Over the past few years , The Doppelgangaz have gone from obscurity (Orange County, New York) to taking their unique sound all over the world. They have managed to do so while still having time to write, produce, dumpster dive and visit ungodly amounts of brothels.
Friends since childhood, Matter Ov Fact and EP discovered they were the last two descendants of the Rap Lords and were bestowed the gift of taking their incomparable and gritty production style to new heights. Since succumbing to the Rap Lords' request, The Doppelgangaz have provided numerous examples of why they were beckoned in the first place. Their divine influence can be heard on notable projects like The Ghastly Duo EP (2008), 2012: The New Beginning (2009), Lone Sharks (2011) and Hark (2013). The Doppelgangaz have also given fans of their production a few instrumental-heavy projects including the ongoing Beats For Brothels series. As a result of releasing quality works through their Groggy Pack Entertainment imprint, the duo headlined multiple European tours, earned the number one spot on HHV.de's Top 100 list and surpassed a million views on their YouTube channel. On U.S. soil, they performed alongside major acts such as Slaughterhouse, Action Bronson, Black Milk and Nipsey Hussle while gracing the pages of The Fader, Complex and other notable publications.
In February 2014, The Doppelgangaz will be releasing their fourth studio album entitled Peace Kehd. The project explores the duality of the black cloak lifestyle, blending smooth and "in your face" textures that continue the progression of their sound. Multiple formats (digital/ physical) will be released to accommodate enthusiasts and casual listeners alike. With foreign and domestic tour dates coinciding with the release, the Doppel Gospel will be spread to the masses.
Matter Ov Fact and EP have been known to don black cloaks to represent the Black Cloak lifestyle. This way of life entails making the most out of available resources, no matter how limited they may seem. What might be viewed as a disadvantage for some artists, has become a strong point for The Doppelgangaz. They take pride in handling their own production, designing their artwork and directing their own music videos. The ability to oversee every aspect of the creative process has allowed the gang to present cohesive projects that uphold their ghastly vision.


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Home / Poetry / Dark Square
Dark Square
A riveting collection of poems ranging from the very personal and sexual to the broader lyric poem.
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SKU: PBS0831 Category: Poetry Tags: contemporary, love, poems, therapy, travels
A riveting collection of poems ranging from the very personal and sexual to the broader lyric poem. Marcus demonstrates the versatility that has put some of these poems in such diverse publications as Poetry, Alimentum, Harvard Review, and Ploughshares.
Peter Marcus's poems have appeared in AGNI, Antioch Review, Boulevard, Crab Orchard Review, The New England Review, The Notre Dame Review, Poetry, Ploughshares, Quarterly West, RATTLE, Shenandoah, The Southern Review, Spillway, Witness and others. His poems have also appeared in two human rights anthologies: "Before We Have Nowhere To Stand: Poems on Israel and Palestine, " and " I Go To Ruined Places: Contemporary Poems in Defense of Global Human Rights," both published by Lost Horse Press. He has upcoming poems in: Crab Orchard Review, Nimrod, RATTLE, UPSTREET and others. He has been a recipient of a state of Connecticut Arts Grant and a residency fellowship at Vermont Studio Center. He is the academic program coordinator and lecturer at Elms College's Accelerated Bachelor's Degree in Psychology Program at Mount Wachusetts Community College, in Gardner, MA. (This updated bio borrowed from: http://www.marblehouseproject.org/new-blog/2016/12/14/peter-marcus)
Peter Marcus
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a minor masterpiece. All in all a very good read. I recommend this book not only to those interested in a therapist's viewpoint of his work but also to anyone fascinated by places of travel. Also, Chilling, in my opinion, Riveting ByJoseon October 11, sexy and riveting. This is a book of strange Beauty and hard-hitting truths which is a must read for anyone interested in contemporary American poetry., the love poems are quite unique – unsentimental, Unsentimental
2 reviews for Dark Square
Lauren Hilger, Poet, Poetry printed in Alaska Quarterly Review, CutBank, Sonora Review, and elsewhere. She is a finalist for the Iowa Review Poetry Contest and a 2012 MacDowell Fellow in Poetry. – January 29, 2019
Dark Square, Peter Marcus's first collection, surveys the emotional terrain of a doctor. Acting as a present-day Virgil, Marcus has the reader witness therapy sessions, wings of hospitals, rehabilitation centers; he introduces the afflicted by name; and, like Virgil, he brings us back out. The suffering of his many patients, what's hidden and subsequently revealed, move these powerful narratives.
Freud is present throughout both thematically—the book's section titles suggest his major works—and in epigraph. Even as the narrator travels, as he does within "Borders and Crossing," the voyeuristic reader follows, sees, and learns intimately of the people and patients encountered. As the emotional register reaches a peak, Marcus's conversational tone keeps these poems from launching into forced empathy. Marcus's lines often read unadorned as if they are spoken directly:
She walks into my office, crying.
This moment, like others throughout Dark Square, holds the reader under the present tense of distress. Reading these poems one is in the clutch of some painful admission, then abruptly distanced from it. The speaker, when he seems to come too close, names "the billable clock," his diploma, his "language tool," in an attempt to distinguish himself from torment. There is safety in these marks of difference, or at least, the speaker would like for these strict delineations to exist.
The speaker asserts he can "uncover all these girls alive beneath the rubble," yet he wavers and asks of the reader, "How should a therapist respond"? Accountability is placed on the reader, who, entering the voice, is either "uncovering" or failing to do so. Marcus tells us, "My patient remained inconsolable through the hour." The possessive determiner "my," often used, brings one to question what is it that one possesses of another person?
Marcus writes into this question from the perspective of relationships. The poem "The Affair" begins, "I want what I want when I want it. This is not a song." Yet the Irving Berlin lyric speaks to a libido that acts as irrational pull, Freud's id. In this light, lovers provide consolation and reward though not without risk. Beware of "Harpies / dressed in evening wear, vicious teeth."
Vicious or otherwise, the poems of the section "Eros Stricken" invoke the female in the fashion of a blason: she is skin, eyes, mouth, all invitation. Yet Marcus writes beyond the body and into the complexity of the speaker's relationships—within these poems sex is not invariably an exercise in dominance; these connections are revered and central.
Often in neat tercets or couplets, charged with "luscious nudes," Marcus acknowledges the intensity and weight of desire. These poems are not out to seduce the reader though, unless one responds to lines such as: "I know her pastor couldn't comfort her like this" ("Petite Mort").
Such is the challenge of writing love poems that remain sexy while being read in the cold, acerbic light of, say, the subway. The stunning poem "The Embrace," however, caught this reader off guard. Here, the scene opens with a man writhing, bucking, and spewing expletives at orderlies. Once the patient is carried away, perhaps his plan ("he is asking for this"), Marcus writes, "I admire the empty straitjacket / flaccid on the gurney." Dark Square forces us to ask, how does one receive comfort, compassion, an embrace, unless one directly asks for it? The poem ends with an imperative.
Strap me down
under buckle & belt.
Hold me.
Jose, Amazon reader – January 29, 2019
A Chilling book of Poems ranging from poet Peter Marcus' work in mental health facilities to love poems to poems about his wide-ranging travels both within and outside the U.S. I shivered especially upon finishing the first section of the book "Dreaming and Waking." The final poem in that section – "Dark Remedies" – is, in my opinion, a minor masterpiece. All in all a very good read. I recommend this book not only to those interested in a therapist's viewpoint of his work but also to anyone fascinated by places of travel. Also, the love poems are quite unique – unsentimental, sexy and riveting. This is a book of strange Beauty and hard-hitting truths which is a must read for anyone interested in contemporary American poetry.
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15 LISTSThe Last SuspectLists about seemingly innocent people who no one considered a danger or threat—until they got caught.
Brutal Misdeeds by Rich White Women
Not Very Sweet Little Old Ladies
Untouchable Millionaires
Normal People Who Hid Chilling Secrets
Employees Who Offed Their Bosses
Respected Pillars of Society
Naughty Nurses Who Got Caught
Con Artists Who Played Doctor
Shameful Alumni from Ivy League Schools
Just Another Guy at the Office
Sadistic Cops Who Wore Badges
Normal Dudes with Human Captives
Dentists Who Did the Crime
Bad Siblings Who Teamed Up
Shocking Misdeeds by Pregnant Women
Unspeakable Times
10 Seemingly Normal People Who Were Keeping Human Captives in Their Homes
Lyra Radford
Updated August 20, 2021 343k views10 items
When it comes to the most shocking misdeeds, the old saying is often true: "it's always the ones you least suspect." The friendly guy next door, the quiet IT tech, the old married couple you see at church every week: they all seem normal enough, but you never really know what's going on in someone's head – or in their homes. You could know someone that is keeping human captives locked up in their home right now and not even have a clue.
As absurd and fictional as things like "underground dungeons" and "soundproof bunkers" may sound, there really are wild people out there who build these things for the sole purpose of storing human captives. This list contains some real cases of people who were held against their will and suffered greatly at the hands of lunatics that appeared normal to the outside world.
Photo: FBI / Wikimedia Commons / Public domain
A Cleveland Man Kept Three Women Captive For 10 Years
Between 2002 and 2004, Cleveland residents Michelle Knight, Amanda Berry, and Georgina "Gina" DeJesus all went missing after accepting a ride home from Ariel Castro. Castro lured each girl, restrained them, and locked them up in his basement. To everyone in the neighborhood, Castro was just another guy, no one had any clue that he was keeping three girls captive in his home at 2207 Seymour Avenue (just three miles from the area where they were all taken) for 10 years.
It wasn't until May 6, 2013, when Amanda Berry got the opportunity to escape with her six-year-old daughter. She was able to get the attention of neighbors and call the police from one of their homes. She identified herself as Amanda Berry, stating that she'd been missing for 10 years and had escaped. She sent Cleveland PD to Castro's house to free the other two women.
Castro pled guilty to the kidnappings, 937 counts of assault, and aggravated murder. He was given a life sentence but spent a month in prison before he took his own life.
Nobuyuki Satō Kept A Child Captive In His Mother's Apartment
In 1990, Nobuyuki Satō was 28 years old and sharing an apartment with his elderly mother. This apartment was a mere 200 yards away from a police station, and yet Satō was able to keep nine-year-old Fusako Sano locked up in an upstairs bedroom for nine years and two months without anyone knowing.
Satō cut all her hair off and dressed her in men's clothing.
Its unclear why but Fusako was taken with Nobuyuki to a hosptial and there she found a police officer and identified herself to him.
Josef Fritzl Kept His Own Daughter Captive For 24 Years
In the rural town of Amstetten, Austria, 18-year-old Elisabeth Fritzl was reported missing by her father Josef Fritzl in 1984. But she wasn't missing: her father, who had been sharming her since she was 11 years old, had lured her into the cellar and locked her in. He forced her to write a runaway letter which he showed to her mother and police to convince everyone she was gone. Since she was 18 and the letter said not to look for her and that she had joined a cult, there wasn't really much police could do. Fritzl kept his daughter in a windowless, completely soundproof prison beneath the home that was only accessible from a small door hidden in a cabinet.
To make matters worse, his wife, (Elisabeth's mother) was clueless about all of it. Elisabeth gave birth to a total of seven of her father's children; three of the six surviving children were eventually brought upstairs to live in the main house. Fritzl told his wife Rosemarie that their runaway daughter had repeatedly dropped her children off on the doorstep for them to raise.
The other three children remained in the basement with Elisabeth, having never seen the light of day in their lives. Finally, one of them, Kerstin, got sick and lost consciousness. Fritzel lied to his wife once again, claiming their long-lost daughter returned to drop off another child for them to care for and that this one needed medical attention. They took Kerstin to the hospital, where it was found she was suffering kidney failure and was put into a medically-induced sleeping state. Doctors sent out a public plea asking for Elisabeth (still believed to be off wandering and maybe in a cult) to come forward so that they could take her daughter's medical history.
It was 2008 when the truth finally came out and Elisabeth (42 years old at this point) and her hidden children (Kerstin, 19; Stefan, 18; and Felix, 5) were finally taken out of their dark prison, stunned by sunlight and the outside world. Fritzl brought his daughter to the hospital, claiming she had just showed up on his doorstep in response to the public plea, but the hospital's DNA testing confirmed the horrible truth: these children were all biologically Josef's children and grandchildren.
Josef Fritzl stood trial for the passing of the infant Michael, as well as for everything he put his daughter through in captivity. He plead guilty to all charges and was sentenced to life imprisonment. Elisabeth and all six of her children and her mother reconnected and have undergone intensive therapy, but they are all adjusting and flourishing in the outside world.
Photo: Unknown / Wikimedia Commons / Public domain
Gertrude Baniszewski Held Sylvia Likens Captive And Tormented Her To Her End
Gertrude Baniszewski was paid to care for sisters Sylvia and Jenny Likens while their parents were traveling as carnival workers. The Baniszewski family physically and verbally abused both of the Likens girls until the focus shifted solely to Sylvia.
Sylvia was kept locked in the basement, eating only scraps. Everyone was told that she had been prostituting herself and had run off with some men. Baniszewski even forced Sylvia to write a letter to her parents confirming these lies.
In October, 1965, Sylvia Likens died in the basement. Her official cause of death was brain hemorrhaging. After finding her victim dead, Baniszewski concocted a story for the police claiming that Sylvia had been attacked by a group of young men. However, when the police came to investigate. Jenny took this opportunity to say, "get me out of here I'll tell you everything."
Gertrude Baniszewski and her daughter were both sentenced to life imprisonment. Richard Hobbs, Coy Hubbard, and John Baniszewski, Jr. were sentenced from two to 21 years in prison for the roles they played in the abuse.


