk withdrew from human contact, the traditions were abandoned as well.  By reviving them once more, it is hoped that the other Peoples may be encouraged to return to Rookpot.

A giant wreath adorned the heavy, ancient Cathedral doors.  Young foresteens would once have climbed Rookpot tor and hung it themselves.  This year it was wrought by volunteers from the Cathedral choir and by a group of Museum Assistants.  They entwined holm, mistletoe, and the feathered branches of blue and fire-tinged firs, but not ivy (out of respect for the foresteens), and garnished it with red and white holly berries amidst their dark, shiny leaves.

The Square is bathed in the shimmering light of the giant silver star that sits atop the Council Chambers, visible from the ever-spreading suburbia that surrounds the tor.  Ropes of brightly coloured lights criss-cross the Square, and drape over the entrances to the Library and the Chambers.  Once these would have been ropes of jewels from wolvern mines, but now they are illuminated by slightly less mystic electric bulbs.

A red, blue, green or yellow (or sometimes all four) candle is placed in every window in the Square, kept alight until well into January.  This is one of the recent traditions.  As is using the leftover fat from Christmas dinners to create balls embedded with nuts and dried fruit that are hung up on trees, outside windows, and on the Library roof for the city birds.

There have been other visitors to the city, according to the archives, more mythical and legendary than the Peoples.  There is an entire section in The Lilac Beech devoted to Creatures from the Gorge, and two of these seem to be associated with Christmas, and they both seem to have paid a visit this Christmas.  How else to explain the light dusting of snow on rooves and window sills other than frost fairies?  And who else would have left a small gift or bauble on the porch of every house on Christmas morning but the Gorge Gnomes?  There are even rumours that the golden stag with the black antlers, Black Goron Carw, has been seen racing silently through the streets, spreading the Christmas spirit in his wake. 

To work up an appetite for Christmas lunch, it was decided to re-introduce the Kickabout.  The Kickabout had been indefinitely suspended because the last time it was played somebody fell into the gorge.  But that had been many years ago, and everyone was confident that that would not happen again.  It is a game loosely based on football, in that there is a ball involved, and it is played between the Cathedral, the Library, the Museum and the Council Chambers, although really anyone can join in.  It starts in Dameg Square, but often spills out into surrounding streets and Squares.  Two players from each side carry the goals, and another carries a bucket of punch and a ladle.  Those that manage to avoid being dragged into the game sip on large mugs of steaming hot chocolate. Nobody is ever sure who the winner is – but as long as nobody falls into the gorge, it is considered a success.

Later in the evening, after the post-lunch snooze, the people take to the streets once more.  This is a lazy time.  A time for eating (if possible) the rich, rum, bourbon or whisky-soaked fruit cakes and mince pies.  When the Peoples used to join the festivities this would be a time for feasting.  This year the flattened sugar biscuits have been cut out into shapes that resemble wolvern, foresteens and seafolk.

At midnight, or soon after, fireworks fill the sky, and all of the bells in the city ring out.  This was the farewell to the Peoples as they returned to the mountains, the forests and the sea.  This year it is to remind the frost fairies, the Gorge Gnomes, and even Black Goron Carw, that they must now return from whence they came.

They will be welcome back next year, though.  As will the other Peoples, should they wish to celebrate Christmas with Rookpot once again.

Merry

Christmas!

Caer Ddewin, Brish, Lake Quietus and Gnivil Forest

Alison2 Comments

Caer Ddewin

There is one stone circle in Farynshire, and it sits just outside the territories known collectively as Wild Wolvern Mey.  Caer Ddewin is a squat, flat-topped hill with slippery black flanks covered in wild gorse bushes.  There are secret paths to the top, but those who try to find them without a guide usually end up slipping on the shiny rock and end up impaled on the fierce gorse needles. 

