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FINNBARR
Ah, sit myself down on the tree stump, surrounded by swaying daffodils, facing out of the grove’s shade, seeing the rolling hills, the church spire, the will-o’-the-wisp clouds, that red kite still tangled in those high branches, and of course - Finnbarr, the old windmill.
I could tell you about Kenny O’Hinty, he with the heroic sideburns and interchangable pegleg, how he strapped his missus to one of the windmill’s sails just after he caught her rubbing young Brandan’s bacon when she should’ve been milking the cows. Not many folks can say they’ve seen a buxom wench as naked as a plucked chicken doing forty revolutions like that, screaming blue murder.
I could tell you about Nosey Flynn’s twin-daughters, Maggie & Meg, who claim to have seen a walking scarecrow ring-a-ring-a-rosing it round the windmill’s perimeter one summer’s dusk. They’re 19 a-piece now, and they still swear blind. Are you sure it wasn’t Old Marban the wandering beggar? ‘No,’ they say. ‘No. It had a twig for a nose and straw for hands, and it stumbled with the gait of an undead hollow man.’
I could tell you about the giant spider that lurks in the southern corner of the top level’s shadows. Gary Harrow says he’s seen the monster dig its massive fangs into a stray cat and suck the puddings clean out of its fur. Pale as porridge he was when he told me. What were you doing in the windmill? I asked. ‘I was hiding me nacky mags,’ he said.
I could tell you about the secret passageway that spirals underground to a bandits’ den. They say there’s a stash of pirate’s gold down there guarded by the ancestral ghost of Buck Longshanks, the infamous cutthroat of Dullwater Cove. I’ve rooted about with me walking-stick searching for a trapdoor, but I’ll be damned if I can find owt.
I could tell you umpteen things about the old windmill, or Finnbarr as it is known, but I’ll save them for a rainy day. For now I’m just going to sit here, rest my weary bones in the afternoon rays, natter to the swaying daffs, and just let the old windmill speak for itself…
Ah, sit myself down on the tree stump, surrounded by swaying daffodils, facing out of the grove’s shade, seeing the rolling hills, the church spire, the will-o’-the-wisp clouds, that red kite still tangled in those high branches, and of course - Finnbarr, the old windmill.
I could tell you about Kenny O’Hinty, he with the heroic sideburns and interchangable pegleg, how he strapped his missus to one of the windmill’s sails just after he caught her rubbing young Brandan’s bacon when she should’ve been milking the cows. Not many folks can say they’ve seen a buxom wench as naked as a plucked chicken doing forty revolutions like that, screaming blue murder.
I could tell you about Nosey Flynn’s twin-daughters, Maggie & Meg, who claim to have seen a walking scarecrow ring-a-ring-a-rosing it round the windmill’s perimeter one summer’s dusk. They’re 19 a-piece now, and they still swear blind. Are you sure it wasn’t Old Marban the wandering beggar? ‘No,’ they say. ‘No. It had a twig for a nose and straw for hands, and it stumbled with the gait of an undead hollow man.’
I could tell you about the giant spider that lurks in the southern corner of the top level’s shadows. Gary Harrow says he’s seen the monster dig its massive fangs into a stray cat and suck the puddings clean out of its fur. Pale as porridge he was when he told me. What were you doing in the windmill? I asked. ‘I was hiding me nacky mags,’ he said.
I could tell you about the secret passageway that spirals underground to a bandits’ den. They say there’s a stash of pirate’s gold down there guarded by the ancestral ghost of Buck Longshanks, the infamous cutthroat of Dullwater Cove. I’ve rooted about with me walking-stick searching for a trapdoor, but I’ll be damned if I can find owt.
I could tell you umpteen things about the old windmill, or Finnbarr as it is known, but I’ll save them for a rainy day. For now I’m just going to sit here, rest my weary bones in the afternoon rays, natter to the swaying daffs, and just let the old windmill speak for itself…
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Yes! Muhahah, excellent. :D
Take me to Finnbarr again please.
I rather liked that muchly.