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October 2014 Putting the Record Straight………..
As autumn tumbles into winter clocks go back and the evenings are long and dark once more. But the weather is mild, the temperature strangely unseasonal and the garden still scattered with colour; the last roses, cosmos, salvias, a few astrantia and the tiny delicate blooms of a camellia sasanqua. It feels slightly ominous as if Nature is playing a trick and has a nasty surprise up her sleeve.
Since returning from a wet week in Portugal while the rest of Europe sunbathed, October has flown by in a haze of visitors; from South Carolina, Adelaide, Brittany and Japan, all friends and family enjoying this fabulous balmy English autumn. But now it's time to knuckle down to reality and prepare for harsher things to come.
Harvest safely gathered in, fields are being ploughed once more. Across the valley in the distance I watch my neighbour's tractors turn the soil in neat lines, rioting seagulls in pursuit, white specks against chocolate. Barns are being cleared, animals brought in, hay and oats stacked up for winter fodder.
Chickens are tucked up in their winter quarters. Dead trees are cut down, logs stored for winter warmth. The greenhouse is full to the gunnels with tender plants in anticipation of that first deadly Devon frost that creeps up without warning. So as the garden prepares to hibernate, the farming cycle begins again.
Fred is in with the ewes once more clearly hard at work as evidenced by his bright green raddle. We have just a small flock of White Face Dartmoor's now, plus a couple of Border Leicester X's, some 30 mature ewes in with Fred. A fine looking bunch of last springs ewe lambs graze quietly, alone now, far up on the top field. Old Larry the Lamb is still with us too, of course, companion to a small, as yet unnamed ram lamb, who we hope will make the grade by next year.
Last night found us up on the Moor for the Annual Dartmoor White Face Sheep Breeders Association Dinner; a disparate group of some hundred and fifty people, farmers and smallholders, drawn together by their love of this gentle strong moorland breed. We're all crazy about our sheep! Huge plates of food were consumed; toasts and speeches made, cups and rosettes presented and raffle tickets drawn. And Paul, my husband is the President. We ponder often how it came about that a Cornishman should be so honoured on Dartmoor!
As I said last time, life on a farm is wedded to the seasons, spring lambing, summer growth, autumn harvest, the austerity of winter.
I said too that I sometimes try to imagine the urban oblivion to the changing landscape. As I trudge through lashing rain and mud up to the top fields to count the sheep, how comforting the image of the uniformity of street and pavement across the year! No need to battle with the elements in order to make a living. How appealing the memory of that erstwhile indoor job becomes, that warmth within, as winter weather bites and rain trickles down my neck inside my coat and I realise I've forgotten my gloves again and my boots are leaking. Then I remember, too, the M25, the long commute, struggling on the Tube and I'm wet still but happy again!
But alas, one reader was not happy with my reference to the "bland urban landscape": and instructed me to "take down this post and delete the sentence …. before some unknown reader writes a tart comment in response. People connect to the seasons in all sorts of ways wherever they are living and of course millions of people simply have no choice about where they can live….."
I was saddened by this response, the first of its kind in ten years. But how lucky am I, never before a tart Tweet or a Facebook snipe! It was, of course not at all what I was referring to and I received no negative comments, quite the reverse, in fact.
But it is true that very few people are fortunate enough to have a choice of lifestyle whether rural or urban. Some farm because their forebears have done so for generations, some because they must, some because they can and some because they are lucky enough to make that choice.
Whichever way, farming is strangely addictive despite the constant rigours of the elements. Some people cannot imagine any other way of life. Many more would simply hate the farming lifestyle and choose to enjoy the countryside in a million other ways, while wishing well to those who do farm the land and provide their food. And many, many more simply have no choice at all and are just grateful to have a roof of any kind over their head somewhere, anywhere and a job to go to.
I smiled to myself as I leafed through Country Living magazine in our local surgery last week, so prettily idealised, so clean, such lovely hazy photography; a really pretty thing so delightfully divorced from real country life; even dare I say, an urban dream. As I flicked through the pages I remembered a recent BBC Country File; Adam Henson racing breathless across a huge field with fire fighters and all emergency services to rescue the driver from an exploding harvester and quench a burning crop; not at all the image the film makers had anticipated, but harsh reality, no romance here. Life in the country as it really is. Or maybe reality is mostly somewhere in between. As my son said ten years ago: "Why not write a blog about what you really do on the farm, Mum."
Raining Sideways is simply that; my diary of food and rural life; it is not and never has been a political comment or statement of social justice. I leave that to those far better qualified than me.
Even though the weather is so mild I find the dark evenings start me thinking about warming winter comfort food: big soups with ham hock and lentils and lots of root vegetables, rich casseroles, pot-au-feu, Lancashire hotpot, steak & kidney pie, bangers and mash…….or Maiale al Latte
Slow cooked Pork Shoulder in Milk
No more pigs for the time being so the last pieces in the freezer are hugely treasured! I cooked a rolled shoulder for friends last week, so good, though I say it myself! There are, of course, many versions of this Italian classic. Here is my take on it.
Brown a boned and rolled piece of pork shoulder weighing about a kilo in a little hot oil in a heavy casserole. Make sure it is nicely coloured on all sides then remove from the pan and set aside.
Add more oil to the pot and gently soften a couple of chopped shallots, 3 or 4 sliced cloves of garlic, a handful of sage leaves, the zest of a lemon and a sprig of rosemary. You can add all sorts of other herbs and spices according to your preference. Then pour in 300ml of white wine and 300ml of full fat milk. Gently simmer for a minute or two, take off the heat and return the browned pork to the pot. Most recipes say simmer gently but I prefer to cover the casserole with a lid and place in a slow oven 170-180 c for about 2 ½ hours. Be sure to check it regularly and stir the liquid which will, of course, curdle. This is the classic essence of the dish. Add more milk if it begins to brown. When cooked the meat should be soft and succulent and fall apart. The cooking time will vary a little according to the quality of the pork. When you are satisfied it is ready let it rest for ten minutes before cutting or tearing the meat with two forks into pieces. Spoon over the remaining liquid and serve with mash or crusty bread and a crisp salad. This is not an elegant dish but, oh my, it's so delicious!
Widdicombe Fair 2014
Sam and the Tomatoes
Golden sunlight casts long shadows on the grass, spider's webs carpet the fields in the morning mist, skeins of calling geese fill the sky: it's autumn again. Harvest is all around us. Combines roll across the golden fields, the hedgerows are weighed down with fruit: blackberries, sloes, wild plums. As the apple trees begin to throw their bounty to the ground I struggle to keep up with the abundance in the veg garden. Everywhere nature is sending out early signals urging us to prepare for winter. Our lives on the farm are so wedded to the seasons, spring lambing, summer growth, autumn harvest, the austerity of winter. I try to imagine the urban oblivion to the changing landscape, the uniformity of street and pavement across the year, the ready food, always the same, always available regardless of season in the supermarket: a security that is not for me.
The house martins have already left. Flying practice started early this year. At the end of August juniors were already lining up on the telegraph wires for flying tuition from their swooping elders. Sam raced across the top fields pursuing them as they skimmed the long grass for insects, he's much to slow for them and they continue to feed oblivious to his game. He joined us at the end of June, a rangy skinny chap, another boy from Labrador Rescue.
For six weeks, after the demise of dear old Welly, Porter mooched around looking miserable, us too. Finally I picked up the phone and two days later an eleven month old Sam, his new name, was with us. Porter was thrilled and we were soon exhausted! I began to wonder why my friends do work outs in the gym; no need for me with Sammy by my side. In the first week he was blissed out by falling in the pond not once but twice. I'm sure the second time was deliberate as he swam happily amongst the water lilies.
Next he rolled down the bank into the stream, somersaulted and, turning "turbo-dog", raced up and down splashing in utter delight. Labradors adore water, it's true. He thought the chickens were worth a chase, got stuck in the undergrowth in the quarry, was given a very severe ticking off by the cats, showed a little too much interest in the sheep and made a friend of a donkey who generally doesn't care for dogs at all.
Sammy is a very different boy to Mr P with a very different story. Both dogs came from social housing backgrounds, lots of kids and a struggling single mum. That's where the similarity ends. Mr P had been kept in a cage neglected and starved; Sam was allowed to run wild with no boundaries at all, until his owner's partner, irritated by him, hit him regularly: all this on his rescue notes. A very different approach was needed to help him settle down and feel safe with us. Beneath the delinquent teenager is a sweet gentle dog, wonderful with children. Our grandchildren's long summer holiday with us was invaluable. He played with them, socialised with their dogs, learnt that cats and chickens are best ignored and Guinea pigs are simply boring. The transformation had begun. But we soon realised it was us who needed more training if he was to become a really happy dog. So it was off to Cumbria for Paul for doggy boot camp! Not really, it all turned out wonderfully for them both: two nights in a lovely dog friendly pub and expert training by a wonderful professional in the dramatically beautiful Lake District. Oh, it's so simple when you know how!! Everyday Sammy has his doggy Tutorial and the transformation is a joy to watch as he settles into his new life, loved and safe at last.
Maybe it's to do with his past life or maybe it's just because he's a Labrador, Sam is an expert harvester. First it was the Dit'sum plums, then blackberries, figs, apples. And now he's discovered the tomatoes; not an ideal arrangement for either of us! I have a glut this year despite the sodden winter and return of the tomato blight. Every year a dear friend sources wonderful heritage seeds for me. I grow enough for both of us and when she returns from a warm winter the other side of the world we share the seedlings.
This year I grew Yellow Brandywine, Black Cherry, and the amazing giants, Cherokee, as well as modern Pomodoro Red Cherry and funny pointed Follia F1. Last year saw success with Striped Cavern, Ivory Egg, Copia and Japanese Black Trifele. Of course I've grown good old gardeners Delight and Moneymaker too but the heritage ones are such fun and more of a challenge. The flavour is often better too. For years solanum lycopersicum were considered poisonous in this country. Gerard dismisses them out of hand in his Herbal of 1597: "Poma Amoris, Apples of Love. …In Spaine and those hot Regions they vse to eat the Apples prepared and boiled with pepper, salt, and oile: but they yeeld very little nourishment to the bodie, and the same nought and corrupt. Likewise they doe eat the Apples with oile, vineger and pepper mixed together for sauce to their meate, euen as we in these cold Countries doe Mustard.". They were already being eaten in Italy and Spain by then, brought back from the Andes by the Spanish Conquistadors. Tomato comes from "tomatl" in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. The Italians called it Pomma di Mori, Apple of the Moors. The first reference to the cooking of tomatoes in Italy can be found in Vincenzo Corrado's 1765 Cuoco Galante, The Gallant Cook. In his wonderful book, Complete Italian Food, Antonio Carluccio states that Italians now consume an astonishing 50kg per head per year mostly in the form of sauce and purees on their pasta! In France it was named Pomme d'Amour and in time embraced as warmly as in Spain and Italy. In contrast we cautious Brits only began to let the Love Apple creep into our diet around 1820 still clinging to the dire warnings of Gerard two hundred years earlier and despite the best efforts of the Quaker merchant, Peter Collinson who reported in 1742 that the Apples of Love "are very much in Italy to putt when ripe into their Brooths & Soops giving it a pretty Tart Taste. A Lady Just come from Leghorn says she thinks it gives an Agreeable tartness and Relish to them & she likes it Much". Tomatoes were considered as "chill to the stomach", the cause of maladies such as gout and a dangerous aphrodisiac. How times have changed!
So What to do with all this deliciousness? I will be halving the small red tomatoes and putting them in a cool oven overnight to semi dry them. Then I will bottle them in olive oil with a sprig of basil and store them in the fridge for winter treats: a tiny salad with grated Parmesan, a quick pasta topping or a filling for a baked potato.
One of my favourite recipes takes me back to a tiny village in the hills in Provence many years ago when Madam cooked just one set meal in her tiny restaurant in the Village Square: no choice and the food served in big dishes straight to the table. I can't remember the rest of the meal only the exquisite beans and tomatoes! Blanche French beans, drain carefully and return to the pan with olive oil. Add a clove of crushed garlic and fresh chopped tomatoes. Simmer gently for a few minutes. Add salt and pepper and serve with more really good olive oil. That's it, truly wonderful if the beans are tender, the tomatoes full of flavour and the olive oil thick and green.
The big boys such as Cherokee will be a meal in themselves. I will scoop out their middles, make a stuffing, top them with breadcrumbs and cheese and bake them in the oven. Others will be made into sauce with shallots, herbs and garlic, then frozen ready to go into winter ragouts and pasta sauces. Some I will simply whizz in the blender and freeze. And, of course, the green tomatoes will join apples, sugar, shallots, chili, and vinegar to become thick unctuous chutney. None will be wasted so long as I keep Sam out of the greenhouse!
The sun shone, the clock struck two, we opened the gates and in they came; suddenly there was a steady stream of visitors walking round our garden on a beautiful June afternoon. They paused, sat in the sun, went round again. They loitered by the pond gazing at an avalanche of white, cascading "Seagull" intertwined with "Masquerade" drooping over the water.
Damsel flies hovered above Bobby's huge water lilies. Towering delphiniums, hostas, geraniums swayed gently in the breeze.
Cream teas flew out of the kitchen; strawberry jam and delicious Devonshire clotted cream, donated by the Dartmouth Dairy, topped big fat scones made by the Anchorstone café. Friends rallied round to help.
We had done it again: for months and months we had dug, we had sown, we had weeded, planted, mowed, pruned and prayed for sun. And now after all the hard work the weekend had arrived; our garden teemed with happy smiling people. We sent off our biggest cheque ever to the National Garden Scheme to be divided once more between UK nursing charities.