The most famous story relating to the Caer gave it its name, and comes from a time before there ever was a Wild Wolvern Mey.  There are various versions of this tale, but the common threads involve one of the many skirmishes (some historical, some now nothing more than myth and legend) between humans and wolvern.  A pack of wolvern was besieged upon the Caer.  The humans had the Caer surrounded, and used their mage to create a thick fog which descended upon the summitt, until even the humans could not see or find each other.  This was an enchanted fog (it was said) and when the humans eventually broke through the thickets of gorse, torn and bleeding, they saw no wolvern, nor any sign that they had fled, and only nine hunched stones stood upon the Caer.  The wolvern had been turned to stone.

This does not sound very Christmassy so far.  But Christmas Eve is the time when the deepest magic rises up and over the ancient hill and the freezing night air is thick with the feel and taste of it.  The wolvern feel it, and their long, mournful cries echo in the darkness.  It is said that if you stay on the Caer on Christmas Eve you will see the hunched stones stand upright, come to life and frolic in the snow. 

This is definitely no longer true, if ever it was.  What you will see on the night of Christmas Eve is the Dance of the Shadows.  Everyone is invited – presumably even the wolvern, but they have yet to RSVP.

It begins in the early evening when people from the surrounding villages leave their warm homes, the fires crackling low in the hearths, and the Christmas dinners ready to be placed in the ovens the following morning.  They wrap themselves up in scarves and hats and walk out of their villages, into the fields beyond, over the frozen ground, following those with lamps and torches.  As they near Caer Ddewin they meet up with people from other villages, and excited laughter and loud chatter fills the night air.

It is unwise to try and climb the Caer if you do not know the hidden paths that wind through the treacherous gorse and provide a true surface to walk upon over the slippery slopes.  Guides from the villages lead the people safely to the summit (they will also escort them safely back down when they might be a little worse for wear after the festivities).

Lanterns are placed on long poles by each hunched stone to illuminate the flat space at the summit of the Caer.  Small fires are lit around the edge of the stone circle in order to heat up the mulled wine and melt the marshmallows.  Once everyone is comfortably settled on the blankets, rugs and cushions they have brought with them, gloved hands wrapped around mugs of steaming mulled wine, the dancers emerge from behind the stones.

The dancers are dressed in black, and they move like shadows in the warm glow of the lanterns’ light.  They make their way amongst the watching crowds, making the smaller children squeal in delighted terror.  They are fleet of foot and as soon as anyone realises they are beside them they are gone again.  The dancing can last about an hour, and it finishes with a flash of magical lights in which the dancers disappear, just like the ancient wolvern did.  At this every lantern is extinguished, plunging the whole Caer into darkness.

The challenge then is get everyone safely off the Caer and back to the warmth and safety of the village pubs.  To date, nobody has been lost before Christmas morning.

Brish

There are Christmas markets in every town and village in Farynshire, and any of them are worth a visit, but if you only have time for one, definitely go to Brish.  It is said that Father Christmas himself visits the market for gift ideas.

Brish is small town nestled in the foothills of the Bloon Peaks, and it is known for its regular snowfall.  The last time Brish had a snowless Christmas market was in 1837.  The townsfolk have a snowman competition in the week before their market, and their efforts line the main road leading into Brish, welcoming the shoppers and visitors with smiles made of coal and carrot. 

A steam-powered engine with tiny wheels and a large chimney stack pulls a small line of carriages through the streets so that people can hop on and off at the stalls they wish to visit.  The stalls line the streets around the small square in the centre of the town, selling locally made products ranging from colourful wooden toys and decorations, to handmade chutneys, cheeses, sausages, wine and ale, to exquisite jewellery (but do not believe any seller who claims that the gems in their jewellery come from wolvern mines) and crafts and stocking fillers.  You should be able to do all of your Christmas shopping here.

Shoppers make their way to the square in the centre of Brish, laden down with their wares, ready for hot food and wine.  A large pit is dug in the centre of the town’s main carpark every year for the hog roast.  A crackling pig, bursting with juices that cause sparks to spit from the fire, slowly revolves over a large open charcoal fire, and visitors line up to claim their piece.  The stalls around the pit offer all the trimmings you could want from roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots, broccoli and parsnips, to hot chestnuts, gingerbread and candied fruits, as well as bubbling fruit wines and hot chocolate.