That's the spirit! Less God and more mindless sod.
I rather liked that muchly.
That's the spirit! Less God and more mindless sod.
FINNBARR
Ah, sit myself down on the tree stump, surrounded by swaying daffodils, facing out of the grove’s shade, seeing the rolling hills, the church spire, the will-o’-the-wisp clouds, that red kite still tangled in those high branches, and of course - Finnbarr, the old windmill.
I could tell you about Kenny O’Hinty, he with the heroic sideburns and interchangable pegleg, how he strapped his missus to one of the windmill’s sails just after he caught her rubbing young Brandan’s bacon when she should’ve been milking the cows. Not many folks can say they’ve seen a buxom wench as naked as a plucked chicken doing forty revolutions like that, screaming blue murder.
I could tell you about Nosey Flynn’s twin-daughters, Maggie & Meg, who claim to have seen a walking scarecrow ring-a-ring-a-rosing it round the windmill’s perimeter one summer’s dusk. They’re 19 a-piece now, and they still swear blind. Are you sure it wasn’t Old Marban the wandering beggar? ‘No,’ they say. ‘No. It had a twig for a nose and straw for hands, and it stumbled with the gait of an undead hollow man.’
I could tell you about the giant spider that lurks in the southern corner of the top level’s shadows. Gary Harrow says he’s seen the monster dig its massive fangs into a stray cat and suck the puddings clean out of its fur. Pale as porridge he was when he told me. What were you doing in the windmill? I asked. ‘I was hiding me nacky mags,’ he said.
I could tell you about the secret passageway that spirals underground to a bandits’ den. They say there’s a stash of pirate’s gold down there guarded by the ancestral ghost of Buck Longshanks, the infamous cutthroat of Dullwater Cove. I’ve rooted about with me walking-stick searching for a trapdoor, but I’ll be damned if I can find owt.
I could tell you umpteen things about the old windmill, or Finnbarr as it is known, but I’ll save them for a rainy day. For now I’m just going to sit here, rest my weary bones in the afternoon rays, natter to the swaying daffs, and just let the old windmill speak for itself…
Ah, sit myself down on the tree stump, surrounded by swaying daffodils, facing out of the grove’s shade, seeing the rolling hills, the church spire, the will-o’-the-wisp clouds, that red kite still tangled in those high branches, and of course - Finnbarr, the old windmill.
I could tell you about Kenny O’Hinty, he with the heroic sideburns and interchangable pegleg, how he strapped his missus to one of the windmill’s sails just after he caught her rubbing young Brandan’s bacon when she should’ve been milking the cows. Not many folks can say they’ve seen a buxom wench as naked as a plucked chicken doing forty revolutions like that, screaming blue murder.
I could tell you about Nosey Flynn’s twin-daughters, Maggie & Meg, who claim to have seen a walking scarecrow ring-a-ring-a-rosing it round the windmill’s perimeter one summer’s dusk. They’re 19 a-piece now, and they still swear blind. Are you sure it wasn’t Old Marban the wandering beggar? ‘No,’ they say. ‘No. It had a twig for a nose and straw for hands, and it stumbled with the gait of an undead hollow man.’
I could tell you about the giant spider that lurks in the southern corner of the top level’s shadows. Gary Harrow says he’s seen the monster dig its massive fangs into a stray cat and suck the puddings clean out of its fur. Pale as porridge he was when he told me. What were you doing in the windmill? I asked. ‘I was hiding me nacky mags,’ he said.
I could tell you about the secret passageway that spirals underground to a bandits’ den. They say there’s a stash of pirate’s gold down there guarded by the ancestral ghost of Buck Longshanks, the infamous cutthroat of Dullwater Cove. I’ve rooted about with me walking-stick searching for a trapdoor, but I’ll be damned if I can find owt.
I could tell you umpteen things about the old windmill, or Finnbarr as it is known, but I’ll save them for a rainy day. For now I’m just going to sit here, rest my weary bones in the afternoon rays, natter to the swaying daffs, and just let the old windmill speak for itself…
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