This year is our thirty second summer in the valley. It was February 1982 when our lives changed forever as we travelled west in search of lost friends. Not only did we find our friends but also fell in love with a poor old battered farmhouse. On the day of completion we arrived early and sat patiently on the grass wondering what on earth we had done. Eventually an old tractor trundled up and the farmer handed over a key; I gazed at it in wonder, just one enormous, rusty, unused old key; the key to our new life. Just then we were startled by the Red Arrows flying overhead, some welcome we thought, then realised it was Dartmouth Regatta week and the honour was not exclusively for us!
The house was built in 1767 by the local Rector for his daughter. Over the last two hundred and forty years it has been home to either churchmen or farmers. The Reverend Francis Lite, Poet and Priest of Brixham, lived here for a year or so before moving across the river. Maybe, we muse, he even wrote "Abide with Me" during his short stay here. The Deeds are lost so there is much we will never know but we do know that the family from whom we bought it had farmed here since 1922.
Our arrival was eventful. The removal lorry broke down on the motorway, and was, as I had predicted in several high decibel phone calls to the removal company, too big to fit through the narrow Devon lanes, too big to reach the house. All our belongings had to be decanted unceremoniously into a small hired van in the middle of the village right outside the shop; a good place for passers-by to get a look at the belongings and the people who had bought "Dorothy's House".
Death watch beetle, wet rot, dry rot and flourishing fungi meant we had no floor boards on which to arrange this furniture. All our belongings, everything but the most basic necessities, had to be stacked high in the farm dairy. They would remain there for the next nine months. We began to forget about them; things we had deemed so essential simply weren't missed. As the months passed I soon learnt that black mould is permanent and green mould can be brushed off…..
The dairy, now a cosy study, was a cold north facing addition, circa 1820. The deep slate shelves all round the room still remain. Each shelf has a gully which held a trickle of cold water that acted as the cooling system, keeping hams and cheese, milk and cream fresh; a nineteenth century "refrigerator".
For months we all camped downstairs, sleeping on plastic covered mattresses. The children were ecstatic. They climbed around the house balancing precariously on the joists, exploring every corner and bagging a future bedroom each. They spent hours happily picking wet wallpaper of damp walls, they counted dead flies and compiled a scrap book of the amazing interior decoration. They recorded all details of yellow and orange staircase, pea green panelling in the little Georgian sitting room and the beautiful iron fireplace steeped in cream paint. They explored the overgrown garden and made camps in the orchard. They tramped across fields arriving home wet and muddy with happy exhausted dogs.
There was no hot water in the bathroom and the lavatory perched on high near the kitchen was inclined to give those brave enough to use it, a fairly substantial cold shower when flushed. Fortunately there was another one upstairs which was less eccentric, but journeying to it meant balancing on ceiling joists.
I loved the old solid fuel Rayburn. It stood cream and battered in the corner of the old kitchen. It hadn't been used for years but it was the only source of heat we had. All the chimneys were blocked up either deliberately or by years of nesting birds. So to cook our food, give us a little hot water and keep us warm, I set about bringing it back to life. I scrubbed the old thing, bought some "nuts" to feed it and fired it up. If the wind was in the right direction it was a marvel. But, as the hills rise high behind the house, on grey days the smoke was returned unceremoniously down the chimney. It began to rule our mealtimes. Would it roar into life and cook lunch or would the cloud hanging heavy in the sky make us wait till supper time for the fire to draw.
The old kitchen had no sink or drainage of any kind. A modern breeze block extension housed a metal sink whose waste pipe ended in mid-air. Water flowed first onto the floor then trickled optimistically towards a little drain hole: sometimes it disappeared, sometimes it didn't. It was a long, wet walk from cooker to sink with a saucepan. Cooking was a challenge.
In November the builders arrived and the restoration process began. The pantry vanished together with the waterfall loo. Suddenly a large space appeared which would in time become the new kitchen. Ceilings fell down, new ones replaced them. Heating and plumbing appeared; water, no water, heating, no heating. And, of course, things got so much worse before they got better.
Christmas approached and after much discussion we decided to make a valiant effort and celebrate in the shell which was to be our home. We hung a curtain across the bathroom door for Granny who whistled to indicate her occupancy; new floor boards in place made her journey slightly less hazardous.
Rubble was barrowed out of the kitchen, the floor was levelled. A shiny new sink appeared then taps, hot water. What more did I need! A Christmas tree acted as camouflage and a few decorations lit up the occasion.
The dear old Rayburn came up trumps and cooked a turkey to perfection. Chairs and table were pulled out of storage and dusted down. Table laid, crackers in place and friends and family sat down together for the traditional festive feast in somewhat unconventional surroundings. My father gave me a long look and asked if I thought we had been altogether wise. I just smiled.
As months passed, we made progress. Paul returned to work in London saying "Now, don't start taking the stair case to bits…" I made a plan with my new friends, the builders. Terry borrowed a pig trough from farmer Richard. I filled it with caustic soda and washing powder and we were in business. Terry dismantled the staircase piece by piece. I dipped each spindle into the pig trough and scraped, and dipped, and scraped and rinsed again until years and years of old paint was gone. I handed them one by one back to chippy Chris who reassembled everything. What a team! By the time Paul returned the job was done. Not a trace of orange or yellow paint anywhere.
Decorating next and along came "Les the Decorator". We chiselled off the distemper and hosed down the stairs together, all three floors. As Les transformed each room I sat on the sitting room floor for days on end pickling and picking the paint from the cast iron fireplace. As I worked the beauty of the metalwork emerged. I was lost in admiration at the depth and detail of the design. Soon carpets arrived and curtains were hung and the wonderful team departed. Our worldly belongings emerged from the damp dairy and the house came to life once more. Best of all I had the most beautiful kitchen I could possibly have imagined.
Time now for garden restoration: as we cleared and dug, chopped and cleared, the basic structure of a garden long forgotten began to re-emerge. Someone at some time had cherished it.
Down fell the derelict old green houses, broken glass threatening to chop off our heads. Down came the great tin tractor shed, in went the pond, out went the fencing made of gas stove and corrugated tin. In went banks of shrubs, out went broken outhouses and bindweed and dead trees.
In went roses and camellias, beech hedges. Up popped swathes of bulbs and wild flowers. Stifled for years beneath the undergrowth, they took their chance to break free at last.
Slowly, slowly a garden emerged once more in the valley.
And then one day, some years ago now, the County Organiser of NGS came to tea and suggested we open the garden for charity. "Weed, weed, weed" she said and I've been weeding ever since……………..
Our garden's open again!
BRAMBLE TORRE GARDEN IS OPEN THIS WEEKEND
Here's a preview..do come and join us on Saturday and Sunday between 2.pm and 6pm.
Enjoy the garden and a cream tea all in aid of the National Garden Scheme! www.ngs.org.co.uk
GARDEN 14 from Paul Vincent on Vimeo.
BRAMBLETORRE
June 14th & 15th
Admission £4 Children Free
Cream Teas £3.50
Raining Sideways is Ten Years Old!
Raining Sideways is ten years old; it is ten years since Tom e-mailed me from Tokyo saying "get Techy, Mum, and start a blog". Needless to say I had no idea what he was talking about, I had never heard the word "blog" and even miss-read techy for tetchy which caused a lot of laughter on both sides of the world!
Blogs were brand new in 2004, so new in fact most people had no idea what I was talking about either. But Tom was adamant; "start a blog about your everyday life, about the farm, the food you grow and, above all, the food you cook. Most of the stuff written about food and farming is put together by someone in an office in a city, inaccurate and romanticised." Maybe things have improved a little since then but at that time he was right. And, oh my goodness, what a response I have received over the years. I hear from people from all over the world. So here is how it all began:
I grew up in post war London; a world of bomb craters, ration books and smog. I was to be the only child of professional actors both of whom had abandoned the stage in 1939 to do their bit for King and Country. After the war my grandfather summonsed my father back to the world of "real work". My mother was frequently in and out of hospital so I was sent to boarding school just a few weeks after my seventh birthday and spent many holidays with grandparents.
Cooking was not high on my mother's agenda but fortunately there was dear Percy. She came in daily from her home somewhere in Portobello Road. I've no idea how long she stayed or what she cooked; I just remember that I adored her. She taught me to make pastry on the kitchen chair, grey and slippery and streaky. Why, I wondered, did it look so different to the silky white dough that she produced on the kitchen table and then transformed into such deliciousness? She was round and warm and kind; we had such fun together.
My father had lived in France as a young man and had developed a passion for good food. So my solitary childhood was punctuated with memorable visits to the theatre and delicious meals in wonderful restaurants.
In 1964 I left school with plans of my own. But alas, my mother was once more in hospital and my father had other ideas for me. The day I filled the house with smoke, in an effort to feed him, sealed my destiny. I was to go to Winkfield Place to learn to cook and be "finished off". I put up a good fight but to no avail. September found me gloomily driving father's mini through the lanes of Berkshire to learn, oh horror, for one whole year, how to cook and be a lady!
I was furious with him for sending me somewhere I considered, with teenage pomposity, so frivolous, so light weight! After all those years at my earnest Methodist Girls Boarding school I had been taught the world was a serious place. My duty was to play my part by doing something worthy; wave the flag, be a missionary, help the needy. I wasn't at all sure what all that meant but, whatever it was, it needed doing and it was my duty to do it! Alas, within weeks, I'm ashamed to say, I found I loved this other world!
Constance Spry had died after a tragic accident in 1960 but the formidable Rosemary Hume was still in charge. The house and garden were beautiful, the regime very strict and the time table relentless. The cookery lessons were quite different from the dreary domestic science lessons I had hated at school. Each one was an adventure; and, of course, we did have to eat the food we'd cooked; a huge greedy incentive to do it well! I still have my crumbling box file of recipe cards.
Dressmaking lessons were even more terrifying than cooking. Our fierce Austrian teacher brooked no nonsense and frequently induced tears of frustration with her high standard. Flower arranging and floristry sounded so feeble to me when I arrived but in fact it was doing these things that first introduced me to my lifelong love of gardening.
And best of all I made some wonderful friends; a bonus I hadn't expected.
From Winkfield it was back to London to my first job. I worked for a fierce young woman cooking meals in a minute kitchen above a garage in a mews. We delivered to private houses every day in a pre-war Morris Minor with a divided windscreen and wobbly wipers. One day, car loaded with freshly cooked meals, I dropped the ignition key down the drain in Marylebone High Street. Quite unperturbed Susan lifted the bonnet, magically put two wires together and the little old thing juddered into life, I was forgiven and the customers fed.
We delivered all over London to the famous and not so famous. Little did he know it, but I unceremoniously scraped Sir Malcolm Sergeants' soup back into the pot having sloshed it across the back seat of the afore said Morris Minor as we trundled down to Albert Hall Mansions. We delivered supper to him every night before the Proms but never ever set eyes on him.
The Sixties were in full swing, or so I'm told. Somehow I always seemed to be on the outside looking in. And so it was when I went to work at Nick's Diner. Nick, a flamboyant retired Guards Officer, started the restaurant to feed his fashionable friends. Everything about it seemed to my nineteen year old eyes utterly exotic and quite eccentric. The exquisite Seraphina ran the office. Chefs came and went from all over the world. One worked all night in a gambling club and all day for Nick. I remember peering at him in wonder; how on earth could he live without sleep? Another, whose cooking skills were very suspect, his piece de résistance being Belgian pomme frites, turned out indeed to be an impostor. We were all rather thrillingly interviewed by Interpol. The Ghanaian washer-up, a very small highly educated young man, held us spellbound each day with his plans for a government coup d'état.
I had absolutely no idea just how fortunate I was to be given such a job aged just nineteen. It would be years before I realised just how privileged I had been. I worked in Nick's Moveable Feasts with the wonderful Kem Bennet who had trained together with Joyce Molineux at The Hole in the Wall in Bath owned by the legendary George Perry Smith.
How kindly and patiently Kem trained me; with his help I entered a new realm of cooking. I loved what I was doing. I cooked all day, ate delicious lunches with hilarious, entertaining, international staff and went back to my grotty flat and good friends in the evening. I was learning from the best and having huge fun, more fun than I'd ever had in my life!
Oh how modern the food was. We were all entering a new post war era of cooking. Gone were the dry lamb cutlets and rice pudding, the half raw chicken and tinned peaches of childhood. Gone was the nightmare food of school; Dead man's arm and lumpy custard, dreadful leaden Spotted Dick, bright yellow dried egg powder mixed with water masquerading as scrambled eggs, plastic fried eggs glued to aluminium trays cooked for hours, the grey cabbage floating in water and slugs, the axel grease Echo marg on gondola slices of stale bread. Gone, the brown slithers of grey "roast" meat winking with little keyholes of sinew served with mauve and yellow sprouts and leather potatoes. Gone was the fish on Friday, oh dread, dry on the outside and smelly and grey within. And best of all, gone were, oh, oh, my most hated of all; warm pork pies.
In the evenings after work I read cookery books. I devoured all of Elisabeth David, particularly the wonderful French Provincial Cooking. I still have that dear old book, completely in tatters and held together by an elastic band. Sentimentality forbids me to buy a new edition!
Kem taught me to make Fish soup with sauce Rouille, Terrine de Gibier, Duck Liver en Brioche, Paella, Steak Kidney and Oyster pies by the dozen,
Mediterranean Fish Pie, Civet de Lievre de Diane de Chateaumorand. That is to say, jugged hare the way Diane de Chateaumorand used to do it! I hated cutting up the hare and always pretended I'd forgotten how. Patiently he showed me again and again tactfully ignoring my youthful squeamishness!
We cooked Pigeon breasts au Porto, Daube of lamb a l'Ardennaise, oh so modern; slices of leg of lamb cooked slowly with haricot beans, mushrooms, black olives and bacon. And then of course there was some sort of Gumbo, Kem's speciality from Louisiana! I was in heaven!