Choirs sing carols from the doorway of the old stone church at the far end of the square, and hand out decorations for children to place upon the tree in the courtyard. 

The Brish Christmas Market lasts for three days – so make sure you get there in plenty of time!

Lake Quietus

For the months of November through to March Lake Quietus is frozen.  It does not matter what the weather or temperature is like in the rest of the county; even during the rare mild winters where there is no snow except on the tops of the highest mountains in the Daggerrock Range, the lake freezes solid.

People move onto the ice as soon as the water has frozen.  Temporary structures, some three stories high and re-used every year, and streets are set up around the edges (in case of a sudden thaw).  Many people move on to the ice permanently during these months, living in rooms above their shops.  In years gone by there was no limit or rule as to how many or who could claim a spot on the ice.  This led to fights over spaces, the Terrible Crush of 1911, and a lot of corruption. These days there is a strict map that must be adhered to.  There are limited spaces (although it still feels crowded) and applications for a spot are restricted to traders.  The streets of stalls are kept to the periphery of the lake, as the centre is where the entertainment takes place.  The lake attracts thousands of visitors, and is at its most popular just before Christmas.  It is well worth seeing at this time of year, but to avoid the really busy periods try and plan your visit for early morning.

In the days leading up to Christmas there is a carnival atmosphere.  Fairgrounds are set up in the centre of the lake.  At first these were merry-go-rounds and stalls for shooting wooden ducks, but these days they include bumper cars, waltzers, and a rollercoaster that climbs high above the lake and takes its riders in a wild ride over the temporary streets and stalls.  Circus and music shows are put on in the large tent (bring a cushion to protect yourself from the chill).  During the day there is sled racing, curling and ice-skating. 

After Christmas the lake becomes a lot quieter, though some traders take pride in staying right up until the ice starts to finally melt in the spring.

Gnivil Forest

If you happen to be in Gnivil Forest at Christmas time you might notice something strange.

At this time of year most of the forest slumbers.  If there are foresteens amongst the leafless trees they are deeply asleep.

Well, most of them are.

You have to be quiet and patient and careful.  If they know you are there, you will not see them.

Even if you are quiet and patient and careful you might not see them. 

While the oaks, elms, beeches, birches, alders and the other warm-blooded trees sleep, it is the time for the holly, mistletoe, ivy, spruce and fir to come to life.

The best chance of seeing anything is on a clear night when the sky is full of cold white stars.

But it is only if they think nobody is looking that the winter trees light up the dark forest.

Holly berries burn brightly as their dark leaves shimmer with their own internal luminescence.  The mistletoe glows so brightly that it lights the tangled forest paths, each tiny berry a soft halo.  The ivy berries are clusters of darkness that is blacker than the night itself, so dense that they could be holes in reality. 

There are tales that those who have strayed from the forest paths and become lost are guided back by silver dust glittering amongst the needles of the firs and spruces, the only trees in the forest with any green in winter, a sign of life and resilience even in the deepest snows.  Nobody has ever collected any of this dust (though many have sought it), and it seems to only appear to those in need of guidance.  Sometimes, from a distance, an ethereal silver mist can be seen rising from the depths of Gnivil Forest, rising up to the bright stars and dissipating in the cold winter night.  If you run into the forest to try and find where it comes from, you will never find it.  

The foresteens are always elusive, but if you are quiet and patient and careful, and most of all, lucky, you might glimpse them enjoying winter.

Experience Christmas in Sylnmouth, Rookpot and Riversouth

Sylnmouth, Rookpot and Riversouth

AlisonLeave a comment

Sylnmouth

Christmas starts in Farynshire in the port of Sylnmouth, specifically in the Sylnmouth Sentinel that has overlooked the port for over two hundred years. 

