EVERYONE: The Erthe Beyonde

[Beth Pavell]

The Erthe Beyonde

A story about Arcadia; a story about starting again; a story about hope.​

Preface
Here follows my latest project, an epistolary story based on my playthrough of Stardew Valley. It is therefore rather experimental, of limited appeal, and probably ill-advised - but I hope it hold some interest anyway. Ratings may be subject to change.

Without further preamble:

1. Overture: 26th Winter - 28th Winter
2. Settling In: 1st Spring - 7th Spring
3. It's A Big World Outside: 8th Spring - 15th Spring
4. Wild Horseradish Jam: 16th Spring - 21st Spring
5. Crystal Bells: 22nd Spring - 28th Spring

 

[Beth Pavell]

Overture
26th Winter - 28th Winter

“More and more and yet well mare,
Me liste to see the brooke beyonde.”​

26TH WINTER
I can’t do this any more.

Damn, damn that moron who hit me. Bad enough I’m going to see my insurance go up again – by the time the mechanic’s finished gouging me that’ll be the rest of the month’s pay gone. Another month working for essentially nothing. Day after day trying to sell shit no-one needs to people who don’t want it anyway. Too many days I wake up before the dawn, barely make the day’s target beneath fluorescent glare, go home in the dark. It’s not just JojaMart. In the city you can’t even see the stars.

Granddad knew this would happen. Yoba Below knows how, but he knew. I quote his last letter to me:

“moved to the place I truly belong […] I’ve enclosed the deed to that place. My pride and joy: Buckland Farm. It’s located in Stardew Valley, on the south coast.”

Buckland Farm. Stardew Valley. How much is the freehold of that land truly worth? At this time, in this place?

It’s not been the same since Tilda left Joja. Nicholas is threatening another performance review tomorrow.

So help me, I cannot do this any more.

28TH WINTER
I’m not taking much with me. A small suitcase, that’s more or less it. A life abridged. Nested in a window seat, watching rural Ferngill go by. It’s strange. Only a few hours on this bus and I already feel better than I have in months. How long has it been since I had a day off without thinking of the next shift? No more car. No more JojaMart, or Nicholas, or Joja targets. I should have sold the land instead I’ve burned my safety net. Granddad was many things, but I never knew the man to give advice in haste.

Stardew Valley, 34m now. I keep reading a local history, because it feels like I might wake up and have to go back.

Historically, the land in the valley was folkland, land owned in perpetuity by the people who lived on it. The deep connexion between the people and the valley is attributed to the folkland. But Buckland Farm was once the buckland: bookland, held by right of royal charter. It looks like it used to be much larger. I suppose it’s my land now (What a strange phrase). 60 acres. What does 60 acres look like?

I hope Stardew Valley is as beautiful as they say.

-​

Comma butterflies! You always read about how they emerge this time of year, but you never see Polygonia c-album in the city!

I’m writing this at what I suppose was Granddad’s kitchen table. It’s nothing if not utilitarian, a solid square of oak. The surface is worn smooth with use (There’s something quite charming about it).

I think I was expecting to have to find Buckland myself. There was actually someone waiting for me. It was an … unusual welcome. Tall: that was my first impression. She was a good 6” taller than me. First thing she did was give me a silent critical look. She – Robin – introduced herself as the local carpenter, though the sawdust in her hair was a clue to that.

The walk was about a quarter mile West down a country lane. It took me a moment to realise what was odd about it. No tyre ruts in the path, a bridleway on the left. The farm … how can I put this? What does 60 acres look like? I still don’t know. There are too many trees in the way. How long has this place been abandoned? Twenty years? Thirty? Nature’s been trying her best to reclaim it for a while now. Robin seemed to misunderstand my expression. “There’s some good soil under all this mess!” Well, self-evidently.

The community must be a small one, because I also met the mayor. A touch of the old gentry about him. I suspect he’s been keeping the cottage ticking over in Granddad’s absence. I don’t recall Granddad mentioning a Lewis, but he never mentioned Buckland either. What to make of his introduction? “Everyone’s been asking about you!” “It’s quite a big deal!”

I’m not used to being noticed.

Speaking of the cottage. I’m pretty sure it has medieval bones. You can see the oak beams exposed in the ceilings. The ground floor has been rebuilt in brick, the upper floor almost disappearing beneath the gable. Roof shingles are on the mossy side. I’ve got a bathroom, but no kitchen (I think there must have been one once, because the pantry is still there). A washing machine but no dryer.

Will anything even grow?

 

[Beth Pavell]

Settling In
1st Spring - 7th Spring

“I seem stark mute; inside I prate.”​

1ST SPRING
The sunrise woke me this morning. A great many things have seemed strange today, but somehow waking to the sun rather than an alarm was the strangest. A late Spring frost awaited to greet me, if that’s the appropriate descriptor, and I have no idea where to begin.

There was a package by the front door (Discovered it by tripping over it). Parsnip seeds from Mayor Lewis. Quote: “Your grandfather would not have forgiven me if I had allowed you to fend for yourself.”

The instructions on the packet were apparently straightforward. Sow them thinly in light, stone-free soil. On the face of it, not that different to balcony gardening, and those herbs turned out alright. It’s disconcerting. I refuse to believe it’s as easy as written. In a sense it’s not. The instructions recommend an ambient temperature of at least 8°C. Well, that frost says the morning is not 8°C. I had to improvise. There were a bunch of old ceramic pots stacked in the pantry. They’ll do for seedlings, I think. I don’t seem to have a trowel – filling the pots meant literally getting my hands dirty.

The tools I do have:

• Shovel​
• Watering can​
• Axe​
• Pick​
• Hoe​
• Billhook​

Spent most of the day hacking away at the land (I need gloves, too). I managed to chop down a lot of the weeds with the billhook, but the soil is still compacted and full of debris. Shovel didn’t make much headway so I ended up breaking it up with the pick. It’s rapidly becoming my favourite tool – it’s got some kind of mattock blade on the back. It’s hard work, but it decompacts the dirt pretty well.

I realised at about noon I don’t have any food in the house. Followed the lane Eastwards into the village. There’s a general store by the square. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the owner of a shop behind his own till before. An archetypal family business. His wife seemed nice enough – don’t know what to make of the daughter – that smile wasn’t entirely a customer-service-smile. Pierre’s almost too helpful, however. He pretty quickly offered to buy up whatever I produce. Something he said stuck in my mind: “Why bother with the Saturday market when you’ve got the convenience of the general store?”

I might not know anything about selling vegetables, but I do know an advertisement when I hear it.

Oh, god, there’s a JojaMart here, too. I was hoping the local supermarket would be something else. Shopping there’s not … not easy. I sometimes wonder how normal people can stand it.

Steel blue facade …

The fact remains I still have no kitchen. I’ll have to see about dinner at the local pub.

-​

There’s an atmosphere small pubs have. It’s probably familiar and comforting for the locals, but if you’re not a regular, you feel like a trespasser. Barmaids are the same everywhere. The blue-haired girl, I forget her name Emily, was as bubbly as you’d expect. Lewis asked me to introduce myself … that the villagers would appreciate it. I tried to introduce myself to a bloke standing by himself at the end of the bar, and got a “Why are you talking to me” for my trouble.

What the hell was Granddad thinking?

2ND SPRING
Second morning on the buckland. No frost today, but a heavy dew glistening on the ground. I had a letter in the morning mail, an actual handwritten letter! (People really had been asking about me) It’s … what’s the word? Quaint? No. Antique? Possibly. It’s neighbourly. I think. He just signs it “Willy”, as if that’s intended to mean something. At least it gives me something to do with the day.

The beach is a stone’s throw from the village, just South over the river. The Gem Sea was in a restless mood today, slate-grey, the breakers a constant roil of wind-tossed foam. A fine mist lingered over the waves. I took off my boots to walk barefoot. The sand was chilly underfoot. It didn’t matter. It’s better than asphalt.

There was someone standing at the pier, on the West side of the beach. Almost a silhouette against a backdrop of racing grey clouds and restless sea, ignoring the spray of the waves. Like something out of a painting. The mysterious Willy has a sense of the dramatic, apparently. Smelled of tobacco and fish gyte, puffing thoughtfully on a pipe, holding a battered old rod. As it turns out, the rod was for me. I thought at first it was a generous welcoming gesture. Until he suggested I buy something from his tackle shop. It wasn’t a gift, it was an investment.

I haven’t been fishing since I was little. Some of it came back to me, but I’m certain I’m out of practice. The best catch was a can of JojaCola, somehow. I may well have to get back into practice. Willy says he’ll buy up whatever I catch – I might need the income.

What else? Oh, yes. Fortune smiles upon me, anyway (“i’Faith, Fortune’s private parts we.”). This village has a library! It’s got a pretty good selection for its size. There are some farming primers in the reference section I’m going to have to look at.

There’s a room of empty display cabinets beyond the stacks. The librarian made an appearance. This room is supposed to be the Archaeological Office. It seems the previous curator nicked the museum’s whole collection, Yoba knows why. It doesn’t seem to have been all that valuable. The leftover labels give a hint as to its former extent. Like a lot of small-town museums, it’s a mélange of a bit of everything, anything tangentially related to the valley. Geology, assorted archaeology. Some fossils.

A walk to the beach gave me a chance to see some more of the valley. Marnie’s Ranch neighbours Buckland to the South. Marnie, assuming it is Marnie who runs it, has a couple of acres over the lane as well. The Blue Moon Vineyard near to the shore. Fairhaven Farm, across the river. The owner of Fairhaven, Andy, introduced himself this morning. Big fellow. Firm handshake. But, oh … a Joja loyalist, with the Joja baseball cap to prove it. Calls farming “honest work”. Honest work. I like the sound of that. So often Joja made me feel dishonest. He couldn’t help but add how lucky I am to inherit Buckland. How do you respond to that? I didn’t, actually.