When he wasn't teaching me I was seconded to the Bermudan pastry chef, a dear, patient man nicknamed, unkindly by my fellow workers, the Black Queen in those homophobic days. Rumour had it that he was the son of a high ranking government minister, who knows, I loved him. He taught me to make brandy snaps by the gross, Mont Blancs of meringue and candied chestnuts, Pears a la Bourguignonne, and chocolate mousse to die for. I adored his poodle too.
I have the Moveable Feast menu still. Luncheon and dinner was between 25/- and 35/- shilling per head (£1.25p-£1.75p in new money!) with a delivery charge of 10/- (50p) per meal irrespective of numbers. These were the days before Takeaways when busy hostesses picked up the phone, had their dinner party food delivered to the door and, often as not, pretended they had thrown it all together themselves!
But not always, sometimes I was sent with the food and found myself in some amazingly bizarre settings. I cooked for Edna O'Brian, while her sons raced round the kitchen full of beans after school. Rita Tushingham popped in for a chat while I dished up dinner. "The Girl with Green Eyes" had just been released
I was sent to a party in Kensington, all titles and glitterati, with an out of work actor to "wait". He instantly cut his hand badly and insisted on serving dinner to the great and the good one handed. The other, swathed in a bloody napkin, he held high above his head; high camp indeed.
After the "small" dinner for twenty, others guests arrived and the party moved to the huge studio upstairs. The bath really was full of ice and champagne! The guest list was startling even to me who had mixed with debs, "done" Queen Charlottes Ball while at Winkfield Place and who had a boyfriend who was an up and coming TV type in the thick of "Ready Steady Go" used to holding back the screaming hordes from a new rock star called Mick Jagger!
A tall man approached me in the hall as I raced frantically back and forth between kitchen and guests. He asked me to hide his coat. Slightly irritated and without looking at him I snatched it and stuffed it unceremoniously under a chair. I looked up into the laughing eyes of David Niven.
Having finished the washing up, I was invited by my delightful employers to join the revellers. Hot and dishevelled and smelling of cooking, I managed to smile graciously and slide out quietly without being noticed and go home on the bus to my boyfriend.
I married the boyfriend and soon I found myself with a new challenge: a small screaming affair needing attention day and night. My Nick's Diner days came to an abrupt end. Soon we had another baby and I began to learn what huge fun childhood could be after all. But even then I simply couldn't stop cooking!
Cooking for "Flat"
Each term at Winkfield we all took it in turns to do two extra duties. One was called Drudge which simply meant clearing plates, laying tables, washing up, serving and, well, general drudge!
The other duty was far more terrifying: we had to cook for the senior staff in "Flat" Constance Spry's private part of the house. This meant producing perfect meals to order for her widower, Mr Spry, the great Rosemary Hume herself and a selection of senior staff and guests. It was nerve wracking. We dreaded it. Here is a précis of one menu and you'll see why!
"Hostess Cooking" 25th &26th January, 1965
Eggs "Poche Aurore"
Freshly made little pastry tartlets were filled with tinned crab seasoned with lemon juice and Tabasco and a cold poached egg. Each was then topped with a mixture of homemade tomato puree, shallot, sherry, béchamel sauce, gelatine and cream.
Sole Cubat
First poach skinned fillets of sole in a well-buttered dish. Cook chopped mushrooms in butter and add to a béchamel sauce and spread down the centre of a serving dish. Place the fish on top and coat with a Morney sauce seasoned with cheese and mustard. Sprinkle Parmesan on the top, glaze under a hot grill and serve with croutes of French bread fried in butter.
Shoulder of Lamb Dauphinois
The shoulder of lamb was boned and stuffed with a mixture of parsley, green pepper, thyme, oregano, rosemary, and bay all bound together with a small egg. The meat was securely sewn up and spread with butter. A glass of wine was poured over the top. It then went into a hot oven for 1-1 ¼ hours and was frequently basted. Gravy was made with a good stock made from the bone and the whole was served with creamed butter beans.
Squabs Malaga
Brown three young pigeons in butter. Remove from the pan and brown chopped onion and bacon. Replace pigeon, season, add stock, put on a lid and cook for 30-40minutes. Add raisins soaked in brandy 10 minutes before the end of cooking.
Take out the pigeon, split in half and trim. Thicken gravy with kneaded butter, reboil. Serve with Brussel sprouts
Pineapple Mousse "en Surprise"
Prepare a 6 inch soufflé case and set an oiled jam jar in the centre. Make a mousse with 3 eggs, 2 egg yolks, 2 oz. caster sugar,1/4 pint pineapple juice, ½ oz. gelatine, 1 lemon , ¼ pint stiffly whipped cream and 2 stiffly whisked egg whites. . Pour into the soufflé case and leave to set. Meanwhile peel and slice a pineapple and sprinkle with sugar. Soak ratafia biscuits in Kirsch. When the mousse is set remove the jam jar and fill the centre with the pineapple and ratafia biscuits. Decorate with whipped cream.
Can you wonder we were scared !
Devon Rain
And still it rains, relentlessly, torrentially day in day out, week after week. We've become obsessed with the weather forecast tuning into radio and television at every opportunity, checking our phones, computers, tablets every hour. Low after low swirl across the Atlantic, bringing more and more severe flood warnings, leaving more and more devastation in their wake. Flooding, waterlogged fields, storm force winds, it feels as if the whole of the British Isles is sinking below the sea. As we travelled right across England from west to east last week to the memorial service of a dear friend, the roads seemed to snail their way like great grey slime trails across mile after mile of submerged farmland. The media tells of the desperate plight of the Somerset Levels but we saw the same in Avon, Wiltshire, North Oxfordshire, everywhere. And now it has reached us here in the West Country; the rail connection gone from Exeter to Penzance, Dawlish station washed away; catastrophe after catastrophe right across Devon and Cornwall.
Day in day out the forecast is the same; rain and wind, wind and rain. A brief respite and we rush to the yard to try to do a few long overdue jobs.
Then in comes the next storm. Gale force winds rock the very fabric of the buildings, trees sway precariously on the steep hills above us. No serious flooding here yet: no flooded barns or collapsing driveways so far this year. The flood defences we put in place after last years' deluge are so far holding up. The stream is still just about contained as it roars through the valley. Frothing brown, it crashes its way to the mud streaked creek taking all in its path. Each high tide finds us cut off from the village as the huge volume of water coming off the hills is held back by gale force winds holding back the natural tidal flow of the river. The geese arrived last week but didn't stay long this year. Resting and feeding for a while, they soon moved on.
Day in day out, slipping and sliding on waterlogged ground, we trudge up to the top fields to feed the sheep. Today I could barely stay upright in the wind as I called the girls to tea. For once we are grateful to have such steep land where ewes can graze safely on high ground with a little barn for shelter.
I heard on the radio the other day that someone somewhere has unearthed old records which show we are experiencing the highest rainfall since 1767, the year our house was built. As I watch our 21st century builders equipped with all the latest gear struggle to climb the scaffolding in howling winds and rain to mend our leaking roof and replace our rotten windows, I try to image the scene in the 18th century as men dug into the muddy Devon hillside in torrential rain toiling to build this strange, narrow four storey folly; a local Rector's dream house for his daughter.
Some folly indeed, down a muddy track almost a mile from a steep riverside village, it stood at the head of a creek looking east towards the River Dart. There was a ford at the gate, no heating, no plumbing, certainly no little shop in the village! The village could only be reached on foot or by horse and cart, the local town by water. The only token to modernity, if you can call it that, were the coal grates in the house replacing he usual wood burning hearth. Coal barges unloaded their cargo at the head of the creek onto horse and carts so coal was available to warm the two main rooms; so very modern for 1767. But I keep imagining just how hard and bleak life must have been.
At the head of the creek the rotting hulk of the coal barge sinks into the mud
Dartmouth is still our nearest little town. A town with an extraordinary history, it has managed to re-invent itself in a quite remarkable way time and again across the centuries. It sits at the mouth of the Dart, a river which rises five hundred and fifty metres above sea level on the acidic peat bogs high up on Dartmoor. The water tumbles down fed by numerous little rivulets and streams until it becomes a respectable river flowing through grassland and heath, farmland and pasture to Totnes. Here it becomes an estuary, flooding a RIA valley formed long ago in the last Ice Age by rising sea levels and sinking land. It becomes tidal, freshwater mixing with salt from the sea. Oak trees dominate the shore. Dart is the Celtic word for "many oaks".
Dartmouth perches at its mouth, a town with a history of ships and shipping and a story dominated by the sea. It was not until 1823 that the town became accessible by land for wheeled vehicles almost sixty years after our house was built. Up until that time only pack horses or ponies could manage the steep descent to town and .quay; the river was the motorway to the town.
In the 12th century Dartmouth was the fourth most important town in Devon after Exeter, Plymouth and Barnstaple. The First Crusade left in 1147 and the third in 1190. Dartmouth was already meeting the needs of commercial shipping. Smith Street, Higher Street and Lower Street formed the town centre on the water's edge; merchant houses and warehouses backed onto the river making it easy to load and unload cargoes straight from ships. Boats lay alongside for repairs and the quay side was a thriving marketplace, the earliest recorded in 1231. Plenty of fresh water flowed from the hills above the town filling conduits which were still in use in the 20th century. The water supply made Dartmouth a popular place with brewers and vintners and in 1364 it received the Charter of Merchant Vintners increasing trade in cloth and herring as well as wine.
There were brewers, bakers, butchers and craftsmen. There was the pillory, stocks and a cucking stool in the waterside churchyard of St Saviours. Laws were plenty to dissuade the unscrupulous tradesman; a Millar must only have 3 hens and a cock in case he should feed client's grain to his poultry. If he gave short weight he was fined for the first two offences then, if he offended again, he was into the pillory. A similar fate awaited the brewer who sold short measure. On his third offence it was into the cucking stool then into the pillory soaking wet; a nasty deterrent. And so on for the fishmonger and cook. Tavernier's were forbidden to make their own wine and one Innkeeper who used his premises as a Brothel was simply expelled from the town.
Until 1823 the river was the motorway of the town
The strength behind the success of the town for many years was the great merchant and shipmaster, Hawley 1340-1408. It was he who fortified the town with a great chain that could be cast across the mouth of the river thus giving the town the power to stop enemy ships entering or leaving. So impressed was Chaucer when he met Hawley while visiting Dartmouth in his role as customs officer on behalf of the King in 1373, that he is believed to have based his famous Schipman upon him in the Canterbury Tales. Hawley's achievements are legendry, mayor many times, a privateer of huge reputation and some say, possibly something of a pirate too. On his death the town mourned the loss of one of its greatest and began to decline.
But not for long, as the fishing trade increased so Dartmouth was to become famous for the Newfoundland fisheries. Sir Walter Raleigh, "a local", described the fishery as "the mainstay of the West". So important was it that the crews sailing to Newfoundland were exempt press-ganging into the Navy at times of war. The ships were away for half the year salting and drying the cod on board and trading it with goods from Spain, France and Portugal on their return en route to Dartmouth. As time passed fishing became more local and by the 18th century Devon boats were sending fish to Bristol, Bath, Portsmouth, London and the Channel Islands. The fish was kept alive in huge tanks on board ship.
Gradually the town began to change. It is hard to imagine Victoria Road under water until the beginning of the 19th Century; crossing places at North Ford and South Ford uniting the two small towns of Hardness and Clifton which together formed Dartmouth. Drainage and land reclamation began in earnest.
Foss Street
By the 1820's Foss Street was dry land leading to the new Market Place. Wheeled vehicles began to come down the hill into the town at last. Local trade increased as farmers were able to bring more produce to market and supply local shops. Burgoyne's the Butcher and Oldreive Brothers in Fairfax Place victualed the ships and fed the town. The display of poultry and game from the first floor of Oldreives was such that they employed staff all night to prevent "pilfering".
And so the town swung into the 20th then 21st century. Small traders like Mr Shillibeare and Mr Cutmore the butchers, Crisp and Green the greengrocers, Dave Killer the Chemist, Cundells the Grocer, have all given way to the supermarkets. There is just one butcher now run by the Pollards who cut up our lamb and pork so beautifully for our customers.
Jilly's Farm Shop sells local produce every week day. High quality restaurants, cafes and pubs abound. The old bakery is gone but the fabulous patisserie, Saveurs has arrived from France. The old Market has recently been magnificently refurbished: the fat stock show and the farmers market keep the old traditions not just alive but thriving there, local food producers bring their produce to the town as they have done for centuries, then by boat, by cart or pack horse, now by car or van.
The fishing fleet mostly trade from nearby Brixham now but the crabbers still come, into the river and wonderful fresh fish is still available in abundance; local food producers are once more thriving and multiplying and local food is slowly being valued once again. Times change, and as in the past, Dartmouth adjusts to the needs of the moment; the multiplicity of a present built upon hundreds of years of the past.
A delicious smell of chicken stock floats into the study as I write, the very last vestiges of a delicious local free range bird I bought from the Pollards last week. We're hard to please when it comes to chickens having spent so many years raising table birds ourselves. But this was as good as anything we used to sell! And it provided so many meals. First I cooked traditional roast chicken. The following day a wonderful cold chicken salad, then a chicken and mushroom pie with added Hogs Pudding. The latter made by the aforesaid Richard Pollard even won the approval of by my Cornish husband! This evening a risotto and still to go, stock for soup, even scraps as a treat for the dogs! Not bad for one small chicken.
Left over chicken pie
Strip the last pieces of meat from the carcase. Use the bones to make stock for soup.
Finely chop a small onion or shallot in a little butter and oil (the oil stops the butter burning)
When the onion is soft but not coloured add sliced mushrooms, a little chopped bacon and Hogs Pudding if you can get it. It tends to be available only in the West Country.
Cook gently for a few minutes then stir in stock or left over gravy to a creamy consistency. Thicken with corn flour if necessary.
Add the chicken and some chopped parsley. Taste and season accordingly.
Tip into a pie dish. Cover with ready-made puff pastry. Brush with beaten egg and bake for till crisp and golden in a hot oven 200 c