On the 1st of December every year the Sentinel’s guiding light, historically used to guide ships into the safe waters of Sylnmouth Harbour, turns red and green and sweeps across the boats and pontoons.  Then the fireworks erupt over the city, signalling the start of the festivities. 

Sylnmouth homes have already put up and decorated their trees, and at the lighthouse’s signal everyone switches the Christmas lights on.  This starts in the boats on the water, then the homes that overlook the harbour, and then ripples back from the sea into the suburbs and villages.  And it does not stop on Sylnmouth’s boundary.  Watched from the air, it must look like a wave of light washing out from Sylnmouth across the whole of Farynshire.

Rookpot

Rookpot tor lights up when it gets the relayed signal from the coast. 

The Ayres, one of the oldest Peer Families, decorate all of the city’s streets.  Their own magnificent hall, The View, is festooned with decorations and lights, and adorned fir trees line the drive from the road up to the house.  The View is the centre of the festive party season for the Peer families, and beautiful balls and celebrations are held every night in December.

The Peer families give the first donations to the Doorway Feast that begins as soon as the lights are switched on, and goes on until twelfth night.  Christmas meals are put out for all of the city’s citizens to enjoy in the entrances to the most famous public buildings: The Raven Theatre, The Lilac Beech, The Library, The Museum, the Cathedral, and the Council Chambers, and all the churches.  Everyone donates what they can, and an army of volunteers prepares the meals, taking them to the homes of those who are housebound.  This means that Christmas dinner happens across many nights, but it is different to the dinners everyone enjoys on the 25th because it is held with the community, out in the Squares, or on the church pews, the cold city air filled with the rich smells of roasting meat, hot broth and sizzling vegetables.

If snow falls on the city, the inevitable happens and, despite the City Council’s warning and lines of cones, the most precipitous street in the city, the Steep, becomes an impromptu sled run.  It truly is a Christmas miracle that nobody has been killed during this increasingly popular annual event.  Participants can compete to:

  • Be the Most Intact Sled to Arrive at the Bottom of the Steep
  • Have the Most Father Christmases on Board
  • Have the Most Christmassy Sled

The winners of each category receive a bottle of hot ginger rum and a net of satsumas (and a year’s worth of bragging rights).

          Dameg Square

A giant blue spruce dominates the centre of Dameg Square during the Christmas period.  The tree is chosen from the forests on the mountain of Gwyrddlas in the Bloon Peaks, and transported to the city by train from Hen Ffydd.  It is Rookpot Council’s gift to the city, and it always arrives with small parcels in the branches that anyone can take.  Over the years, people have placed their own homemade presents amongst the tree’s needles for strangers to take.  Dameg Square’s permanent sylvan resident, the bent oak that sits on the edge of the gorge, slumbers at this time of year, oblivious of the baubles, tinsel and lights that have been draped all over it by passers-by.

The dark gothic Cathedral is the focus of Christmas celebrations in the Square.  Thousands of candles make the colours in the stained glass windows blaze brightly at night.  On Christmas Eve the pews are full of Rookpotians singing carols and sharing mince pies and a few glasses of sherry.  At the end of the official service everyone spills out into the streets and the singing continues as people wander home or gather around the trees in the Square with mugs of hot chocolate and coffees (sometimes with an added shot of rum or whisky) from Lacey’s, the most popular and creative coffee shop, open late into the night at this time of year.  Eventually everyone makes their way home before Father Christmas begins his rounds.

          EassenBren Square

It’s pantomime season in The Raven Theatre in EassenBren Square.  There are usually at least three different productions throughout the season, as well as more serious offerings, ranging from family friendly through to definitely not for those with a delicate constitution.  You do not need to go into the Theatre to see a show.  Open air orchestral performances, formal and informal dances are performed on the steps of the theatre, no matter the weather.

Many of the artists’ covered workshops opposite The Lilac Beech are taken over by Christmas projects.  Hundreds of unique decorations can be bought straight from the artist, many of which appear on the fountain or on the trees in Dameg Square. 

