tweed life


Stolen from an old suit I barely wore, this pair of blue fleck Tweed trousers are a rare thing indeed. Grey and black Tweed are common but blue is a rare sight to see, like a drug addict with impulse control. Speaking of which this reminds me of a story with some Scottish herion users I met a few years ago. Quite content in their own filth and depravity and clearly nearing death it wasn’t the usually people I’d be socialising with but that’s another story. My friend and I looking around were quite surprised to see along side the usual paraphernalia was a lot of opened curry powder. Not really taking them for gourmet foodies of fine dining or Indian food I asked why they were there. One piped up and said “we mix it with the smack and it makes your veins on fire and all tingly” Absolutely mortified my faith in humanity had just stooped to a new low. My friend though, completely unfazed said “Do you use mild or hot powder?” Obviously a fucking connoisseur of curry powder highs, I thought as I looked at him in horror at such a question. They answered him laughing an still stoney faced he said “well they do say variety is the spice of life” an walked away like legend, saying the greatest pun I’ve ever witnessed…


Alison O’Neill, Cumbria’s Glamorous Shepherdess.

Alison is a shepherdess, farmer, walker, guide, mother, fashion designer and writer born and bred in the foothills of The Howgills, Cumbria.

She’s also got long raven hair and, to match her skirt, a well-tailored tweed jacket and waistcoat, all made with wool from local Herdwick sheep. A gimmick? Not at all, insists the shepherdess of Shacklabank Farm.

“My grandmother wore a tweed skirt all her life,” says O'Neill, who looks after 200 pedigree Herdwick’s on the Cumbrian hills outside Sedbergh. “And so did I, from the age of 10. It’s what I feel comfortable wearing.”

That said, the financial reality is that sheep-farming doesn’t pay all the bills and, to this end, O'Neill has branched out into walking holidays, guiding not just sheep, but people, around the fells. Sometimes without shoes.

“It’s one of the greatest pleasures there is, walking barefoot on the Howgills. The grass on the hills is beautifully green and velvety between your toes, and all soft and mossy down in the water meadows. If walkers complain of sore feet, I give them a natural pedicure with rolled-up mint leaves. The release of menthol is perfect for aching joints.”

As an added bonus, visitors to Shacklabank Farm can spend their nights in either a tree house or shepherd’s hut.The extra b & b income doesn’t make the O'Neills rich, but it allows them to live in the place they love and give others the chance to experience life in this part of Cumbria.

Article Daily Telegraph.

I love and hate how the smallest things in real life become great fanfic AUs.
Like for the past 2 weeks, the university’s free wifi won’t connect to my phone. I’m complaining to someone, and I’m like, “I’ll just go to IT and yell until they fix it.”
And bam.
It hits me.
I mean, wouldn’t this make the most hilarious, amazing, cutest, dorkiest AU?
Yes, my shipper trash brain insists. Yes, of course it would.
Because Bilbo is beyond technologically inept, and he struts into the IT department, staring at his device and yelling abuses at it.
And there’s Thorin, all socially awkward and cursing the (already minuscule) amount of human interaction his new job requires. Just give him a hunk of metal and a room alone, and he’ll be good for hours.
But then in walks Bilbo, who is immediately alluring (especially with in spite of the steam of almost-foul language he’s currently expelling) and Thorin’s reduced to grunts and scowls as he slips on his glasses to take a look.
The problem is ridiculously simple - Bilbo just wants to connect to the wifi (a name which confuses Bilbo considerably), but Thorin finds himself proclaiming there’s a virus, and if Bilbo takes it anywhere else they’ll charge him a fortune, but it’s free here, so…
Thorin panics for a second when Bilbo begins asking questions, but Thorin just throws around some random, nonsensical computer software jargon, and Bilbo’s nose scrunches up in confusion, and oh Mahal, Thorin’s got it bad.