text:
p-falcon
Van Vleuten roars into lead at Tour de France Femmes with stage seven win
By p-falconorg August 12, 2022 August 8, 2022
Annemiek van Vleuten recovered from illness to blow the Tour de France Femmes apart with a 60km lone attack in the first mountain stage, taking a memorable win and the overall lead with one day's racing to come.
Such was her domination of the Vosges mountains in the first climbing test of the week-long race that only eight riders crossed the line within 10 minutes of her, on the last of three first category summits, Le Markstein, in the Vosges.
Van Vleuten, riding for Movistar and winner of the women's Giro d'Italia, started the Tour as the hot favourite, but suffered through a stomach bug that enforced a mid-race toilet stop and almost made her quit. After a torrid few days, in which she was so weak that she needed help packing her suitcase, the Tokyo Olympic time trial champion recovered in time for the first mountain stage.
"I couldn't believe this was possible after being so sick," she said. "Being here in the yellow jersey – it's a little bit of a miracle."
Attacking with fellow Dutch rider Demi Vollering (Team SD Worx), she took the race by the scruff of the neck on the first climb, the Petit Ballon, and immediately put distance between her and the overnight race leader Marianne Vos (Jumbo-Visma). "I had to try, because I'd lost some seconds," Van Vleuten said. "My style is always attacking and not waiting for the final.
"I reconned the stage and saw the Petit Ballon was hard, and after six days of waiting and surviving and recovering, I wanted to make the biggest time gaps. That means going on the first climb."
Van Vleuten, who won the 2019 World Road Race title in Yorkshire with a similar solo break, then moved clear of Vollering on the 11% gradients of the Col de Platzerwasel, the second of the first category climbs, to open up a three and a half minute lead at Le Markstein. Given her track record, an attack in the mountains was predictable. Few, however, given her sickness, expected such a complete demolition of her peers.
"I'm a bit older than the other girls so can do a lot of training," Van Vleuten said. "I want to make something clear. It's not that my colleagues don't train as much as I do. It has something to do with training years. I have a lot of capacity, then it comes down to fitness, and that's something I'm really good in. This stage suited that really well.
"If my colleagues continue for some more years, for sure they can do it. The stage was so hard I knew that if I was fit enough after being sick, it would be my day."
Her rivals may now wish that they had tried to lose Van Vleuten earlier in the week, when she was at her most vulnerable, particularly on the gruelling gravel roads of the Aube. "Monday and Tuesday, given her state of health, we didn't push things," her teammate Aude Biannic said. "She said it was her worst day on a bike and wasn't even sure if she could finish the stage. She couldn't even eat or drink."
"I was super-close to quitting," Van Vleuten said. "Day two, I couldn't even pack my things. I was really in a bad situation."
With one mountain stage remaining, to the gravel summit of Super Planche des Belles Filles, Van Vleuten leads Vollering by just over three minutes, a margin that she seems unlikely to relinquish.
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This Monterey 278 Super Sport of 8 meters is the perfect combination of luxury and technology ideal to enjoy a holiday by the crystal clear waters of Ibiza and Formentera.
This beauty of the sea has a spacious cockpit plus a large aft seating area that goes from port to starboard, making you feel as if you were resting on the sofa in your own home. However, for those who want to enjoy the Mediterranean sun, this seat can also become a large solarium. Take the opportunity to know the pleasure of sailing on a motor boat and enjoy the tranquility offered by the Mediterranean Sea.


