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thejakeformerlyknownasprince · 4 years

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Re: Star Wars prequel novelizations - the Revenge of the Sith book is genuinely one of the best things I have ever read and changed my life.

THANK YOU, anon, for reminding me about the Revenge of the Sith novelization. I just reread it, and my crops are watered, my skin is clear, and — I cannot overstate this — I actually remember why I love Star Wars. That love has been for too long stolen by The Fandom Menace sucking the life out of those movies to invent a new definition of suffering while digesting them slowly over a thousand years.

Revenge of the Sith by Matthew Stover is one of the greatest works of adventure fiction I have ever read, and it continues to inspire the way I write action sequences and character conflicts. It does so damn much to transform a movie that is, to be honest, just okay. There are a couple of big additions from the novel that make the whole Skywalker saga richer, and there are about five hundred little tweaks that deepen the lore in a way that shows that Stover loves Star Wars to the core.

First big addition: having Obi-Wan tell Padmé that he’s in love with Anakin. This is great because yay, queer representation! But within the specific context of RotS, it also sets up the super-important contrast between Obi-Wan and Anakin. Obi-Wan, Stover’s novel makes clear, is the quiet and unassuming embodiment of everything a Jedi is supposed to be: he’s selfless, loving, hard-working, and incredibly skilled with the Force. Obi-Wan falls in love with Anakin, realizes that Anakin doesn’t love him back in that way, and... lives with it. He spends time with Anakin, supports Anakin, enjoys Anakin’s company, and doesn’t act like the world will end if Anakin isn’t his.

Anakin loves Obi-Wan, in a siblinglike way, and he loves Padmé. But he’s got a nasty habit of expressing that love through possession and control, through going behind Padmé’s back to “fix” her life without her permission. Anakin falls in love with Padmé and immediately concludes that he cannot possibly live like this: they must begin a secret relationship, and he must both marry her and remain a Jedi. Later he destroys the Jedi and eventually Padmé herself because he sees himself as having no way out of that dilemma.

And all the while, Obi-Wan is there in the background. Also in love with someone with whom he cannot have a relationship, and just… dealing with it like an adult. Because millions of people are in love with people who don’t love them back, and that’s just how it is sometimes. It’s selfish to obsess over “having” their love at all costs. For Anakin, that obsession with saving Obi-Wan and Padmé eventually leads to him killing them both.

When Yoda tells Anakin that he must deal with his fear of losing Padmé through letting go, Anakin takes this to mean “let her die.” But what Yoda means is not “let her die,” but rather “love her the way Obi-Wan loves you: quietly, selflessly, and with a willingness to do what’s best for her, whether or not that means you get to have her.” And Anakin never understands that, because Anakin’s view of the world is so intensely egocentric.

Second big addition: updating the Force to explain the Dark Side. Revenge of the Sith, even more so than any other Star Wars, is all about the contrast between the Dark Side and the Light Side. Here, Stover’s contribution is brilliant; he makes the Dark Side egocentric and the Light allocentric.

Terminology! “Egocentric” in psych refers to the perspective that focuses on how the world affects you and how you affect the world. At the extreme, egocentric thinking can be believing that a baby is crying in a deliberate effort to annoy you, or that every person in a crowded cafeteria will remember what shirt you wore when you ate there a week ago. “Allocentric” refers to the perspective that the self is one of several disparate elements buffered around by the world. At the extreme, allocentric thinking can be failing to realize that others are reacting to your presence, or viewing your own life as one thing you can give to help others.

Stover doesn’t use those terms, but he does describe how Dooku “drew power into his innermost being until the Force itself existed only to serve his will” (p. 64). Later, Obi-Wan “gave himself to the living Force… the Force moved him, let him collapse as though he’d suddenly fainted, then it brought his lightsaber from his belt to his hand” (p. 285). Dooku ultimately loses his fight against Anakin because he focuses on how everyone is responding to him, and misses that Anakin and Palpatine are beginning to build an alternate alliance right under his nose. Obi-Wan ultimately wins his fight against Anakin because he allows the Force to shove him around, and sets aside his concern with both his own life and that of his best friend while fighting for the greater goal of peace.

Not only that, but Obi-Wan’s understanding of the Force moves beyond that of most Jedi. He compares “the will of the Force” to “the will of gravity,” in essence stating that simply because it is beyond human comprehension doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own rules. One can be a Jedi without needing to understand the Force in the same way one can be a pilot without needing to be a physicist. In RotS, we see that his refrain of “search your feelings” is a way of calling on a Force user to be mindful enough to accept realities that are already evident, if one can only allow oneself to have that knowledge.