In the city’s (probably the county’s) most famous bookshop, The Lilac Beech, shivering visitors pour themselves a mug of wassail from the punch bowl, and then sit in the comfy armchairs in front of the open fire.  The small Christmas tree twinkles with lights, and paper chains loop over and around the bookshelves.  All of the Christmas cards received by the bookshop are strung together and hung from the ceiling beams.  Holly and mistletoe entwine around the wrought iron staircase that links all the floors together.  The shop bustles as people try to find a last minute present, shuffling around the tables piled high with books.  Their purchases are placed in colourful paper bags and tied with string; if you see anyone with such a bag around Rookpot you know they have been to The Lilac Beech.

Riversouth

In Riversouth, Christmas, like everything else, revolves around the Meyrick.

The Meyrick’s Gift is presented to the incumbent Meyrick, and is traditionally from all of the people in Riversouth.  A procession of children make their way up the Zag to the White Palace, and the Meyrick opens the gates and accepts the gift.  Since the mid-nineteenth century the gates have then been left open and the children lead the local people into the White Palace for the Commoners’ Feast.  This is a lavish affair held in the Golden Hall, and it is the only time of year that most people ever get to see inside the White Palace, let alone attend a party paid for by the Meyrick. 

On Christmas day every Riversouth house will find a gift outside their front door, wrapped in blue and white paper and tied with a silver ribbon.  The small silver card is inscribed with the words: From your Meyrick.

The Ocean Frost Ball is the most anticipated event in the Farynshire social calendar.  This invitation-only gala brings together the county’s high society in a glittering event that raises eye-watering amounts of money for various good causes. 

The only limitations placed on the design of the ball is that it must adhere to the Meyrick’s colours of silver and blue.  The best, biggest and most luxuriant white tree is felled from the Meyrick’s personal forest (which is made up of albino versions of oaks, beeches, elms, firs, spruces etc.) and brought to the centre of the Golden Hall where it is embellished with ropes of thin silver loops and chains and bright bejewelled (with real jewels) baubles. 

The guests waltz around the tree to music played by orchestral groups from Farynshire, and the Meyrick’s own hand-picked string quartet leads the way.  Once the dancing is over the guests move outside to the wide terrace that overlooks the ocean.  This terrace sits at the very edge of the White Crag.  A magnificent silver and blue fireworks display entertains the guests, and the rest of Riversouth, and any seafolk that might be passing by. 

After the fireworks is the feast, widely known as the Feast of Farynshire.  A selection of wines is served in crystal glasses: rich ruby root from the vineyards on the distant slopes of Gwyrddlas, sparkling Marwolaeth White, and the slightly salty Pink Prydferth.  The menu is always made up of produce from around Farynshire, and could look something like this:

Starters

Smoked salmon from the River Spurtle with fresh dill from the fields of Cheth Aracely

Roasted parsnip soup with fresh cream from the small village of Hessen. 

Main Course

Turkey from Riversouth farms

Sea bass caught from the sea around Riversouth. 

Please help yourself to anything from the mountains of crispy roast potatoes, parsnips, butter-glazed sprouts and broccoli, honeyed carrots, and red cabbage with walnuts and apple (all harvested from the gardens, orchards and fields from across the county).

Pudding

Rum-soaked Christmas pudding

Spiced apple, smooth ice cream and cranberry port.

After dinner, if the guests are able to, there is more dancing.  For those who are too stuffed to dance there are large fires and hot ginger punch.

For a wilder Christmas, see how they celebrate in Caer Ddewin, Brish. Lake Quietus and Gnivil Forest

Musril

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Musril is not technically classed as a dead language, but its prospects do not look good.

It is Farynshire’s native language, and it has never been spoken beyond the Daggerrock Mountains in the rest of England.  Even within Farynshire’s borders it is considered a niche language: both English and Welsh are spoken more widely and are generally more prevalent in everyday life. 