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Q: How to deal with NGSI-LD tenants ? Create ? List ? Delete? I have a hard time trying to find concrete information about how to deal with tenants in a NGSI-LD Context Broker.
The ETSI specification defines multi-tenancy but it seems it doesn't specify any operations to create a tenant, list available tenants and remove a tenant.
I presume each broker is free to implement multi-tenancy its own way but I've searched the tenant keyword in broker documentations (at least for Orion-LD, Stellio and Scorpio) with no success.
Thanks to this stackoverflow post I've successfully created a tenant in Orion-LD.
I'd like to know if there are some tenants operations (documented or undocumented) exposed by brokers.
Especially any facilities to remove a tenant - along with all resources that have been created "inside".
Thanks.

A: So, first of all, tenants are created "on the fly". In comes a request to create an entity, subscription, or registration, and the HTTP header "NGSILD-Tenant" specifies a tenant that does not already exists, then the tenant is created and the entity/sub/reg is created "under it".    For ALL operations, the HTTP header is used.  jsonldContexts are different, those are "omnipresent" and exist regardless of the tenant used.
GET operations (like all other operations) can use the NGSILD-Tenant header to indicate on which tenant the GET is to be performed, but if that tenant does not exist, it will naturally not be created - an error is retuirned instead.
There are no official endpoints to list tenants (nor delete - that would be a bit dangerous!), but in the case of Orion-LD, I implemented an endpoint for debugging purposes: GET /ngsi-ld/ex/v1/tenants. That one you can use if you please. Just remember, no other NGSI-LD broker is supporting that endpoint