Lucky. How can you be lucky to inherit land you don’t know how to cultivate?

3RD SPRING
My God. They’re actually growing. There are actually green shoots in those battered old ceramic pots.

Who knew parsnips could be beautiful?

Another letter in the mail this morning – this time, neither handwritten nor neighbourly. “Stop by Pierre’s General Store TODAY and check out our affordable size 24 backpack!” Didn’t take long for me to make it onto his mailing list.

Started raining at about half ten. Improvised a shelter from a tarp that didn’t seem to be good for much else. And suddenly I’m nine again, fishing in a downpour. Never thought I’d be nostalgic for those damp afternoons. Willy insists there’s good water in the valley, but I’m not convinced. I brought up about six Joja 2.0 discs, for God’s sake. Met a couple more people before giving up for the day. Robin’s husband, local scientist and father (Odd way of putting it), and their daughter Maru, local nurse and daughter (She’s quick).

Dinner at the Stardrop again. The barmaid took pity on me and introduced me to a couple of people (Fishing for tips, I suspect). Sebastian, Robin’s son – you can see it in the nose. Something of the overgrown teenager about him (i.e: young and stupid). What am I saying? He couldn’t be that much younger than me! I’m probably the weird one. Joja has a way of ageing you.

I did have a real conversation with Leah. I didn’t intend to, but. She used to live in the city, too. We talked for a while about the Spring. I’ve not been able to talk like this since Tilda left. Leah’s been waiting for the daffodils to emerge – daffodils aren’t unknown in the city, of course, but apparently seeing them bloom in the valley is quite different. I thought about buying her a drink, but I didn’t want her to think me, well, desperate.

4TH SPRING
A chilly morning, but no frost on the ground. Went back to clearing land after breakfast. Working at the soil’s noticeably easier after yesterday’s rain. I think I’m getting the hang of the billhook. Had a go at felling a couple of the leaner trees. Thank Yoba no-one saw the attempt. I got there in the end, but it was neither efficient nor elegant. The roots are the worst – I can’t seem to find a simple way to dig them out.

All that hacking at the ground attracted a robin (Erithacus rubecula), after exposed invertebrates in the turned earth. I hope the little bugger is as eager to eat caterpillars off my plants.

I had about a third of an acre cleared by the end of the day, I think.

Andy stopped by in the afternoon. Walked up from the path that runs South through the wood towards the ranch (I ought to get to the bottom of that. It’s obviously in regular use). Talked crops for a while, though I had trouble keeping up. Fairhaven strawberries have a good reputation in Grampleton and Chestervale, I remember that. I explained I was trying, inexpertly, to hand-till the soil. Andy offered to let me borrow his walk-behind tractor if I need to plan a field this Summer. A walk-behind tractor, apparently, is a glorified engine pulling a plough or sundry equipment. Said it’s nice having another farmer in the valley, by way of goodbye.

The windflowers are peeping out in the wood.

5TH SPRING
A letter in the morning mail:

“Hello Leofric,

My name is Susan. Lewis told me you’re a new farmer in town. I’m trapped on my farm in the mountains so I can’t say hi in person! Hopefully the mess Joja made will be cleared out soon, because I’m going a little stir crazy. Can’t wait to meet you and see how the farm is shaping up!

- Susan”

And three packets of strawberry seeds from Andy … the note just said: “Farmers got to stick together.”

They’re ready to dig up. I never thought I would be excited about parsnips, of all things. They’re obviously amateur produce – I think I transplanted them a bit late – but it’s MY produce! I grew something someone can eat! Pierre gave them a patronising look, but paid £26.5s for them all the same. I bought some more parsnip seeds, with broad beans and cauliflower seeds, so at least for now I’m still living off the sale of my car. And I’ve got a third of an acre.

Planted out the strawberries in front of the house. I’m pretty sure that spot will get the best sun. Granddad used to grow strawberries in the garden. Did he teach me to plant them in full sun? Trust me to forget the simplest of lessons. Planted the beans next to them, the cauliflowers with the parsnips in the tilled field.

Somehow I don’t have a hammer (A rock doesn’t work). Tried to buy one at the general store, but I was directed to the smithy/hardware store near the library. Saw Maru on my way back, sitting on a bench with … who is that redhead? She looked over once Maru gave me a big wave … and gave me a little wave. Just a little, shy, nay, cursory wave. Why didn’t I introduce myself.

6TH SPRING
Haven’t looked at my e-mail in over a week, but lucky me, I still have a mailbox:

“To our valued JojaMart customers,

Our team members have removed the landslide caused by our drilling operation near the mountain lake. I’d like to remind you that our drilling operation is entirely legal (pursuant to init. L61901, JojaCo Amendment). Responsible stewardship of the local environment is our top priority!

We apologise for any inconvenience this accident may have caused.

As always, we value your continued support and patronage!

A. Morris,
JojaCo Customer Satisfaction Representative”

Usual Joja flannel. I’ll give you ‘patronage’, you patronising tosser.

Saturday is market day in Pelican Town. It looks like the main way the locals buy their food, aside from JojaMart, anyway. There were a few traders out of Grampleton selling DVDs, toys, clothes, that sort of thing. I might well buy a microwave next weekend (And a kettle. I want hot food in the farmhouse for once).

I made the mistake of thinking a bit too deeply and not really looking where I was walking. And nearly walked into the redhead from the bench.

“Oh, hello!” I babbled as if we somehow knew each other. I think she said ‘hi’, I was too busy worrying about blushing. I think I was blushing. Why does this always seem to happen? Why couldn’t it have been Robin or even the barmaid from the Stardrop?

It was then I realised she had some of my parsnips in her basket. She noticed me noticing, but I somehow doubt I made the right impression. “Oh, did you want something?”

I’m not 100% sure what happened next, beyond stammering something gauche like the dork I am.

I ended up walking up to the green on the North side of the village, away from the market. Mayor Lewis was up there, staring at a derelict building. It reminded me a bit of Buckland – nature slowly trying to reclaim it. Ivy clambering up the walls. The clock permanently stuck on 12:25. A young hawthorn leaning out of a window. In Lewis’ own words “What an eyesore.” He’s never seen a derelict car park before.

It was the community centre, once constantly in use, according to Lewis. Why it’s fallen into disuse I don’t know, but Lewis blames it on TV. Joja’s been sniffing after it, to convert it into a warehouse. That plan makes no sense (A warehouse for what? There’s only so much a supermarket can sell), which says to me they’re not intending for it to stay a warehouse. I wonder how much Joja’s offering for it. Lewis would do better to rent that land. I suggested as much, but I don’t think he was in the mood to listen.

Lewis unlocked the door to have a look around. The weeds have found their way inside as well, growing in the sunlight from the windows. Bits of rotted carpet on the floor, the pulpy remains of books. A broken fish tank in one corner, some kind of den in the other (If the kids had built that then colour me quite impressed).

There’s something strange about that community centre. I swear I saw something behind Lewis, waving at me. A small, boxy creature with noodle arms. It evaporated as soon as it appeared, leaving me wondering just what I did see. Lewis reckons I’m seeing rats.

It was no rat.

7TH SPRING
“Robin here!

I know there’s a lot of stone scattered around your farm. If you have a surplus, you might consider having me sink a well for you. A well can serve as a convenient place to refill your watering can.

Just swing by my shop with £50 when you’re ready for it.

- Robin”

Does that count as a housewarming gift?

-​

I ended up going back to the community centre. I can’t quite fathom why, but I couldn’t stop brooding upon what I saw yesterday. Or maybe didn’t see. There’s a strange hush to that place … like a graveyard. That den in the corner … I thought for a moment there was a breeze rattling its leafy thatch. ‘Dilapidated’ was the descriptor Lewis used: le mot juste. The food in the pantry is long gone, replaced by an unpleasant-looking fungus. The shelves home to long-leggity cellar spiders (Pholcus phalangoides). The peeling wallpaper’s gone dry and parchment-like.

In the middle of the carpet there was a crisp, fresh notepad, almost glowing with newness. There was something written on it – some kind of arcane hieroglyphics. It felt like I was being watched.

Dinner this evening, at the Stardrop (Again …). Saw the redhead from the bench, but she was with someone this time. Some big blond fellow, boyishly handsome. The kind of guy who never has to wave money and catch the barmaid’s eye to get served. They were sharing an order of sliders. Saw her giggle at something he said. I wonder if it was even funny. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Turns out Leah was in this evening, too. “Have you met Penny yet?” she asked, giving me a sly look. I changed the subject rather than reply to that remark. She was making a big assumption.

 

[SilverRockets]

This is lovely so far!

I'm a huge fan of epistolaries, and though I've never played Stardew Valley you did a good job introducing us to the places and people that we need to know so far, so I don't feel like I'm lost in the slightest. The personality of our protagonist also does a great job at letting us set in and see the world in his eyes, which is fun! He's a grumpy fellow, but I imagine anyone would be considering the circumstances. I've worked for a supermarket before; It was not fun. I'd take a free farm and an opportunity to get away any day.

I like how you've described the "homely" if somewhat eccentric personality of the town itself, full of characters I'm sure we'll get to know as time goes by. And I liked the way you integrated what I assume was the gameplay into the story itself, with characters being eager to buy whatever produce is made in that farm, which makes sense from a logic standpoint. It makes me intrigued to know what all these people are like, and how they'll impact the story.