Stover also uses these competing perspectives — allocentric and egocentric — to explain why the Jedi Order falls. The tight control the Order exerts over the Jedi moves them away from the will of the Force and toward the will of the Council. Its insularity creates a sense of superiority, which is the reason so many Jedi fail to see their clone troopers as threats until it’s too late. Stover tweaks the Jedi Purge scene to emphasize that the only reason Obi-Wan and Yoda survive is because of their selflessness. Obi-Wan takes the time to befriend his alien mount, repeatedly confirming her well-being, and then she shields him with her body when his troopers open fire. Yoda respects the Wookie command and puts himself in a position to assist rather than lead the resistance movement on Kashyyyk, meaning that when a fight breaks out between him and his troopers the Wookies don’t hesitate to side with him. Yoda and Obi-Wan are the only two Jedi who truly give themselves to the service of others, and thus they are the only two to survive the Purge.

...and the million little favors this book does for the movie.

During the opening battle, having Obi-Wan tell Anakin to “use the Force” to fly a narrow trench and having Anakin roll his eyes at such an obvious suggestion. It’s a callback to A New Hope, but one that drives home how much more the Force is integrated in the lives of Old Republic Jedi than it is in the lives of Imperial kids like Luke.

Fixing the minor continuity error from Episode III to Episode IV — why would Admiral Motti dismiss Vader as following outdated superstitions if there were millions of Jedi within his lifetime? — by explicitly stating that the Sith are considered a dead culture. Ergo, Vader’s “ancient religion” isn’t the Force in general; it’s specifically the Sith creed.

Making Palpatine scarier and more seductive than he is in the movie. Stover’s rhetoric about killing even the Jedi children is frighteningly rational and coherent, and he uses it to give Palpatine some stomach-churning speeches while corrupting Anakin.

Using the novel format for all it’s worth. Stover skims over the physical-comedy elevator sequence in favor of having Dooku and Palpatine discussing their plans for the war. He only tells us about Anakin’s conversation with Yoda after the fact, in scattered flashes as a panicking Anakin runs through the halls of the Jedi temple. He gives us intense focus on Anakin’s mindset while trying to land the broken halves of Invisible Hand, less on what the ship itself is doing. He cuts away from Anakin and Obi-Wan’s final battle, toward R2D2 and C3PO as they struggle to drag a dying Padmé into her ship out of a desperation to find some small way to help her.

Revealing that Palpatine spends the entire story trying to kill Obi-Wan. This gets hinted at in the movie, but Stover includes several moments throughout Palpatine’s “rescue” from Dooku when Palpatine sets Obi-Wan up to die, and mentions like eight other attempts on Obi-Wan’s life as orchestrated by Palpatine. It’s a great character addition, that Palpatine assumes he cannot get Anakin to fall unless he first eliminates Obi-Wan.

Expanding Padmé’s role in the movie (set dressing, and later refrigerator filling) by having her secretly organize and launch the Rebel Alliance right under Vader and Palpatine’s noses.

Those are just examples of how Stover clearly knows the Force, gets the Force, and strives to make the Force more internally coherent. How he sometimes translates, sometimes preserves, and always improves the pacing and tone of the film.

I haven’t even touched on the FUCKING AMAZEBALLS imagery or introspection in the book yet, but this post is getting wicked long, so I’ll go ahead and leave it here for now. Point is, all y’all should go out immediately and get a copy from your library and/or used bookstore, because Nonny is right and it’ll change your life.

#star wars #revenge of the sith #star wars episode iii #matthew stover #revenge of the sith novelization #book review #long post #nothing to do with animorphs #the force #star wars episode iii: revenge of the sith #anonymous #asks

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bitchin-beskar · 3 years

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no body, no crime

Rating: M

Warnings: murderrrrrrr. allusions to smut. but like... murderrrrr. (Actual warnings: mentions of infidelity, light descriptions of torture, allusions to murder, vague mentions of smut)

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count:

A/N: So, this story is based off the song, no body, no crime from T. Swift’s new album, evermore. I listened to it, and immediately knew it was perfect for the bastard man himself. (Also, this fic is entirely @perropascal‘s fault, if she hadn’t posted the absolutely amazing fic (fucked my way) to the top featuring the asshole himself, I would never have even thought about him, so... blame her ;)) I hope y’all like this! (I will probably write a companion piece for this with actual smut, but I wanted to stick with the lyrics of the song for this one, and it just didn’t fit in. Believe me, I tried.)

P.S. You all should check @perropascal out. she’s amazing and this story is dedicated to her beautiful self!

Please consider reblogging and leaving a comment!! I’d love to hear what you guys think!!

“He’s cheating.”

You look over at your best friend, taking in her tired eyes and her slumped shoulders, the way that she desperately grips her glass of wine with two hands. She’s not been getting enough sleep, and its beginning to take it’s toll.