Keeping it on life support are the Riversouth Scribe.  The Scribe is situated in the White Palace in the city of the Meyrick, and is a collective of Musril scholars, academics and experts.  The head of the group is also, confusingly, called the Scribe.  The Scribe’s self-defined role is to preserve, defend and promote the integrity of Musril.  Riversouth is the only place where Musril is spoken widely, although even here it is spoken as more of a patois with plenty of English and Welsh in the mix.  Schools in Riversouth teach Musril, but few students opt to carry on learning the language passed secondary school age. 

The spoken language may be on the wane, even within the county’s borders, but written Musril is more widespread, particularly in geographical names: towns, villages, and natural features such as rivers, mountains and woods.  The Scribe in Riversouth has campaigned to have Musril on all road signs in Farynshire, with mixed success.  In the area around Rookpot, English is usually the only language on a sign, unless a place name has Welsh or Musril elements (such as Wessentor or Cwm Purne).  In the mountains, Peaks and foothills all the signs are written in English and Welsh, with a smattering of Musril in Wild Wolvern Mey where Riversouth’s influence was once dominant and now lingers in place names that include the Mey element (Meyvale, Bremey, Mistymey etc.).  In Riversouth itself the signs are written in Musril, with a small English translation included on the most important and life-saving ones. 

Musril’s survival and future may lie in a surprising place.  One of the most interesting revelations that has come from the re-emergence of the wolvern is the confirmation that Musril is spoken by the other Peoples. It appears that Musril is the only language spoken by the wolvern, and it has enabled clear communications between the Bloon Peaks Clan and the expeditions sent from Rookpot to learn about them. The expeditions have brought back many wonderful and intriguing objects (many on display in Rookpot Museum’s Cold Earth Exhibition), and these have included fascinating examples of wolvern Musril writings.

This revelation has had a dramatic impact on the Scribe.  They have believed themselves to be the guardians of the purest form of Musril, forever battling the corrupting influences of the foreign invaders, English and Welsh.  Mischievous and provocative academics in Rookpot University have pointed out that the wolvern version of Musril must be more pure, because it is completely uncontaminated by other languages.  To their credit, once they had gotten over their initial indignation, the Scribe’s curiosity took over, and they sent representatives to join the Museum expeditions to the wolvern clans in the Bloon Peaks both as translators and in order to learn about the wolvern Musril.

There has not yet been conformation that the foresteens or seafolk speak Musril, but Diggers from Rookpot Museum, and academics from Rookpot University, are engaged in research projects to investigate this further.  The implications of the research are very exciting: Musril could be the common language between the Peoples, and it could be the key in reaching out to establish good relations.  It also raises questions, the main one being how can the Peoples speak the same language?

The Lilac Beech

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Some history

Rookpot had been a city since before the eleventh century. At first there had been a wooden stockade around the straw-strewn streets and thatched houses, then there had been stone walls – remnants of these can be seen in the modern city.  Outside of the walls other settlements sprang up as people were drawn to trading and employment opportunities in the city.  These settlements consisted of crude stone houses, and these were passed on and renovated over several generations.  By the sixteenth century there were small leaning houses with hearths and two storeys, and maps drawn at this time show that the medieval city had broken free of its stone walls, and the tor was becoming more populated and more affluent at this time.  Narrow streets branched off from the centre, Dameg Square, up and down the hill.  One of the areas that was on the rise was what would become EassenBren Square.

According to the microfiche records of The Rookpot Chronicle (1420-1643; 1645-1801; 1811-1833; 1840-1922), which are available in the Local History section of Rookpot Library, Greta and Alun Collins purchased one of the leaning houses in a street above Dameg Square and opened a “store fore the sellings of informatione” in 1510.  This store was called The Boke. 

The original shop was a ramshackle affair. Advertisements in tiny print in the newspapers boast of a store for informatione in worde, printings and hearsayings. Come hither, booksellers, buyers, distributors, experts in knowledging, the fantastical, the travelles.  We welcome your enquiries. 