And there's also something... supernatural? A strange creature that is definitely not a rat in the community center, eh? For a moment that gave me somewhat horror-movie vibes, kind of like the webcomic Broodhollow, but I don't think this story is going in that direction. Still just as eager to find out what those things are though.

In conclusion, these are a great couple of introductory chapters; they're fun to read and they've peaked my interest for more, so good job! I can't wait

 

[Daren]

I've never played Stardew Valley but you've written the story in a way someone not familiar with the game can follow (though I played the heck out of Harvest Moon back on the SNES, so it feels slightly similar in that regard).

I admit I'm amused at the commentary on the various the video game tropes like "here's your bottom quality starter item; by the way you can buy upgrades/repairs/supplies from me" and receiving ads from the local shop within days of moving in.

To be honest the more realistic view of "city liver inherits farmland and runs off, turns out to be tricky" reminds me a bit of a less comedic Green Acres. And we have a mystery with whatever is in the abandoned community centre.

An enjoyable start to the story.

 

[Beth Pavell]

It’s A Big World Outside
8th Spring - 14th Spring

“It follows me at all times.”​

8TH SPRING
It was raining again when I woke up, simply pelting it down. I tried to avoid leaving the farmhouse in the hope that it might slacken off. After a while I started wandering around the house, poking into those rooms I’d not really looked at yet. It occurred to me I’ve barely been anywhere but a bedroom, a bathroom, and the living room. The place is still full of year’s worth of accumulated dust. No point in cleaning rooms I’m not using, not if I’m knee-deep in dirt all day anyway. It’s more akin to camping than living.

There’s a wardrobe in the back bedroom (Probably would be a handsome piece of furniture once it’s tidied up). Looks like it’s full of clothes Granddad left behind when he went back to the city. An old cloak at the back, made of what feels like heavy wool felted together. It hangs almost like a poncho, fastened at the shoulder. I think it was once meant to have been deep blue. It’s basically grey now.

9TH SPRING
I woke up before dawn. Too early. Couldn’t get back to sleep – something about the deafening silence – so I went for a walk. The opening hour, I used to call it. The hour when people in offices are just getting up, but the services staff are getting in and starting work. Most of them get to shamble in, huddled in a coat, maybe sulk over a coffee for ten minutes. This Joja manager, though … Yoba Below, he actually waits for his employees to arrive. All but escorts them inside.

Helicopter management at its worst.

There was mail waiting when I got back.

“My sources tell me you’ve been poking around inside the old Community Centre.

Why don’t you pay me a visit? My chambers are West of the forest lake, in the stone tower. I may have information regarding your ‘rat problem’.

- M. Rasmodius, Wizard.”

Wizard? In this day and age? Is practising magic even legal, anyway?

A second crop of parsnips to grub up today! They don’t seem quite so beautiful a second time around. A little scrawny, perhaps, I can’t help but think no-one would buy them if you placed them next to Joja parsnips. But they’re still £26.5s to me. I wonder if I could haggle up to £27? *

* £26.10s was the final count on the parsnips (Not bad). Reinvested some of that in seed potatoes. Granddad did grow tatties, sometimes in old handbags.

Went the long way round to the general store, along the lane past Marnie’s. The commas were back out after the rain, and some peacock butterflies fluttering around the paths. Aglais io! Photos in a field guide don’t do them justice. It opens its wings, and suddenly the insect turns from a dull brown leaf into an iridescent drama of eye spots.

I saw Penny again. She was reading something beneath a sycamore tree … a small figure beneath the naked branches. A library book – I could tell by the distinctive plastic dust jacket. She has an air about her, like she’s in danger of fading into the background. I’m not really sure how, but we ended up chatting. It was It was nice. I asked her if she’d help me navigate the library. At first she gave me this look, like … she couldn’t believe I had the nerve. Then she smiled.

It was like the sun coming out.

10TH SPRING
I don’t know what I expected from the … wizard’s tower. The day was persistently bright and breezy, the clouds cut up into little scuds of stratocumulus. There’s a path leading along the North side of the lake, stony, and simply bursting with celandines. Beyond the pier it winds through larch woods, old needles forming soft drifts underfoot. I caught furtive glimpses of birds flitting between the trees. Goldfinches hiding among the branches. Great tits belting out their ‘tee-cha tee-cha!’ call.

After a mile or so the tower peers up above the trees. It looked like a folly, or perhaps a church tower. A column of smoke rising from an unseen chimney. Not the twisty, ivy-clad fairy tale I envisioned. Still, there was something odd about it. I realised after a while that in spite of the breezy day, the smoke was rising vertically. The tower’s sited atop a steep hill like a castle on a motte. The first real surprise – a simply enormous cauliflower in the fore plot. I checked, they shouldn’t even be mature, let alone three feet tall!

A deep, plangent voice declared “ENTER” when I reached the door. That might have been more impressive if I hadn’t seen the security camera not quite hidden in a gargoyle.

Rasmodius, when I found him, received me in what looked like a gentleman’s library – high lancet windows, antique leather armchairs, a fire burning in the hearth. Rasmodius himself was a middle-aged bloke with a receding hairline and an embroidered waistcoat.

“Ahh …” he declaimed magisterially, “you whose arrival I have long foreseen!”

He likes his theatre, apparently.

“I’d like to show you something,” he said. He pulled aside a Persian carpet in the middle of the room. There was an octogram painted on the floor beneath.

“Behold!”

He made an elaborate gesture. Something materialised on the octogram – a small, boxy creature with noodle arms. Its green skin had a sheen to it, like the skin of an apple. It seemed to quiver, as if struggling to break free.

“They call themselves the Junimos. For some reason, they refuse to speak with me.”

If that’s the way he treats them, I’m not surprised. There was more mystical hot air to endure. I did learn something pertinent. The Junimos left that notepad behind, and it’s possible to read their script. The translation was a little tricky, but here’s what I eventually deciphered:

we the junimos are happy to ade you. In retern we ask for vally gifts

horssradish daffodilll leec dandelion

It continues in much the same fashion.

I saw Penny on the bridge. She gave me a shy little smile, and I smiled back. It’s been a while since a pretty girl smiled at me. Unfortunately that blond guy from the Stardrop managed to spoil the moment. He reminded me of those actors they get to play teenagers in soaps. Thoughtlessly confident, smug as a well-fed cat. And it’s really irritating.

11TH SPRING
It never quite feels like Spring till the daffodils start blooming. They’re not subtle flowers – brash butter-coloured trumpets nodding in the breeze. Leah was right. There must be hundreds, hundreds, of daffodils blooming along the lane.

“Continuous as the stars that shine,
And twinkle on the milky way.”

Perhaps I will give one to the Junimos. Yoba Below knows it would hardly constitute an effort.

“MISSING

I lost my favourite axe! If you find it, please return it ASAP. I’m having a tough time without it. There’s £12.5s in it for whoever finds the thing.

- Robin.”

It might have helped if she’d said where she’d last used it. Maybe it’s a sign of how small my holding is, but I actually had all afternoon to do … nothing. Nothing in particular. On any other Thursday I wouldn’t leave Joja till four, assuming I opened up at six.

So many windflowers along the South path. The first ones to have opened are already looking a bit ragged. The tree limbs are still naked, but there’s a distinct haze of green emerging on the hawthorns; feathery leaves of umbellifers brightening the woodland floor. I saw a kingfisher zip away in an electric blue flash, hardly seen but immediately recognised. The air here tastes so clean. More than that, it’s so quiet. I don’t think I hitherto realised how loud ambient engine noise is in the city.

Stardew Valley’s not completely immune to pollution. By the cliff there’s drifts of empty and crushed cans. Cheapest of the cheap booze. I shudder to contemplate what a steady diet of that would do to you. Idiots. Why would you litter when you live in a valley like this?

There’s that, and the sewer outlet comprehensively spoiling the cliff (Such as shame). A couple of the village kids were unwisely playing nearby, before something scared them off. For a moment, I’ll own I thought I could hear echoes from inside the pipe.

Anyway, I found an axe embedded in a stump on the way back. I assumed it was Robin’s missing axe, on the basis that there was no rust on the blade. I was right, actually, though I could have easily been wrong. Robin’s effusive praise, I suspect, was a ploy to get out of paying up. The conversation somehow swung round to the Community Centre. “It would be great if you could fix that place up! It used to be a really nice building!” Oh indeed? It would be great if I could fix it up? Can you believe the front!

12TH SPRING

“Hi,

Me sell hats, poke. Okay, poke?

Come to old old old haus, poke. Bring coines.

- hat mouse.”

Whatever that means. I’m pretty sure it’s written in crayon.

Had a pint with Andy at the Stardrop this evening. I’d forgotten the Egg Festival was round the corner. Andy reckons I should let the kids win the egg hunt. It surprises me that anyone over the age of eight competes, to be frank.

That fellow who always stands at the end of the bar – he’s always by himself, and he’s always here. Emily let on that he’s Marnie’s nephew. There’s something about him now I look twice. A look I’ve seen at Joja before now, after one too many demanding shifts.

You’re not just a jerk, Shane.

13TH SPRING
It looked like most of the village turned out for the festival. Everyone was in their … Sunday best, I suppose the phrase is. Even Leah was out in a new green dress. I don’t really have anything nice to wear. I didn’t really expect to have a reason to, I suppose. Maybe it doesn’t matter. I was a fish out of water anyway. It’s not that anyone was rude, exactly. I felt like a tourist, an outsider, someone not entirely wanted. Which is probably why I spent most of the time working my way through the beer and devilled eggs with Andy. The villagers seem to avoid him, brushing him off with polite banalities. He’s not exactly personable without a beer in his hand, I grant you, but I’d have thought Lewis would have made an effort.