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


I recently attended a press tasting of Spanish wines entitled Spain on the High Street. There were lots of pretty good wines there, but sadly many of the reds failed to excite me.
That is not because they were bad or that you cannot get exciting Spanish red wines on the high street – you can. I defy anyone not to be excited by this wine, or this – they are both amongst my favourite easily obtainable delicious red wines of the moment. I would also give this a go if I was you, it isn't in the same league and Aldi are not on many high streets, but the wine is amazing value for money. A little more pricey, but a great experience for Christmas would be this little gem of a wine.
So, perhaps the selection just didn't excite me that day – however some of the whites were very good indeed and I thought that I would bring a few of the best value ones to your attention in the run up to Christmas.
I know, very predictable, but you know what? It was pretty good, I have not had many Torres wines for a long time, but on this showing I should give them all a go. My note on the day said, 'slight touch of spritz, light-bodied, crisp and fresh with lemon and a softer mandarin and nectarine character with a clean, fresh finish.' 87/100 points.
£5.99-£6.99 a bottle from Asda, Wine Rack & Majestic.
To some degree this humble wine stole the show for me, who on earth would have thought I would get excited by a white from La Mancha? This is mainly the traditionally dull Airen, but it also has 10% Sauvignon Blanc and another 10% Verdejo, both of which liven it up and make it tasty – superb wine making does the rest, I especially like the lowish alcohol level.
Light bodied and crisp and really surprisingly good, this is fresh and lively, very well balanced, agreeable to drink and has a long clean finish. Not complex, but very enjoyable – 87/100 points.
£4.79 a bottle from Waitrose.
Enjoyable and fresh with nice acidity cutting through the fat and a lovely salty twang on the palate too that makes it a perfect aperitif.
I like this with it's peachiness and freshness, the back palate has a little sweet ripe succulence balanced by that salty and acid thing – 89/100 points.
£10.99 a bottle from Marks & Spencer.
The nose is lemony and mandarin with the merest hint of toast, smoke and spice from being barrel fermented.
The palate is smooth, creamy moving to oily with a bracing seam of tangerine acidity and a lovely creamy nutty texture. Very elegant and refined wine that would be great with turkey, chicken or pork – 89/100 points.
£10.99 a bottle from Majestic.
The palate is decidedly medium bodied, but has lots of nutty, macadamia and brazils, as well as juicy nectarine fruit. The texture is lovely and the seam of acidity keeps it very well balanced indeed. The oak is delicate and well integrated with an oily toasty quality and creaminess. Pretty long finish with green plum fruit coming to the fore, this is a very good wine with perfectly handled oak – 89/100 points.
£7.99 from Sainsbury – making it a great bargain!
Both these barrel-fermented white wines are beautifully crafted and elegant, in neither of them is the oak dominant, it just lends a weight and a touch of creaminess to the palate.
So, there you are, if you fancy a good, but affordable white wine for Christmas – you could do a lot worse than try a couple of these.
Hi, I recently tried the Gran Lopez range at your recommendation. Undoubtedly the white was much like you said, however the red was disappointing and the rose only slightly better in comparison. Superb value white but the red is classic headache material!
Hi Tom – I agree, that is why I never mentioned the red or rosé! They are just not in the same league at all. Thanks for looking, more articles soon.


text:
![voyager](/lib/assets/banner-722x280.png)

[![Build Status](https://travis-ci.org/davidglivar/voyager.png)](https://travis-ci.org/davidglivar/voyager)

This is a work in progress, please check back later.

Usage
-----

Install voyager globally.

    npm install -g voyager

To generate a new project

    voyager -n <project_name>
    cd <project_name>/
    npm install

Start your server

    voyager -s <port|3000>

Testing
-------

voyager uses [jasmine-node](https://github.com/mhevery/jasmine-node) for testing. Be sure to install it with `npm install -g jasmine-node`.

Run the voyager specs with

    voyager -t

Influences
----------

This project is heavily influenced by connect and express.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


text:
'Serial abuser of women' locked up after throttling latest victim
'Serial abuser of women' Paul Thackray locked up for 33 months
By Megi Rychlikova Court Reporter
A "SERIAL abuser of women" has been jailed for reducing his latest girlfriend to a battered, penniless and terrified state.
Paul David Thackray was given a three-year jail term for "strikingly similar" offences against an earlier girlfriend in 2015, said Recorder Andrew Dallas.
While on parole from that sentence, he failed to go on a course for domestic abusers, started living with a third woman and concerned probation officers so much they recalled him to prison.
He has previous convictions for domestic violence against a fourth partner and for assaulting his sister, the judge said.
"No woman is safe with him. Don't have anything to do with him," the latest victim said as she left York Crown Court.
The Independent Domestic Abuse Service (IDAS) praised her courage in speaking out and ending her ordeal
The latest victim told the court she is still too scarred by months of physical, emotional and psychological abuse to return to the flat where he lived with her, three months after she was taken to hospital.
"I want to be able to live in my home, to be independent again," she said. "I don't want to be scared of being in my home or in the city where I live. I want to be able to walk down my street and not have to cover my face and body."
Thackray's actions had driven her to take cannabis and to run up debts as he made her pay for things for him.
Jonathan Foy, prosecuting, said Thackray's final sustained assault on her began with him throttling her and had left her vomiting.
She had so many bruises on her when she arrived at hospital, doctors gave her a CT scan and kept her in for 24 hours for observations.
"You are a serial abuser of women," Recorder Andrew Dallas told Thackray.
Jailing him for 33 months, he said Thackray had deliberately targeted the latest victim, who was a vulnerable person.
He had quickly turned their relationship into a "coercive and violent" one.
Thackray, 28, formerly of York, pleaded guilty to actual bodily harm and two assaults. He was given a 10-year restraining order to protect the latest victim.
For him, Kirsten Mercer said he had experienced violence as a child and was motivated to change his ways.
He had left York to live with a friend in Thirsk and had no income as he had no job and wasn't claiming benefits.
In 2015 and 2019, York Crown Court heard how he targeted a vulnerable woman, moved in with her, got her into debt, manipulated her emotionally and psychologically and regularly assaulted her.
An IDAS spokesperson said: "It can take immense courage and bravery to speak out and access support.
"We are pleased that the survivor in this case was able to access our vital services and that justice has been served. We would urge anyone who is concerned about someone they know, or who thinks that they may be in an abusive relationship, to get in touch with us at the earliest opportunity on our helpline 03000 110 110."
House of Lords could move to York bringing thousands of jobs
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Even though nothing we visited had a wow factor, when combined all these places provided for a pretty entertaining afternoon.
The battle of Al-Jahra was between Kuwait and a rebel Saudi militia..
I thought the same thing about the Red Fort. I thought it was bigger. It seemed like a village for little people. The doors and ceilings were really low. I wonder if people were shorter back in the 20's?
I'm thinking wood was expensive back then (having to be imported and all), therefore make the expensive wood doors as small as possible, if you had to stoop to get in, deal with it.
I scrolled back up to look at it….you're right. LOL.
Hungry bunny = allah yzeed al ne3ma. I couldn't finish it.


text:
Ajit Doval hosts India-Central Asia meet of NSAs
Ajit Doval speaks during the inaugural India-Central Asia meeting in New Delhi, Tuesday. (PTI)
The NSAs of India and Central Asian countries on Tuesday called for collective action to combat challenges like terror financing, radicalisation and use of terrorist proxies for cross-border terrorism, while asserting that Afghanistan must not become a safe haven for terrorist activities.
The meeting hosted by NSA Ajit Doval also emphasised the need for respecting Afghanistan's sovereignty, unity and territorial integrity and urged non-interference in its internal affairs.
A joint communique said the officials agreed that the expansion of terrorist propaganda, recruitment and fund-raising efforts have serious security implications for the region, and therefore, a collective and coordinated response is essential.
"The misuse of new and emerging technologies, arms and drugs trafficking, using terrorist proxies for cross-border terrorism, abuse of cyber space to spread disinformation and unmanned aerial systems present new challenges in counterterrorism efforts and call for collective action," it said.
The mentioning of cross-border terrorism is seen as a reference to Pakistan's support to various terror groups which have been targeting India.
The meeting also strongly called for an early adoption of the UN Comprehensive Convention on International Terrorism to effectively deal with the menace.
It also reiterated that greater connectivity could be a force multiplier for enhancing trade and commerce as well as for ensuring closer interactions between India and Central Asian countries.
"They agreed that connectivity initiatives should be based on the principles of transparency, broad participation, local priorities. financial sustainability and respect for sovereignty and territorial integrity of all countries," it said in remarks seen as an oblique reference to China's Belt and Road Initiative.
In his inaugural address, Doval said financial support is the "lifeblood" of terrorism and greater priority should be accorded to counter terror financing.
Describing Central Asia as India's "extended neighbourhood", Doval said New Delhi accords "highest priority" to this region, adding Afghanistan is an important issue "concerning all of us".
Doval hosted the conclave with a focus on evolving a common framework to deal with challenges of terrorism in the region including Afghanistan and ways to bolster overall security cooperation in sync with a decision taken at the first India-Central Asia summit in January.
In his brief address, Doval largely focused on the challenge of terrorism, the situation in Afghanistan and the importance of regional connectivity projects.
"Financing of terrorism is its lifeblood and countering terror financing should be an equal priority for all of us," he said, amid India's growing concern over use of Afghan soil for terrorist activities including by Pakistan-origin terror groups like Jaish-e-Mohammed and Lashkar-e-Taiba.
The NSAs of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Uzbekistan are attending the conclave while Turkmenistan is being represented by its ambassador to India.
Ajit Doval
India-Central Asia
NSAs
'Shall serve as an example': Giriraj praises Lalu's daughter
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Sprinting great Usain Bolt loses $12.7 million from Jamaican account


"Since starting a career in the Real Estate industry in 2007, I have been helping Buyer and Seller alike realized their dreams and goals. My goal is to thoroughly educate my clients on the buying and selling process, and offer my expert advice and present all possible options that are available to them so that they can make an informed decision, a decision that many will regards as one of the most important decision of their lives. I am very dedicated to each of my client and they can expect that I will professional, honest, forthcoming and treat them with respect, while delivering a high quality level of service that tailored to each client's individual situation.
Additional, I am also able to offer an expertise that many other Real Estate Agent can't provide, and that is having personal experiences of buying and selling homes of my own, since I am also a real estate investor who has bought and sold numerous investment home of my own throughout the years. With personal experience as a buyer and also as a seller, I can relate to my client's needs and concerns throughout the transaction, and at times can offer unique perspective to help guide and broaden their field of vision.
I pride myself in continued education in the ever changing world of Real Estate, therefore, you will find me very actively attending educational events to help me stay up to date current laws, practices and strategies.
Contact Trong Dang to preview this beautiful 1987 1960+/- sq foot home located at 12742 SE 282nd Way Kent, WA 98030. A Must See!


