Roses on the Beach

Pic is from my trip to Crosby in June.

Something very gothic romance about it.

I think of a young man in 19th century, perhaps a newly qualified lawyer with good prospects, coming to Liverpool to meet the woman he loves, who is to arrive on a ship from America. He buys a bouquet of roses, of course, for roses are her favourite flowers. The ship docks, the passengers disembark, but his beloved is not among them. Heartbroken, the young lawyer suspects she fell in love with another man. He dumps the flowers on the sandy beach and swears never to love again. To escape his disappointment, he leaves for an expedition to West Africa, where he meets his death.

The young lady, his beloved, has in truth not fallen in love with anyone else. She never boarded the ship. Her best friend has had an accident and the young lady rushed to be by her side, as this friend was like a sister to her. She wrote a letter to the young lawyer, explaining she would make the voyage as soon as her friend recovered. How was she to know the young man never read her letter, for he had left before he could have received it?

When she finally arrives to England, she hears of her young man’s death in West Africa and cries many a tear. She vows never to love again, converts to Catholicism and becomes a nun.

Luckily, there’s another version of this story, where the young lawyer has a sister, who tells him he’s being an idiot and that he should trust his beloved–if she was not on the ship, there was probably a good reason and no doubt soon some news would come. Which it does. He reads the letter and it makes him love his beloved even more. “Isn’t she just the best, look how she cares about her friend!” he gushes to his sister. The sister wears her biggest told-you-so face.

Some weeks later, the lovely lady at last arrives on another ship, he waits for her with a fresh bouquet of roses. They get married and live happily ever after.

Pink Rose

It’s actually two different pink roses. I think they look rather nice.

Taken with my smartphone on a walk (me being the one on a walk, not the smartphone, unless you count the smartphone being on a walk too, since I had it with me), while passing by someone’s garden. Which is the standard for Some Photoblog in 2021, it seems.

There might soon be some different content.

Or then again, there might not.

Who is to know. But I am really happy that there are some nice gardens in my neighbourhood.

My last post was a white rose, and I mentioned that white rose is the symbol of Yorkshire and red rose of Lancashire. Well, pink is a mixture of red and white, so here you have it.

Journal with Rose

I uploaded this photo to my blog months ago–I think I intended for it to be included in a post (probably this one) but then changed my mind and decided to wait for a better occasion. Now is that occasion.

The rose looks a bit withered, I think I probably had had it for a while. It does spark one’s imagination, though. Maybe the lady who received the rose died of consumption and the man who loved her wants to keep the rose, together with her journal, in memory of her.

Ain’t that bleak? Bronte sisters would be proud!

Or imagine journaling with your friend, whose name is Rose.

Flowers for IWD

No heavy content for International Women’s Day this time. I’m just giving you some flowers. It’s been a tough time.

Communists used to be big on IWD, as I remember, though it’s not like they went deep with it; nothing about women’s rights or anything. Worker’s union (there was only one) would give female employees in all workplaces a flower–a single carnation–and a small present and afterwards there would be little celebrations or a parties. It was just an opportunity for them to pat themselves on the back, look how great we are and respect women! Also, because at that time we didn’t celebrate Mother’s Day, kids at school would make presents for their mums, like a handmade card or similar.

That came out more cynical than intended, ooh.

So, anyway, happy International Women’s Day!

Fading

It is miserable out there.

Every weekend a new storm. Every day, constant rain. If it’s not raining, it’s windy. It’s cold. It’s bleak. You doubt if spring and summer really exist, if they’re not just a product of your imagination.

So you stay at home. The only thing you have is a bunch of half faded roses you bought yourself for Valentine’s. At this rate, you’re soon fade too.

Apologies for the terrible purple prose but I’m so over this atrocious weather!