The kids won the egg hunt anyway.

14TH SPRING
I dreamed I was at JojaMart this morning, with Tilda, just … I don’t know. Hanging in there. Shared adversity making friends of strangers.

I never would have made it without Tilda. Irreverent, filthy-mouthed Tilda. I keep hoping she’ll text, wanting to catch up. But, she never does. I really miss you.

-​

It’s a fine morning to get your hands dirty. I spent a quarter hour just looking at the bean poles and strawberries soaking in the morning sunshine. Beyond that, the woodlands edge getting greener every day. Even nettles are handsome in their own way.

Grubbing up the tatties was the job of the morning. They came up like a bucketful of goose eggs. Very much on the small side. Maybe it was a little early to dig them up … but you often see various species of yuppie buying potatoes like this from local markets, right? Damn. In hindsight I should have found out what sells here in Stardew Valley. Oh well. By my reckoning I’ve not lost money so far. There’s still the cauliflowers, and the strawberries, and the beans yet to harvest.

It just doesn’t feel like I’m using my days productively enough. I’ve decided to get a better rod. At £90 it’s a risk, but Stardew Valley was a risk in the first place. Tried it out this afternoon at the riverbank, South of Marnie’s place, where the daffodils are thickest. The old skill’s starting to come back to me. The chub were biting the way chub do – not glamorous fish by anyone’s standards, but beggars can scarcely be choosers.

Leah’s cottage is a short way upstream (I must have walked past it without realising). We ended up hanging out by chance when she happened by with her sketchpad. There wasn’t much in the way of conversation, but that was ok. I like Leah. She’s companionable. Albeit elusive.

Saw the Joja manager outside the general store, trying to offload coupons. 50% off coupons sound like a great deal till you find out it’s only available for products with an outrageous mark-up. If there’s one thing Joja is good at, it’s promoting true believers to management. God, it reminds me of JojaPlus week, trying to push those damn credit cards. Targets, targets, pressure, pressure.

 

[Beth Pavell]

Wild Horseradish Jam
15h Spring - 21st Spring

“I ne woth whinder schal I.”​

15TH SPRING
Mostly clear skies. Weather decidedly unsettled – high winds and scuds of cloud passing overhead. Temperature 11°C at noon.

The broad beans were ready to pick – laborious, and a bit dull, but not difficult work. The yield seems to be on the low side, but it’s not like I have a proper frame of reference anyway. A bucketful of pods, more or less, to sell at the general store. I noticed something. Most of the produce in the store has a label of some sort – Blue Moon Vineyard, Marnie’s, Stardew Community Garden. Nothing with Buckland on it. Caroline delicately dodged the question when I put it to her. Fine. I’ll grill Pierre over it (Mental note: Ask Lewis about market fees next time I see him).

I’m beginning to realise one consequence of living in a small community is that sooner or later you run into everyone. It was Leah today, doing some shopping of her own. “So why did you become a farmer?” she asked. It’s distinctly odd to be called a farmer. I feel more like an amateur gardener.

I ended up hedging. Just said I wanted to escape (I don’t want to tell the whole story). For a moment it just felt like an ineloquent half-answer, but Leah didn’t seem to notice. “That’s pretty much why I came here, too!”

16TH SPRING
Woke up too early again, not long after dawn. Found myself sitting by the window, watching the plants. Thinking about my bank balance. My bills are being paid by the sale of my car – no rent, but water, electricity, still eating at the pub every night. Trying to calculate how long that money will last.

I wish I’d brought more books with me.

Weather still restless. ~5°C in the morning, 10°C by noon. Mail this morning -

“Dear Farmer Leofric,

You might need some more space someday! That’s where I can help. If you can bring me some raw materials and pay a fee, I can restore your house. I’m sure you could use a working kitchen!

Anyway, I hope you’re starting to feel at home in Stardew Valley!

Your local carpenter, (She’s a carpenter?! Why, that’s news to me)

- Robin”

“Dear neighbour,

I hope you are feeling settled into your new home. I am writing to let you know that Pierre’s store is now selling fertilisers! Why don’t you swing by and see if you can afford a dozen boxes or so?

- Pierre”

Yeah, right at home. People keep trying to chisel me out of my hard-earned shillings.

I went by the Blue Moon Vineyard. Well not just by, stopped by. I don’t know why, curiosity, I suppose. The girl who runs the place is a bit of an enigma. I briefly met her a couple weeks ago, a face introduced to me by Emily. She was working at the soil along the vines, and instantly tried to hide upon seeing me. She explained that she’s easily startled. Well, indeed. I can’t imagine how I’m intimidating.

That started a stilted, awkward sort of conversation. I don’t think she’s very good at being social, which is fair enough. I used to believe I wasn’t either, but I suppose the pressure of retail sales forced me to get a lot better.

Joja’s been at it again. Somehow they’ve managed to block the road into the hills with another landslide. It’s not a trivial one, either. Ten foot height of earth and rock. I suppose you could climb it, if you were prepared to risk a snapped ankle or a cracked skull. It must have been there since the beginning of Spring. Lewis was staring at it as if it were a puzzle. I wonder what Joja has on him that he has to put up with this.

I told Leah I wanted to escape … but there’s a steel blue wolf called Joja and it’s never far away.

17TH SPRING
I had a disappointing start to the day. I decided to harvest the cauliflowers this morning. The caterpillars had got to some of them, the little green bastards. If it were just the leaves it might not be so bad, but they’ve been tunnelling through the heads. Damn them. Those seeds weren’t cheap – I suppose the damaged caulis will just have to go on the compost heap.

12°C at noon, intermittent sunshine all afternoon. It’s becoming hard to decide what to wear. It’s a touch too warm for jumpers, but when the sun disappears behind the clouds it’s too chilly to go without.

Went looking for wild horseradish in the forest afterwards. Not as easy as I expected – horseradish (Amoracia rusticana) looks a lot like dock weed (Genus Rumex). I found some in a scrap of old meadowland, but not before I made a more interesting discovery. There’s a fen in the middle hidden by the height of the grass. I didn’t see it at first, not until my foot went in and I ended up muddy to the ankle.

I felt something oddly unyielding in that mirk. My boot was already full of water, so I eventually dug it up with the pick. It turned out to be a sword – all but a foot of blade rusted away, the hilt remarkably intact. I think those are garnets on the crossguard. Yoba Below knows how many years it’s been there. I took it along to the Archaeological Office (What use would I have for it anyway?). Gunther couldn’t tell me much about it, though apparently bogs and fens are good for preserving artefacts. He was visibly pleased to have it as the inaugural piece of the renewed collection. What the hell – that made it worth my while.

There’s a word for days like today – serendipitous. I don’t think there is a word for the opposite, which is what I’m more used to. I found the sword, by chance, took it to the library on a whim, and found Penny there, by chance. It was a bit stupid, really. She didn’t know what to say, and neither did I. Until I smelled the crackling pages of an old edition of Brewer – not dusty, not musty, but wonderfully antique. Pretty soon we ended up smelling books as if they were candles.

What wonderful things books are.

I’m sure I must have sounded unbelievably dorky. Somehow I didn’t feel dorky.

“Does Sam like the smell of books?” I asked as casually as I could.

“No. No, Sam doesn’t read.”

I’ll bet he doesn’t.

18TH SPRING
Harvesting in the rain this morning. It’s slightly less dismal than filing, but I think that’s the price you pay. Another round of broad beans, and some of the strawberries. The strawberries were a bit underripe but I don’t want them to get picked to bits by pests.

The rain cleared up by the afternoon, though it threatened a repeat performance all day. Didn’t much feel like trying to clear a field, so I went for a walk along the river, Northwards, towards the uplands. Somewhere East of Robin’s place, the river runs swift and cold from a mountain lake cloaked in pine forests. You can see a couple of eyots near the northern shore, wooded little slate-sided carrocks lapped by grey waters.

I noticed something, almost hidden beneath the damp layers of pine needles. A set of old rails, narrow-gauge, like tram lines. They led further up into the hills, over aged sleepers and scattered ballast, till they disappeared into a mineshaft. Not a narrow cleft in the rock, but quite a spacious cavern braced with steel beams. Some sunlight still found its way through light wells in the wall, possibly drilled for that purpose, who knows. An access tunnel, presumably, had collapsed at the far end anyway. There was still a way down to the next level, a vertical shaft, with a steel ladder bolted to the side.

There was someone peering down it. This one was odder than most. Wrapped in a greasy leather cloak. A shock of grey hair, shaggy moustache. And an honest-to-goodness eyepatch.

“I was just peering down into this old mine shaft,” he said, as if we’d already been introduced. He had a surprisingly clear, lilting, sing-song voice.

“It’s been abandoned for decades. Still, there’s probably some good ore down there,” he continued, apparently unconcerned that I didn’t say anything. “But a dark place, undisturbed for so long … I’m afraid ore isn’t the only thing you’ll find …”

“Indeed?” I said, wondering where this was going.

“Here. Take this,” he said, and produced something from under his cloak. It was a sword (why a sword?). I took it because, well, what else could you do?

I climbed down the ladder later. I know it was stupid. But it was also … exciting. I’ve never seen anything like it. The mine lights are still functional – after decades – so there are actually plants, even shrubs, growing there! Even flowers! There must be fifty dandelions blooming there!

Abandoned crates lying around, too, piled any old how. With a heavy rock and a fair bit of patience I managed to break one open. There were still a few chunks of greenish ore in there (copper?).

I don’t know what I could do with them, but there is a smithy in town.