text:
Branches Near Me
FIRST NATIONAL BANK HISTORY
Bank Name:First National Bank
Bank Class:National Bank
Member FDIC:Certificate #7888
Locations:384 Branches in 6 states
First National Bank was founded on February 4, 1864 and has been serving the financial needs of their customers for over 155 years.
First National Bank currently operates with 384 branches located in 6 states as a subsidiary of F.N.b. Corporation. Check below for important events in banks history.
IMPORTANT EVENTS IN BANKS HISTORY
Below is a list of some important events in the history of First National Bank, including mergers and acquisitions. This data was last revised on 5th of January, 2019.
DATEEVENT
Feb 04, 1864Institution established: Original name: The First National Bank of Greenville
Aug 26, 1955Changed name to First National Bank of Mercer County, Greenville, PA.
Feb 15, 1963Changed name to First National Bank of Mercer County
Jul 24, 1992Changed name to First National Bank of Pennsylvania
May 14, 1996Acquired Dollar Savings Bank (27938) in New Castle, PA
Mar 16, 2001Acquired Reeves Bank (19868) in Beaver Falls, PA
Feb 15, 2002Acquired Promistar Bank (14501) in Johnstown, PA
Nov 08, 2002Acquired Metropolitan National Bank (32298) in Youngstown, OH
Dec 31, 2003Acquired First National Trust Company (35177) in Hermitage, PA
Oct 08, 2004Acquired The First National Bank of Slippery Rock (7972) in Slippery Rock, PA
Feb 18, 2005Acquired NorthSide Bank (14558) in Pittsburgh, PA
Oct 07, 2005Acquired The National Bank of North East (7938) in North East, PA
May 26, 2006Acquired The Legacy Bank (35204) in Harrisburg, PA
Apr 01, 2008Acquired Omega Bank (7533) in Huntingdon, PA
Aug 15, 2008Acquired Iron and Glass Bank (9891) in Pittsburgh, PA
Jan 01, 2011Acquired Community Bank & Trust Company (14530) in Clarks Summit, PA
Jan 01, 2012Acquired Parkvale Savings Bank (30237) in Monroeville, PA
Apr 06, 2013Acquired BankAnnapolis (32740) in Annapolis, MD
Oct 12, 2013Acquired Park View Federal Savings Bank (28235) in Solon, OH
Feb 15, 2014Acquired Baltimore County Savings Bank (32341) in Nottingham, MD
Sep 19, 2014Acquired Oba Bank (27889) in Germantown, MD
Feb 13, 2016Acquired Metro Bank (26255) in Lemoyne, PA
Mar 11, 2017Acquired Yadkin Bank (19861) in Statesville, NC
Easily submit your review, comment or complaint about First National Bank using your Facebook profile.
Please rate First National Bank
NEW BRANCHES
No new branches were opened in the last 12 months...
CLOSED BRANCHES
No branches were closed in the last 6 months...
POPULAR BRANCHES
4250 Derry Street, Harrisburg, PA 17111
5140 Perkiomen Avenue, Reading, PA 19606
Lexington Main
38 West First Avenue, Lexington, NC 27292
101 North Howe Street, Southport, NC 28461
903 East Main Street, Palmyra, PA 17078
This site is not affiliated with, maintained, sponsored or endorsed by First National Bank or any government agency. Bank and branch information published on this website may not be true or accurate at all times. BankBranchLocator.com assumes no responsibility or liability for the accuracy or completeness of the listings.


March 19, 2009 Lehigh Valley, Pa.
The Board of Directors of Air Products (NYSE:APD) today increased the quarterly dividend on the company's common stock to 45 cents per share from 44 cents.
The dividend is payable on May 11, 2009 to shareholders of record at the close of business on April 1, 2009. This marks the 27th consecutive year that Air Products has increased its dividend payment.
Name Phone The Board of Directors of Air Products (NYSE:APD) today increased the quarterly dividend on the company's common stock to 45 cents per share from 44 cents.


text:
Lockstep & Goodhouse
November 3, 2014 by Angela Carstensen
Two excellent science fiction titles today, both featuring teen male protagonists.
Lockstep is a hard SF romp that, despite its sophistication, could have been published for a YA audience. Karl Schroeder is a well-known and respected Canadian science fiction author whose output is entirely adult, so his publishers probably did well to keep him in that category. The concept of The Lockstep gives the reader several fascinating worlds to experience via Toby's adventures, and a terrific challenge wrapping one's mind around the concept of entire worlds hibernating 360 month for every one month awake–not to mention the consequences for societies that do not participate.
Peyton Marshall's debut, Goodhouse, is a dystopian novel that comments on a possible United States, a few decades in the future. While there isn't much to the author's world-building that is unique, the novel is very well-written, featuring a strong, young protagonist legitimately struggling with both past trauma and hopes for the future. No matter how good his intentions, the corruption of the Goodhouse system makes it impossible for James to "graduate" successfully, and that is going to madden his teen readers! And guarantee their interest in finding out what happens to him.
In other SF news, I'll take this opportunity to remind you that the second in Mira Grant's Parasitology series, Symbiont, comes out later this month. I reviewed Parasite last December, and although I don't anticipate reviewing Symbiont (purely due to time crunch), if you have teen fans of the first you will want to order the second.
* SCHROEDER, Karl. Lockstep. 352p. Mar. 2014. Tor. Tr $26.99. ISBN 9780765337269.
For the last few years, young Toby McGonigal and his family have been homesteading on a small, icy exo-planet just outside of the Solar System. In order to maintain a monopoly, the family must claim stake to any orbiting moon they find. On his way to claim one such moon, Toby's ship's hull is breached, placing him into emergency deep hibernation. And there he sleeps, lost in space until his ship is pulled into orbit around a planet that appears dead. Luckily for Toby, the world below is not dead, frozen yes, but thriving nonetheless because it is part of the greatest and largest human civilization to ever exist, the Lockstep. The Lockstep has endured and thrived by institutionalizing a rigorous cycle of hibernation in which every member of the civilization lives together in 360 months of hibernation for every one month awake. Toby is shocked to discover that while he has been asleep for over 14,000 years, the Lockstep has been ruled by a single family since its creation: his own. Lockstep is one of the year's best works of hard science fiction, based around an intergalactic civilization bound by the Speed of Light. Against the backdrop of Toby's fight to rectify the sins of his family, Schroeder explores complicated topics such as the administration and economics of great empires, the effects of cultural diffusion, the relationship between governance and institutionalized religion, relativistic time, and the complications caused by functional immortality. This title will be especially appealing to advanced readers of science fiction, who will appreciate the opportunity to move out of the worlds of the "Force" and Warp Drives, and into a thriving empire that is well within the theoretical possibilities of human achievement.—Ryan Paulsen, New Rochelle High School, New Rochelle, NY
MARSHALL, Peyton. Goodhouse. 336p. Farrar. Sept. 2014. Tr $26. ISBN 9780374165628. LC 2014008671.
This propulsive dystopian novel is set in the Goodhouse system—boarding school-like juvenile detention centers created in the near-future to house and educate boys whose DNA inclines them toward criminal behavior. At age three, James was placed at La Pine. Now he is 17, and has just transferred to Ione, one of the only survivors when La Pine was burned to the ground by Zeros, radical opponents of the Goodhouse movement. In preparation for their release from the Goodhouse at 18, Ione boys are loaned out to local families to help with chores. During his first placement, James meets Bethany, a teenager who uses her technical prowess to stay in touch after he returns to campus. Meanwhile, James is changing from model student to violent troublemaker. One night he is abducted and taken to the exclusion zone, an area between Ione and the Mule Creek prison next door, and forced to fight to the death against prison inmates. From then on James has no idea whom to trust. He doesn't know if he's hallucinating when he sees the man who shot his best friend the night of the La Pine fire, but he fears that Zeros may be infiltrating Ione and planning another attack. After he learns that the man is Bethany's father and a doctor at Ione, his suspicions multiply. James' first-person narration sets this novel apart; he is a strong, sympathetic character who seems to be a pawn in a larger struggle that neither he nor readers understand until the very last pages. Fans of Veronica Roth's Divergent ready for a literary dystopian read are the ideal audience.—Angela Carstensen, Convent of the Sacred Heart, New York City
Filed Under: Science Fiction, Thriller, Weekly Reviews Tagged With: Dystopian, Farrar Straus Giroux, FSG, Karl Schroeder, Peyton Marshall, science fiction, starred reviews, Tor


You may refresh your self in a nice and comfortable spa, if you visit the Town Baths of Balmaz�jv�ros. The spa is situated in the former castle park of the Semsey family.
Nowadays there are six pools in the complex, thermals pools and one swimming pool.
The first inhabitants of this land were some Turk people, in the 10C. The first source which mentioned the name of the town dates back to the 15C. In this century, the inhabitants of Balmaz had some legal fights with the neighboring settlement H�mes. After a small battle between the two settlements, the inhabitants of Balmaz captured the land of H�mes, which was a better agricultural land then Balmaz. Soon it became an oppidium, which means a small town with some privileges. Unfortunately it had lost these privileges in the 18C, and after became a poor and scheduled land. Peter Veres wrote a great sociological work about the problems of the peasants in this area in the 20C.
After the first bathing facilities were built, the importance of Balamz�jv�ros had grown, and due to this, some develops were made in the town.
After refreshing your self in the spa, you should look around the town. Next to the spa, you can visit the Semsey mansion. This Classicist mansion was built in the 19C. Although it is a shop nowadays, the great building is worth the visit.
If you would like to know more about this land, don't miss to explore the surround of Balmaz�jv�ros, and not only the great town of Debrecen, but also the surrounding plane. The land of the Hortob�gy is full of natural beauties and has a special atmosphere, which is worth the tour!
Inside the complex there are thermal pool for the grown-ups, a small pool for children and an aqua park. Soon there will bee some develops, according to the plans of the owners, such as to build a swimming pool and some other buildings where different kinds of treatments will bee available.