The Boke was the first, and for a long time, the only bookshop in Rookpot.  It employed agents who travelled over the mountains to the rest of the country, and beyond Britain’s shores to Europe and Scandinavia, and occasionally to the Americas: all to gather information, and, increasingly, to buy books.  The books were brought back to sell in the bookshop: curios, popular texts, anything related to Farynshire, particularly anything written about the Peoples (a rare subject outside of Farynshire).  The Boke also took orders from those that could afford to purchase books, and the agents would be tasked with procuring volumes for prestigious clients.  It was said that it was a Boke agent that brought the Cathedral’s Tyndale Bible back from Europe at the request of a rebellious priest.  The University also made use of the intrepid agents to bring back academic and radical tomes for their own libraries.  The agents also took catalogues with them that contained titles published from the printing press on Eassentor, Rookpot University Press, and for sale from The Boke.  The bookshop’s reputation and business grew exponentially.

During this time Rookpot itself had grown.  It was the capital of Farynshire, the county’s largest city.  EassenBren Square had also swelled to house the burgeoning population, especially those who could not afford to live in the Cuts around Dameg Square.  EassenBren was not as ordered or impressive as Dameg Square – in fact, it was a squalid over-crowded slum, with no management or planning to the haphazard and precarious housing.  It was primarily known for being a cesspit of crime, disease and frequent, sometimes accidental, fires.  It was also home to the city’s theatre, which ended up being the Square’s saving grace.  When the old wooden theatre burned down for the seventh time (almost certainly caused by a playwright who had resented the poor reviews his latest offering had received in The Chronicle) it was re-built with brick and mortar and called Ye Reven.  The fire also wiped out a lot of the wooden slum houses, clearing space for new growth.  After the fire, The Boke was one of the largest properties left standing.  It too had grown to accommodate its business, and by the time Ye Reven was built it had numerous extensions that made a higgledy piggledy place filled with nooks, crannies, hidden rooms, and thousands of uncatalogued books.  The fire saved EassenBren, and essentially created the artistic hub we know today, with the new theatre and the ancient bookshop at its heart.

The Boke had always had a good relationship with the theatre, even before the fire. In its rooms many a playwright worked on their latest piece, and the shop would sell copies to actors and theatre-goers, and promote the plays for the theatre.

In 1727 Ye Reven was bought by Sir Edward Ayres, head of the wealthy philanthropic family who would have such an impact on Rookpot over the years, right up to the present day.  Sir Edward invested heavily in renovating EassenBren.  In particular he wanted spacious and suitable accommodation to house his affluent friends who often visited Rookpot for a night at the theatre. He proposed knocking down the ramshackle stone houses that had survived the fire, and building in their place a terrace of beautiful new houses. He also planned to install a fountain with clean water, and an area for artists to work and display their creations.

There was huge protest at this proposed destruction, not least for the two hundred year old bookshop at its heart. But Sir Edward gave assurances that anyone who owned property in EassenBren would automatically be given the lease and rights to one of the new terraced houses. Once he showed the suspicious and disgruntled owners the architectural plans, all protest ceased.

By 1737 the terrace was built. The Boke moved into a central, five-storey house, and was renamed The Beech (the Lilac was added in 1836 by a new owner) for the indomitable purple-leaved tree that had survived the growth of EassenBren, the squalor, the fire and now its resurgence and reconstruction (one of its descendants resides in the back yard of The Lilac Beech to this day).

Today

The present owner of The Lilac Beech is Nolwenn Hughes, possibly the most knowledgeable person on Rookpot Tor.  The bookshop has had numerous owners over the years, passing through several families and business owners. There was much excitement when Nolwenn’s mother bought the shop, as she was a direct descendant of Greta and Alun Collins, the original founders.  It was destiny.  It looks set to continue in the family, as Nolwenn’s daughters, Eira and Elwen, work there too when they are not studying at the university.  Like previous owners, they live on the fifth floor, and the other four floors make up the shop.