How far down does it go?

19TH SPRING
Rain all day. 9°C at noon.

I’ve seen the trailer on the riverbank a few times now. I never realised Penny lived there. It shouldn’t be incongruous, but it still felt like a circle to square.

I could have sworn I heard one of the barflies lived in that trailer.

She was, awkwardly, trying to carry two bulging bin bags at once. When I tried to give her a hand there was an almighty clatter of cans from the bag. I didn’t think anyone would mind help with carrying rubbish. Now I know better, and the cans hint as to why. Oh, hell. She was very polite, but she also blushed and stammered and took the bag right back. After that a friendly conversation was a complete non-starter. She obviously wanted to extricate herself from it as soon as possible. Heaven knows her embarrassment was the last thing I wanted.

I wanted to go back to apologise, but I wasn’t about to make it worse. The windflowers are gone, and the daffodils. Ragwort is, well ragwort. That leaves dandelions, which are at least bright and voluptuous at the moment. I borrowed an empty jam jar from the bar, wrote an apology on it with correction fluid (Only thing I could find that would withstand the rain), and left the whole thing with a small ‘bouquet’ by her door. I really didn’t want to embarrass her.

Went fishing upstream of Cindersap bridge in an effort to do something constructive. Hooked a few nice smallmouth bass. Willy pays a good £2 10s for each one – they’ll be in somebody’s oven tonight. It’s kind of charming that the people here so readily eat fresh river fish.

I think in some ways friendships were easier at Joja. I’m not sure how Tilda and I became friends, but it had something to do with the pressure cooker atmosphere.

20TH SPRING
Rain from before dawn, clearing in the morning. 11°C at noon.

Headed to the market early this morning. Got Granddad’s cloak out of the cupboard. It’s surprising how cold Spring can get when it rains. Bought a second-hand kettle from a charity out of Chestervale. No point buying new from Joja when it’ll break just as soon anyway.

I ended up going back to the mines. It’s still a bit stupid, but … I want to know what’s down there. This time I brought my pick as well. And – and I couldn’t say why – I also buckled on that sword. It just feels right, somehow. It’s actually not that obtrusive. After a while I rather forgot I was wearing it.

There’s a whole little ecosystem down there. Brown bumblebees bringing in their own little harvest of the dandelions. Do they come down here for the flowers? Do they live down here?

Level 2 – the lighting is sparser here. Lights are strung from the ceiling – yellow, smoky, covered in dust. Deep pools of shadow, especially in the side-galleries. No wind noise, no bird noise, echoes bouncing off the walls, sound reflecting in odd ways. My boot steps were loudest. Something was glittering almost shyly in the wall. I had a go of chipping it out with the pick. The rock broke off in flakes till it revealed a hollow space filled with crystals. A geode, an egg of stone. The crystals were all clear, or at least milky white. Quartz?

Looking down a gallery, I saw … a shadow. Which might have been a rock – I thought it was a rock – but it was moving. At first I didn’t do anything about it – it’s a mine, why could it not be a trick of the light? - then two points of reflection, as of eyes. Eyes glinting in the dark.

It wasn’t a rock. It was. It was. A rough oval approx 2ft high. Green skin with an oily sheen, bouncing and shuffling along like a balloon full of gelatine. It seemed like it spent forever shuffling and scraping over the rock while I … stood there. Till it tensed up all of a sudden. The next moments are a blur. I know it leapt at me. I know I fended it off with the pick. It just wouldn’t stop!

-​

It just wouldn’t stop. Nothing natural attacks like that, so savagely, for no reason. At some point I must have pierced its skin because it suddenly deflated. Gelatinous innards foaming out like some bizarre protoplasm. It’s nothing natural!

How far down does it go?

21ST SPRING
Clear day, clouding over from 3pm. Light breezes. 12C at noon, rising to 15C before 3pm. Some nice green beans today.

The size of Pelican Town reminds me of working in a department store. Sooner or later you hear about every drama.

There was drama unfolding in the square. I didn’t catch the beginning of it, but Andy was fulminating at Lewis over taxes or something. Middle of a Sunday morning – a lot of people were standing around watching the show in various states of awkwardness. Andy was yelling at length that the cost will ruin him. I think in the midst of that I heard Lewis offering help from the town’s festival fund (I doubt that’s above board). Didn’t matter. Andy just yelled louder that he wouldn’t accept a handout. Anyway, when it was over Lewis told me there’s new food standards regulations coming in, compliance with which would cost Andy a lot of money. it’s not a statutory regulation, so Lewis can appeal it. I tried to tell Andy about it later. He calmed down a bit, but he still told me to sod off anyway.

Andy doesn’t seem to have friends around the valley. He is abrasive at the best of times, no argument, which is probably why people don’t bother. The man’s not helping himself. God knows what he expected to accomplish by shouting down Lewis. But pressure can make a prick out of you, without you even realising it.

Here’s a thought. If these new regulations threaten to ruin him, the wolf must have been at his door for a while. He also gave me strawberry seeds for nothing and is lending me his walk-behind tractor.

Leah was gardening near the library that morning. I hadn’t hitherto really looked at the community garden. Leah was picking beans from vines trained against a trellis. Pierre and the fellow who runs the Stardrop both have their own allotments. It made for a funny tableaux, right there. We spent some time talking growing beans whilst I helped her harvest them. A farmer, like an amateur; an amateur, talking confidently.

I’m grateful to her for that moment. I know how that sounds. I don’t think she’s some sort of angel of mercy. It was a normal moment. A fish-in-water moment. Not quite happy, but at least content.

 

[kintsugi]

hiya Pav, long time no see. here for the first two chapters--I'd initially planned on just knocking out all of this since it's pretty breezy but my brain is mush this week.

(obligatory note that I only know of Stardew from watching other people play, so I shall assume that they're just Weird when they capitalize all their cardinal directions and there's a very obvious and very useful reason for how their seasons (and by extension years) are so short and their plants grow incredibly quickly)

Everything about this is very on-brand, lol. I admit I'm not really sure what parts are yours and what parts are canon, but the central premise of "guy gets tired of trying to hack it in city life and just fucks off to live on a homestead forever" does feel like a premise you'd roll with, and it certainly suits your style. Leofric fits your brand of being very done with this shit while still being uncannily competent in these things; the voice comes through really clearly here, although this really does just feel like a slightly sassier playthrough of a farming sim, lol. As a narrator in an epistolary format, he does have to carry a lot of weight on these things. I think it's a good choice to make him observant and sort of curious about the workings of the rest of the village, and while he's definitely got a lot of opinions on individuals (Willy's dramatic, that redhead's male companion is the Worst, who would even rob this podunk museum), it makes the setting feel a lot more lively. Which works well in your favor here, since as far as I understand the main appeal of Stardew is more about mindlessly losing yourself in the gameplay/atmosphere, and not the riveting plot.

Formatting is fun. It admittedly took me way longer to realize that 26th Winter and 28th Winter are referring to days and not years, and as a result I'm still not really sure how many days are between 28th Winter and 1st Spring--this is mostly here in case you'd find it entertaining; not that I think you should be explaining the calendar system of this very chronologically-challenged planet or that it broke my immersion to not know the exact passage of time between thinking about growing parsnips and growing them. I did think the strikethroughs were a bit too on the nose a few times ('why didn't I introduce myself' was the one I remembered the most)--epistolary is one of those weird formats where the author presumably is still able to edit/selectively remove bits of text, so it does feel kind of weird when those intrusive/embarrassing thoughts sort of make it in anyway. Honestly I think some of those would've read more cleanly as just regular text, but that's largely personal preference.

Overall I think things are charming. There's something really reassuring about watching a guy reject humanity return to monke get really excited about trying to grow some plants and being really bad at it. The formatting choice makes sense; this isn't really the kind of plot that can afford to overstay its welcome (not that it currently does), and it also feels like one of those stories where the real weight of the story is in it being told day by day, piece by piece, rather than any one major scene, conflict, or tension. But who knows, I'm aware that there's magic skeletons in the mine and shit, and I'm pretty sure Joja route is a legitimate gameplay strat, so we might go full murder-horror or experience the gradual erosion of Leofric's morals. Both seem entirely up your alley of course.

some lil' tidbits on phrasing and stuff:

Spoiler

Granddad knew this would happen. Yoba Below knows how, but he knew. I quote his last letter to me:

The "knew" stack here is kind of weird imo--maybe something like "Granddad must've known this would happen. Yoba Below knows how, but he did." or something

It wasn’t a gift, it was an investment.

Comma splice, I think? I think this would also read more smoothly as "It was an investment, not a gift."

The barmaid took pity on me and introduced me to a couple of people (Fishing for tips, I suspect).

Felt a bit too-Pav here lol--is it pity, or is it tip-fishing? These seem mutually exclusive.

I’d like to remind you that our drilling operation is entirely legal (pursuant to init. L61901, JojaCo Amendment).

lmao everything is legal when you are the law!!

He’s never seen a derelict car park before.

staring at a derelict building.

felt a bit abrupt to see these back-to-back.

 

[Ryoma Maser]

Wow, I'm reviewing a Beth fic, this feels weird. So I haven't played Stardew Valley but I'm interested in getting it as my next mindless game when I clear out my backlog when there's a chance. But I have read the TVTropes page, no matter how inaccurate or accurate it is, so let me take a look.

Overture:
-So I did some quick looking up cause I was just curious if Tilda was a real Stardew Valley character, but it looks like they are not. But hey, we not a silent bob like here so we can actually learn what's what with their past Joja life.
-I like the underlines here, it's an odd choice when most stuff are italicized to emphasize something in literature. But I assume it's more a business thing to reference the heavy business background with the Farmer since underlining is used in email more than italicizing.

