Five of us ended up going to Caernarfon this morning. Liz Williams drove, Russell Smith snagged the front passenger seat. Karri Sperring, Victor Ocampo and I squished into the back seat. The weather was lovely, and Caernarfon was welcoming. we met a nice lady barn owl. Victor and Russell did a quick trip around the castle. Liz and I bought wearables, and we all had coffee.
Hard critting today, with plenty of chocolate to keep us sweet. We’ve had genocidal aliens, dreamy dream sequences, telepathic symbiotes and fire-starting mechanoids. Just another day in the office. Actually it doesn’t feel much like Milford – the sun’s shining, for a start, and I haven’t been to Mordor yet. The food, though, is as fantastic as ever. Of course, we’re all writing in our garrets now (yeah, right. For garret read drinking the library). It’s a hard life.
We have been working hard but escaped to Caernarfon this morning so that one of the overseas visitors could see the castle. This was a big success: we had tea, cake, a visit to the castle, several shops, sunshine and an owl (this was to advertise the re-opened Tourist Information centre). Socks were purchased. The sunshine meant a more or less uninterrupted view of Snowdon for most of the afternoon.
Big day on the base and beyond. Got up at 7am and got straight on the catchup reading before breakfast and then my usual morning walk to the lake. Yeah, this is a thing for me now. But then we got to go across to Caernarfon, so have mooched around a castle, got a couple of fun souvenir presents and then we got back to a pretty intense critique session but a good one I think. Dinner was amazing and now we’re having a well-earned social. I’ll have some great pics for the week from today. I’ll figure them out from somewhere!
Victor Fernando R. Ocampo
Alder, rowan, birch. Rose, nightshade, meadowsweet and cockle. I am in Wales, a lone tuft of cogon grass, atop a hummock under which two dragons, ruby and crystal, turn turn turn in restless, eternal sleep.
In Milford, we feed them dreams of spaceships and puppet children, Astral Edens and fleshy things that change in the night. Through gates of horn and ivory, we burn them in a fire of bones, freeze them in the Blackthorn winter till they rise again like a golden city of a thousand spires.
I had too much port, haven’t I? Or perhaps it’s the rush of another rich pastry. Many, many cwtches, new butties and old.
Milford is gold.