Nolwenn inherited Parry Gwent, who has worked at The Lilac Beech since the 1960s.  He is officially a sales assistant, but he is also a bookseller, curator, local history expert, recommender, shelver and tea-maker.  If you want a recommendation for a book on Farynshire history, Parry is your man.

The ground floor of the shop is open plan with displays scattered throughout. Every wall is lined with books, floor to ceiling, except at the far end where there is a large fireplace, around which gather a motley collection of squashy armchairs, wingback chairs, and a few beanbags. The children’s area is on the far side of the shop from the fireplace, strewn with cardboard books and toys on colourful fluffy rugs. Rising up from the middle of the shop is a wrought iron staircase wound tight like a corkscrew that twists up through the centre of the building. The door to the courtyard at the back of the shop is open in the summer, so that peopled can read their books under the whispering purple leaves of the tree.  Behind the counter with the enormous till is the main staircase and the backroom with a back store room and a small kitchen.  Next to the till are the cakes and treats that Nolwenn, Parry and the Beech’s regulars bring in. It is not unusual to find either Nolwenn or Parry sitting with their customers, or a reading group, or a group of children, discussing books, reading, history, unicorns, what’s on at Ye Reven, with thick slices of lemon drizzle and mis-matched cups of sweet tea. In the winter the ground floor of The Beech is a popular place to come and warm up in front of a cozy fire.  But those hoping for a quiet doze are usually woken rudely by loud and verbose arguments between Parry and a lecturer from the university or a historian from the Museum on obscure topics such as the disputed succession of a sixteenth century Meyrick, with each enthusiastic participant hauling battered leather-bound tomes off the shelves to back up their point.

If you want peace and quiet, the second floor is probably your best bet.  This is the Local History section, and it is crammed with guide books, biographies, histories, old editions, first editions, myths, legends, leaflets, pamphlets … anything to do with Farynshire.  Here you will find serious scholars, genealogists, maybe the occasional reporter, studying or researching at one of the few battered wooden desks – after they have removed the stack of books from them first.

The third floor is where the various local groups meet.  This floor also has a large fireplace, with a wood-burning stove in the hearth, a black iron kettle quietly whistling on the top plate.  There are noticeboards on the walls advertising various events and meet-ups.  Anyone in Rookpot can use this space to meet.  The most frequent users have been reading groups, the Local History Group (every second Wednesday at the Library in Dameg Square, every third Friday at The Lilac Beech),  Mrs. Hackett’s Knitting Club (examples of their work can be found scattered on the window seats), the Produce Rolling Steering Committee, and the Clean Up Rookpot Campaign.  It has also been the meeting place for many radical groups who have had to hide from the authorities and meet in secret; these range from religious sects persecuted by the Council, to the Censored Council of Rookpot of 1855, to Iver Morys and his supporters when the robbing magnates were after him.  There were even rumours that the third floor of The Lilac Beech had provided a safe place for refugee wolvern when the Council were looking to expel them from the city.

The fourth floor is the Map Room.  Some of the most rare and treasured maps and charts are now housed in the Museum vaults, but they still belong to The Lilac Beech.  The agents who brought books and custom to and from Rookpot when the bookshop was called The Boke either bought or created their own maps of their travels.  There are also shelves and shelves of Farynshire maps by wolvern and human cartographers, and possibly even one or two by seafolken too, charting the waters around Riversouth and Sylnmouth from an unique perspective.  This is the first stop for any Museum Digger planning an archaeological expedition anywhere in the county.  As any cartographer knows, maps are stories and histories as well as guides, and the treasure trove on the fourth floor tells the history and legends of Farynshire and its Peoples.

The Lilac Beech is the history of Rookpot in particular, and Farynshire too.  It welcomes the curious, the radical, the argumentative, the contemplative, and those who like to lose themselves in perusing shelves of obscure and popular books with a cup of tea and a slice of lemon drizzle.  People come in for the love of books and stay for the company and cake.