Speaking of the cottage. I’m pretty sure it has medieval bones. You can see the oak beams exposed in the ceilings. The ground floor has been rebuilt in brick, the upper floor almost disappearing beneath the gable. Roof shingles are on the mossy side. I’ve got a bathroom, but no kitchen (I think there must have been one once, because the pantry is still there). A washing machine but no dryer.

This reminds me of my family's very small cabin in Maine, minus the washing machine part we don't have one up there and barely a kitchen anymore since our gas stove there no longer works and can't find a decent replacement since it's so small compared to the ones today. No wonder I felt draw to the Valley.

Will anything even grow?

I like the multiple meanings this sentence can mean. Will the crops grow? Will they grow as a person? Will anything change for them?

Settling in:
-Feels weirder to wake for an alarm instead of by the sun for me since my body's natural clock as become so adjusted it doesn't need an alarm anymore. Honestly, it's nice and a treat for extra sleep that the farmer will enjoy.
-That feeling when you're a pathetic American and see that everything is in Celsius and not Fahrenheit.
-Also that feeling when you had to look up what a billhook is, kinda surprise the Farmer knew about and the exact name right off the bat. I confused them for a a machete.
-Letters, haven't seen one of those in ages besides the useless crap or invites.

What am I saying? He couldn’t be that much younger than me! I’m probably the weird one. Joja has a way of ageing you.

Small typo here but since this is technically a journal, it may be intentionally. Also don't remind me of the aging, I am an old man in young adult body (these bags in my eyes will never leave).

Saw Maru on my way back, sitting on a bench with … who is that redhead? She looked over once Maru gave me a big wave … and gave me a little wave. Just a little, shy, nay, cursory wave. Why didn’t I introduce myself.

Hello social insecurities! Why do I keep seeing myself in this person?

Haven’t looked at my e-mail in over a week, but lucky me, I still have a mailbox:

I wish I could say this, but I have to check mine for school purposes.

It's a Big World Outside:

Wizard? In this day and age? Is practising magic even legal, anyway?

Another typo here. Also I like that this person doesn't question the concept of a wizard and magic, just asking if it's legal.

-That feeling when you have nothing to do. It's weird, relieving and frustrating.

I never would have made it without Tilda. Irreverent, filthy-mouthed Tilda. I keep hoping she’ll text, wanting to catch up. But, she never does. I really miss you.

Now I kinda want to see a prequel to this where you show Tilda and maybe their side of the story, you've made me curious.

It just doesn’t feel like I’m using my days productively enough. I’ve decided to get a better rod. At £90 it’s a risk, but Stardew Valley was a risk in the first place.

90 on the rod? Even though fixing up the house or making the well may be more useful, well it's more an adaption of your game adventure than anything else so technically no risk all reward.

Wild Horseradish Jam: Damn I want to try that now.
-Oh, fixing the house wasn't offer yet in game I guess before this I guess.

Your local carpenter, (She’s a carpenter?! Why, that’s news to me)

Is the parentheses in the letter or is it the narrator saying that?

-I just like all the shop names, Stardrop and Blue Moon Vineyard. Though I think the latter is a real American brand of beer.

Well that's all I can comment on. I got really engrossed in this somehow, which is wanting to me to pick up Stardew Valley even more someday. I love reading your descriptions and what I can tell what was not in the game is making me really interested to see if you'll go down and explore that, I want to know about Tilda! I'll be coming by and reading again whenever you update next, you got me invested, this is like my cooldown story now.

 

[Daren]

Here's a review of chapters 3 and 4:

In some ways it's difficult to comment much on the overall storyline because of it's nature as being drawn from a video game. In a normal story I'd think it was setting up a few too many plot lines too quickly, but in the context I understand why it's happened that way.

A strength of the story remains the narrative style; kintsugi summed it up pretty well as our narrator just being completely done with everything. They manage to have an entertainingly understated reaction to all the weird video-game stuff without passing into the point of over-the-top satire as a lot of game based works tend to. That said it is making me wonder where the various hooks will go.

One thing I will note--though this is perhaps unavoidable due to being written as a series of journal entries--is that sometimes characters are mentioned but we're not sure who they are. For instance this part in chapter 4:

“Does Sam like the smell of books?” I asked as casually as I could.

“No. No, Sam doesn’t read.”

I’ll bet he doesn’t.

Sam isn't mentioned anywhere else so I'm not really sure who he is. From context I can guess he's connected to Penny but I'm not sure if he's her husband or maybe a sibling.

 

[kintsugi]

Returning for the rest in a timely fashion for once! Fyi I wrote the last review assuming the name Leofric implied male pronouns and realized that isn't necessarily the case, oops.

So we're playing the underground slimes and the wizard in a tower more or less completely unironically--interesting! The idea that the wizard is just a crazy guy with some special tech to prop him up a tiny bit is a fun adaptation, but I imagine the same logic won't work for the slimes and random mineshaft necromancy that's upcoming. I'm curious what your adaptation on that is going to end up being, since they probably can't be part of some big slime conspiracy staged by Joja or whatever. It's been fun to see some of the narrative choices to back up some of the genuinely odd worldbuilding in a more realistic light.

It just doesn’t feel like I’m using my days productively enough.

I like the character shift that's starting to happen now that the joy of newness is starting to wear off. There isn't really an escape from Joja in a tangible way, there's still helicopter management, the parsnips aren't so miraculously beautiful this time. I liked the sentiment of not feeling like they were using their days productively enough--it's kind of funny in hindsight that the plot premise of Stardew Valley is (as I understand it?) being fed up with the way that corporate life grinds you down, and the solution is to go fuck off on a farm for a bit, eat tons of mushrooms to keep your energy up while you work feverishly alone in the mines, and work constant 20 hour days while trying to fill them with as much activity and productivity as possible. There's an argument that the main difference is the joy of working for oneself vs someone else, and based on everything else Leofric has said so far I'm almost certain that's the angle you were going for. Either way it's an interesting interplay between whatever drives someone to go far away from the only life they've really known, and the impending realization that they might've slightly overidealized the life they wanted and they're still going to be stuck trying to deworm their cabbages or make smalltalk with neighbors lol.

(Long-term I'm curious where a fic like this even ends, when Leofric finally decides to be satisfied with what they've done, or if it's just going to be a constant grind for one more upgrade, one more harvest. It's interesting that so far a lot of their choices here feel more like trying to run away from something, i.e. Joja, rather than running towards something, i.e. I really like parsnips.)

It was It was nice.

I ragged a bit on the strikethroughs in my previous review but I liked them here--this one especially tells a lot between the lines of crossing something out only to write it down again.

I shudder to contemplate what a steady diet of that would do to you. Idiots.

It’s kind of charming that the people here so readily eat fresh river fish.

Robin’s effusive praise, I suspect, was a ploy to get out of paying up.

“No. No, Sam doesn’t read.”

I’ll bet he doesn’t.

Some of these I get the feeling are references to game mechanics/specific NPC interactions, so if that's the case, my apologies for reading this blind and demanding logic without doing the background research--in general there are moments where Leofric feels kind of mean or assuming the worst of people around them. Epistolary is kind of rough since there's really no way to know the extent of a narrator's reliability; the entire story is told and shaped through them and for all we know they could just be painting themselves in a great light + there's not a great avenue for another character to poke holes in their logic--is Robin actually trying to take advantage of them or are they just fuming over the conversation? Are they judging Sam too quickly out of jealousy for Penny, or is Sam actually just a boring guy who creeps out Penny by not understanding that she actually wants flowers and books and stuff? Cursory knowledge suggests that I'm either really misunderstanding Sam's role in the canon plot, or Leofric is--unsure which, though, and something that I imagine will see more light in upcoming chapters. So far the villagers seem generally pretty quaint and welcoming to Leofric, even if Leofric doesn’t really feel welcomed yet, so it'll be interesting to see how those dynamics start to unfold.

I never would have made it without Tilda. Irreverent, filthy-mouthed Tilda. I keep hoping she’ll text, wanting to catch up. But, she never does. I really miss you.

I thought this was a journal, but it looks like maybe it's being addressed to someone? Interesting ...

Overall, a fun series of updates. Leofric definitely gets claws in this one, which is interesting and bodes for some drama in upcoming developments, but there's still lots of time to sit back and enjoy the various flowers.

some misc thoughts on clarity/prose:

Spoiler

“My sources tell me you’ve been poking around inside the old Community Centre.

Why don’t you pay me a visit? My chambers are West of the forest lake, in the stone tower. I may have information regarding your ‘rat problem’.

- M. Rasmodius, Wizard.”

It's up to you since, as far as I can tell, these are formatted this way because you want to preserve the hand-written nature of this epistolary format and humans can't accurately do italics or whatever--but in general I kept wanting to parse these letters/messages as actual dialogue, and I tripped up on them a little. I figured out what was happening ofc, but it did take me a while each time.

I wonder if I could haggle up to £27? *

* £26.10s was the final count on the parsnips (Not bad).

The * here felt weird. Was this meant to be a passage of time, so they paused for a bit between speculating on the sell price and then actually selling them, coming back, and updating the journal? That was how I understood it, but typically you just have a (-) break to denote the passage of time.

By the cliff there’s drifts of empty and crushed cans. Cheapest of the cheap booze.

Personal preference + likely a regional thing, but usually "booze" implies "liquor" for me, so cans felt kind of strange as a consumption unit.

You’re not just a jerk, Shane.

I didn't pick up who Shane was. Sam's the boyfriend that we're supposed to be jealous of, so it's probably still just the quiet guy at the end of the bar, but I parsed "the same look as being at the end of one too many Joja shifts" as "being tired", so I wasn't sure where the implication that anyone else would think he's a jerk is coming from, ,besides the fact that he's drinking alone?

I'm told that Shane's a dick in the actual game, so forgive my fandom blindness here lol.

Gunther couldn’t tell me much about it, though apparently bogs and fens are good for preserving artefacts.

Is this necessarily true? I feel like the rust and general muckiness of a bog would not be super forgiving to any non-metal artifact, and still be pretty hazardous to metal ones.

He was visibly pleased to have it as the inaugural piece of the renewed collection. What the hell – that made it worth my while.

I didn't quite pick up on why they thought this was worth their while actually--they seem generally unimpressed with the museum (or at the very least ambivalent when they last talked about it), and more than a little judgmental about various quaint habits that people have in these parts. I guess there's an argument that impressing Penny is the main goal here, but that doesn't really seem to be the case either.

I don’t know what I could do with them, but there is a smithy in town.

How far down does it go?

On second read it's more clear that the "it" refers to the mineshaft and not the smithy, but it feels a little obfuscated.

The tower’s sited atop a steep hill like a castle on a motte.

I ended up going back to the mines. It’s still a bit stupid, but … I want to know what’s down there. This time I brought my pick as well. And – and I couldn’t say why – I also buckled on that sword. It just feels right, somehow. It’s actually not that obtrusive. After a while I rather forgot I was wearing it.

There’s a whole little ecosystem down there. Brown bumblebees bringing in their own little harvest of the dandelions. Do they come down here for the flowers? Do they live down here?

Level 2 – the lighting is sparser here.

In general I understand the reasoning behind the past/present swaps--obviously the tower is still there, the lighting is still sparse in the lower levels, etc--but it's kind of jarring because parts of these are described as experiences that happened in the past, so the swaps to present make it feel more like it's actually happening rather than observations that were made during those past experiences.

which would cost Andy a lot of money. it’s not a statutory regulation

idk if it's really fair game to point out typos in a journal format, but this didn't seem intentional

A farmer, like an amateur; an amateur, talking confidently.

(ditto re: typos but in general I don't think this is how semicolons work, at least in the traditional sense.)

 

[Beth Pavell]

This is going to be a bigger response post than I expected. So in the broadest sense the story is intended to be 'on brand', i.e: in a similar tone and spirit of the source material. The interesting thing about Stardew Valley is that just beneath the surface of the unthreatening farming RPG, there's a lot of more mature themes bubbling away. It's not as cutesy as the likes of Harvest Moon in that sense. An example of this would be how in the very earliest stages of the game, the people who are friendliest to you are also the ones trying to sell you something.

A lot of this is me channelling everything I hate about retail - and indeed, me recalling the worst of working for Lush.

A major problem is here is balancing suspension of disbelief. I'm trying to go for a middle ground were Leofric isn't the complete failure he realistically ought to be - besides which, the game itself is about escapism, a theme I'm obviously running with - but he also doesn't outperform all the other smallholdings in the valley within half a year. It's for the same reason that I've kept the calendar from the game, undoubtedly weird though it is.

(In any case, this is also supposed to be a simpler story for me to write - thinking too deeply about untangling these matters would be counterproductive to that)

I'm not really sure what parts are yours and what parts are canon

-So I did some quick looking up cause I was just curious if Tilda was a real Stardew Valley character, but it looks like they are not. But hey, we not a silent bob like here so we can actually learn what's what with their past Joja life.

Indeed, most of it is canon. The main change I made was to have Leofric's Joja job to be retail/sales, rather than an office cubicle. I honestly haven't decided how much I want to 'reveal' about Tilda at this juncture. Ryoma is right insofar as I invented her because Leofric needed a bit more flesh on his Joja past.

Sam isn't mentioned anywhere else so I'm not really sure who he is.

Fuck.

I didn't pick up who Shane was.

Fuck.

That's what you get when you don't consciously remember your readers may be canon-blind. I had actually intended for every unnamed character to be introduced by name in the narrative, but clearly I hadn't been paying enough attention.

Also I like that this person doesn't question the concept of a wizard and magic, just asking if it's legal.

So we're playing the underground slimes and the wizard in a tower more or less completely unironically--interesting!

It belatedly occurred to me that basically no-one on the game gives any context on how normal magic is in this world. Frankly. I didn't want to have to write endless variations on the theme of 'what the fuck?', so I decided to for magic as something more rare and tangentially legal as opposed to mythical and supernatural.

Is this necessarily true? I feel like the rust and general muckiness of a bog would not be super forgiving to any non-metal artifact, and still be pretty hazardous to metal ones.

You might be surprised to learn that it is. Bogs tend to be anoxic environments, so organic materials tend to decompose reluctantly once they're beneath the mud. Metal, or at least ferrous metal, is not so lucky, that is true.

In general, I don't mind if readers see Leofric as a bit of a prick. His thoughts about Andy could just as easily apply to him - stress can make you bitterer and nastier than you might other wise be. He might not be entirely wrong in his cynicism either ... but where the line is, is up to the reader to decide~

 

[Beth Pavell]

Crystal Bells
22nd Spring - 28th Spring

“And flies when I pursue it”​

22ND SPRING
I usually go up to the mountains by way of the village, taking the lane past the Community Centre, but today I went North, through the woods behind Buckland. The air sharp with resin, an earthy spice from Robin’s fireplace smoke drifting up the valley.

Followed a track I’ve never seen before, up an outcrop on the edge of the pines. There was a tent pitched and someone sitting out in front of it. A stout fellow, rather grubby with a beard you could lose a badger in. His demeanour was nervous, wary, almost like a fox who isn’t sure whether to run or not.

“A stranger?” he said, and I quite liked the plainness of that: “Don’t mind me, I just live out here alone.”
“… Leofric,” I said.
“… Linus,” he said. And that was that.

I went back to the mine. I want to see what’s down there, and I don’t know why. This time I took the sword as well as the pick, and not just because it felt right. I have a feeling, a suspicion, there’s more than ore down there.

I’m writing this on Lvl 5. Water babbling, somewhere in the dark. No sign of anything aggressive. There’s a lot of abandoned equipment, boxes and crates. Rot had turned some of them soft as cardboard. When I broke them open (Walloped it with the pick) I found in some chunks of greenish copper orre. In another there were some chunks of purple gemstone. Deep, rich purple. Even uncut and unpolished they were beautiful. Something about the way they caught the light.

Speaking of the light. By rights it ought to be gloomy – there aren’t that many artificial lights – but throughout the level it’s soft grey light, like twilight. Maybe it’s just my eyes playing tricks.

-​

Strawberry picking this afternoon. I’m not sure how many more will ripen before the end of the season. Pest damage isn’t quite as severe as I’d feared. The birds have definitely been at some of them. Pierre’s paying 4s 8p/punnet. It’s really not a lot, but what can I do?

Took a slow walk to the pub this evening. I still feel out of place there. Everyone else seems to be on first name terms with the chef/proprietor. It’s not that people are rude, but there’s this feeling you get in local pubs when you’re not a local. Hung around till kicking-out time, just for a slight change of scenery. Saw one of the regulars staggering out towards Penny’s the trailer. I can’t remember if Emily ever told me her name but she’s there every night, often right at the bar.

That explains all those cans Penny was getting rid of.

23RD SPRING
Monsters. Monsters, in this day, in this age! Monsters are supposed to be relics of prehistory. Fossils, curios, stories!

It started with an off-handed comment from Pierre – Marlon had bought most of my strawberries. He said that as if the name would be obviously recognisable to me. I had to remind him that I don’t know most people in the valley.

“Oh, you might not have met him. The old fox doesn’t come into town much. He wears an eyepatch, you won’t miss him.”

He was right about that. The same man I’d met at the mine, leather-cloaked, moustachioed and eyepatched. I asked Pierre where he lives, at the time with the vague idea of perhaps cutting him out as the middle man.

The Guildhall is a large cabin up in the mountains, secluded, not far from the mine. And not at all easy to find. I’m not sure why I persisted. By anyone’s metric there were better uses of my time. I think I wanted to get some answers r.e: the thing that attacked me on Lvl 2.

There was something medieval about the Adventurer’s Guild. It wasn’t just the swords and axes and other killing cutlery lined up in racks. You walk into a hall two storeys high, hammerbeam roof, what looks like a firepit in the middle of the floor. Strange trophies decorate the back wall: odd wooden masks, heavy iron helmets, weird skeletons. Marlon watched me sidelong with his one good eye. His companion creaked slowly back and forth in a rocking chair in the corner. Gil had three limbs and six fingers – scars like something had tried to play noughts-and-crosses on his face.

My story was annoyingly anticlimactic.

“So you’ve had your first encounter with a green slime!” Gil cackled. Marlon just smiled.

The casual reaction was just incongruous. It’s not like I was mobbed by a bunch of crows!

“I did tell you there wasn’t just ore down there,” Marlon said. “Why do you suppose I gave you the sword?”

“You might as well have it back, then,” I said.

“There may well be greater treasure to find than copper ore,” Marlon said enigmatically.

-​

Decidedly windy. 14°C at noon. Cloudy by twilight.

“Dear Leofric,

Tomorrow we’re all getting together for the flower dance.

If you can find a partner, you might even participate in the dance yourself! There’s a little clearing beyond the forest west of the town were we hold the dance. Arrive between 9am and 2pm if you’re interested.

Mayor Lewis”

Who’s desperate enough to dance with the likes of me?

Saw Penny in the village this afternoon. She was talking with some old boy in a wheelchair. As I watched she wheeled him aside so she could retrieve a letter from the back of his mailbox. That didn’t seem to go down well.

I ended up getting drawn into it when Penny noticed I was there. I mumbled something about maybe asking first. Well, Penny apologised, looking rather downcast. I think he realised she meant well. Which she manifestly did. She may have been a bit presumptuous, a bit quick to assume.

Afterwards she commented that growing old must be hard. I suppose she’s right. I said I’d rather not think about it.

“I guess you’re right,” she said. “Why stress about something you can’t change?”

That’s not quite what I meant (I’d rather not think about things like pensions and accessibility). But you know, it felt genuine. Penny always seems to have a bit of a guard up.

24TH SPRING
Overcast, threatening rain. 17°C at noon.

I’ve been in two minds about the Flower Dance. After the Egg Festival I was reluctant to spend the day just hanging around. Like a wasp around jam. But then I hoped guessed that maybe Penny would be the wallflower of the festival. Then we could be wallflowers together.

The route through to the festival glade was a well-beaten path, following along the bank of the river. It looked like someone had regularly been clearing the route with chainsaws and billhooks.

Insofar as I could tell most of the village had turned up. There were a lot of anxious glances at the sky. The glade had been decorated with masses of flowers: marigolds, geraniums, swarms of busy lizzie. It was all, at first glance, charmingly bright. Except … Damnit Lewis. He didn’t tell me there was a dress code. Even Marlon! The man wears an eyepatch and a sword and he looks like he fits in! I’d turned up in granddad’s old cloak, not trusting the louring clouds, thrown back over my shoulders to keep it out of the way. Should have just gone home but I’d been seen arriving and it would have been weird to leave.

Shane was unusually cheerful. I don’t think I’d seen him laugh till now (Not that I at all blame him. He works at Joja Mart, after all). It was nice to see.

Leah said she was glad to see me – a little strange since she doesn’t see me that often. Strange to see her with elegantly brushed hair and no charcoal smudges on her cheeks. I complimented her hair, sincerely (It’s the least threatening compliment I know, that was the point). It was nice of her to make me feel welcome.

But Penny, oh Penny … Penny was a vision. Gorgeous in a white-blue dress with elegantly puffed sleeves, gorgeous with a shy little smile, gorgeous with the Spring sun and the Spring flowers in her hair. The dancing started, and I had no idea how to ask her to dance even if I knew how to dance.

What the hell am I doing?

25TH SPRING
The threatened rain broke in the small hours. Vile rain, falling in big gelatinous drops, the sort of rain that makes you feel sticky and overwarm no matter what you do. It was pretty vile weather to harvest in. That’ll be it for the strawberries. And, possibly, for the beans.

It occurs to me I haven’t planned ahead for Summer. I’ve got by entirely on guesswork this Spring. It’ll probably be mostly guesswork this Summer. I cleared a bit of land for want of a better idea. I probably ought to be more diligent with the weeds.

This is not a good plan
This is not a plan

Did planning ever get me anywhere? Really? You plan and plan and plan.

After stopping at the general store I made a couple of detours. Firstly to the Community Centre. The abandoned, dilapidated hall would perhaps be an eerie experience, with the rain pattering outside, had I not also had memories of the mines.

I had a handful of green beans to leave in the pantry. They weren’t the best of the crop – neither was the cauliflower or the potato or the parsnips I left hitherto. As to what I expected … in light of meeting Rasmodius, after the thing in the mines? I suppose at this point I just wanted to see what would happen.

Something of an anticlimax, in point of fact. I put the beans on a shelf, to no apparent effect (Wondering whether the rats would simply eat it). It didn’t seem sane to stand around watching. I chanced to look back at the door – and there was a junimo finding like mist, beans held in its wiggly noodle arms. Well, he was welcome to them. I turned to leave him to it and promptly tripped over something – a box of fertiliser, but the branding was odd. It was labelled ‘Spiid-gro’, for one thing.

“Er. Thank you,” I said, since they seem to be literate, after a fashion.

I headed down to the river after that. To the … mobile home. To the mobile home. This turned out to be a silly mistake since the rain decided to hammer down halfway there. My hair was dripping and my socks squelching by the time I arrived at Penny’s door, carrying a punnet of waterlogged strawberries. I almost gave up. For some reason I knocked on her door anyway.

Sigh. I know suave and erudite is not too much to hope for, but witty and charming at least seemed to be within reach. Not that Penny reacted to the ridiculousness of the sight. Aside from the offer of a towel and a radiator she didn’t reference it at all. I think the strawberries broke the ice. Or maybe it was having to tip the rainwater out of the strawberries and my boots. Oh well. After that it was actually a pretty good afternoon. One geeky quotation led to another (Oh, books!) and it was just the best conversation I can recall for … well, so long.

I particularly liked watching her eat the fruit I’d grown – given that this is the one crop I have any experience with.

“It must be nice to live in close proximity to so much fresh produce,” I remarked.
“Yeah …” she said as if she wasn’t quite convinced. “I guess you take it for granted. Wasn’t it exciting to live in the city?”

‘No, not really,’ I almost said. You’d expect me to say that (I.e: the truth), I suppose gratitude is relative. Yoba Below knows how I hated the city, but … maybe without Joja – no, I would have hated it anyway. But I can conceptualise why it might hold some allure for Penny in a grass-is-greener sort of way.

26TH SPRING
Is this really a mine?

Below Lvl 29 there are no lights. Even the queer sourceless twilight of the upper levels is absent. It takes several hours to delve this far. At this depth the weight of rock above head feels oppressive. Almost crushing. The dark, unyielding, smothering my torchlight. It’s colder here, but it’s a changeless cool that has nothing to do with the weather of the world.

Marlon called it a mine. And yet … there are chambers. Galleries. Subterranean rivers fringed with a glittering black strand. Faint tapping noises somewhere in the dark. The long-storied knockers, perhaps, of mine folklore. Once, I would have thought them nothing but a story. Now I’m not so sure. The line between natural and manmade twisting like a wounded serpent. On Lvl 26 my torchlight picked up grubs of ridiculous size clustering on the walls (A marvel of the caves, or something more sinister?). On Lvl 18 I met another slime – ambushed it this time, split it open with a mattock blow. Watched it deflate, expelling protoplasm, like a dying amoeba.

The presence of the pick is reassuring. Already it seems less heavy. Perhaps it’s just adrenaline.

Twisting, like a wounded serpent. On Lvl 30 I stumbled and fell into a chamber – a moment of cold black terror ended by my shoulder impacting the rock. A bruised shoulder was at least proof the pit was not bottomless.

My torch beam illuminated the musty remains of camp beds … grimy playing cards … an abandoned mug, the coffee fossilised into a tarry residue … a photo collage filmed with dust. People had lived here, thirty levels below the earth. I wondered how long the miners lived without sight of the sun.

Later, that evening, I told Leah about how I found the elevator. It was another chance sighting, a nastily familiar shade of steel blue caught in the light. Some sort of control box liveried with the JojaPower logo. Out of morbid curiosity I flipped the ON switch. No obvious effect, beside a green light. Following bundles of wires led me to the elevator. Dank, the electrics giving off an unnerving hum, but a functioning elevator nonetheless.

It’s making me laugh every time I think of it. They can’t help themselves, can they? And now I have easy access to the surface – on Joja’s shilling.

Ran into Linus on the way back, very nearly literally. I must have startled him – he startled me, lurking in the shadows like a feral cat. Perhaps that was because he was rummaging in the bins outside No.1.

“Do you think there’s something wrong with what I’m doing?”

Wrong? With taking what No.1’s thrown away? Who the hell cares?

27TH SPRING
17°C at noon. Patchy cloud, light breeze, the cottage walls warm to the touch.

The beans were ready to pick – I think this will be the last of them, barring a few stragglers.

Lvl 40 in the mine. As soon as the elevator doors opened I felt the blast of frigid air. Frost sparkled on the rock. Spring to Winter. You never know what to expect here.

I went back up to the surface.

28TH SPRING
From you I have been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him
Yet not the lays of birds, not the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose,
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those
Yet seemed it winter still and you away
As with your shadow I did play.

17°C at noon, with intermittent sunshine.

Spent the day clearing ground, trying to plan fields around the mature trees. They’re just too much trouble to fell with this axe. It’s laborious work nonetheless. I’ve got about half an acre cleared now, I think. I wonder if it should be ploughed back into the earth. Damn those brambles. Yoba Below knows how old they are, but they are worse than barbed wire. Chopping them apart is the easy part. I’m going to need sturdier gloves, or something.

Thanks in large part to my hacking, the butterflies were out and fluttering. Peacocks and commas bursting out of the nettles. There’s an abundance of speckled wood (Pararge aegaria) in the woods (I had to look up that spelling. An ironically tricky one for a comparatively drab butterfly). Some of them loafing at the margins to bask in the sunshine. Pretty little things, in their own way. The peacocks are looking a bit tired and faded this late in the season.

Went down to the beach in the late afternoon to do some idle fishing. It’s probably a bit late in the season for herring, but the red mullet were biting reasonably well. Funny, really. Once upon a time I regarded fishing at pedantic, more penance than pensive. I see the point now. Fishing feels at least familiar, a quiet little moment.

The evening was pretty much all about planning the start of Summer. I bought the beers at the Stardrop – it seems only fair given that Andy’s helping me with his walk-behind. One pint in and he was full of advice for my burgeoning fledgling tiny freehold.

It’s another leap of faith, I suppose.

I’ve made it through Spring. Summer to come.