“Did you catch him?”

You keep your voice soft, not wanting to draw any attention to yourself or Este. You’re at your regular table in the Olive Garden that you and Este have been going to since high school. Even though you’re in the back of the restaurant, and there aren’t any people at the nearby tables, Este looks like she’s about to break down, and you know she wouldn’t want an audience for that.

“He’s coming home with stains around his lips. He says they’re from merlot, but I don’t believe him. And there’s jewelry purchases on our joint account, but it’s not mine.”

She looks miserable, and you reach out, squeezing her hand tightly. You’d never liked Aaron, her husband. He always seemed a little off, a little too controlling and quick to anger, and your best friend deserved better dammit.

“Do you have any ideas as to who he’s with?”

Este just shook her head miserably. “It’s probably someone from his work, but I have no idea who. No body, no crime, right?” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Pushing your chair back, you stand up and move around to hug Este, pulling her into your arms and stroking her hair. She’s trembling like a leaf, and you wish you could take her pain away.

“I’ve gotta call him out,” she mutters into your shoulder. “I refuse to be the stupid housewife who pretends she doesn’t know just to save her marriage.”

You pull back slightly, a concerned look in your eyes. “I don’t trust him, Este. Be careful, okay? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Este nods, drying her tears. “I’ll be careful. I have to do this though. There’s no doubt in my mind, I have to call him out.”

***

The next week, you knew something was wrong. Este hadn’t answered your texts all week, and she wasn’t there at Olive Garden for your weekly dinner. She’d never missed a dinner night, not once. You called her workplace, only to find out she’d been out all week.

Near frantic, you drove to the police station, hoping that they might have information, or at the very least, you could file a missing person’s report. To your surprise, however, a report had already been filed.

When you asked who had filed it and when, the answer shocked you. Aaron had filed the missing person’s report last Tuesday.

The same Tuesday that Este had told you she was going to confront Aaron about his infidelity.

You asked if there was any chance the report’s filing date could be off, but the officer assured you that it wasn’t. A one Aaron Stover had filed a missing person’s report on his wife on Tuesday night, mere hours after you and Este had parted ways.

You left the police station, shaken to your core. Your mind was racing as you tried to come up with a reason for why Aaron would have reported Este missing so quickly after you’d last seen her. Unfortunately, you knew there was only one logical explanation. He’d reported her missing because he knew that she was going to be missing. You were driving on autopilot, and when you finally began to pay attention again, you realized where you were.

Sitting behind the wheel of your car, you were parked across the street from Aaron and Este’s house. His truck was in the driveway, and you noticed he had four brand new, shiny tires. As you were watching, another car drove up, and a gorgeous woman got out of the driver’s seat. She walked up to the front door, and walked right into the house. You frowned.

You noticed sweet old Mrs. Cratchit was gardening outside, and you quickly got out to speak with her. Mrs. Cratchit was a notorious gossip, and if anyone had seen or heard anything, she was bound to know.

“Hi, Mrs. Cratchit!” You forced a cheerful tone into your voice, despite the dread that weighed heavy in your heart. “How are you?”

She looked up from her flowerbed, grinning toothily as she saw you. “Hello sweetie! It’s been far too long! I’m doing just fine, thank you. How are you, dear?” She paused, a slight frown maring her wrinkled features. “How is Este, dear? Have you talked to her?”

Mrs. Cratchit didn’t pause for you to answer, instead plowing on. “It’s just shameful, what that husband of hers is doing. Shameful, I say! Bringing his little side piece into their home. Apparently, she’s a secretary at the same company. It’s just shameful.” She shook her head. “I even heard that the little trollop is sleeping over, if you know what I mean.” She winked at you, and you forced a strangled laugh. “Anyways, is Este doing alright?”

You opened your mouth to tell Mrs. Cratchit the truth, but the words caught in your throat. You still couldn’t believe that your best friend was missing, you didn’t want to believe it.

“Este’s fine, Mrs. Cratchit. I should probably go, though. It was good seeing you!” You forced the lie out of your mouth, giving the sweet, clueless old woman a kiss on the cheek before heading back to your car, your mind racing.

So not only was Aaron cheating on Este, he’d done something to her, and, instead of even acting concerned, he’d decided to move his mistress into your best friend’s house. Hell, his mistress was sleeping in Este’s bed!

Furious, you decided then and there that you were going to do something about it. You knew he did it, but you just couldn’t prove it, not in a court of law. So, you’d have to take matters into your own hands.

***

Planning a murder was surprisingly simple.

Your daddy made you get a boating license when you were fifteen, and he was more than willing to lend you his thirty-eight foot, 2000 Cruisers 3870 Express for a weekend on the lake.

Your aunt cleaned houses for a living, and all you had to do was ask, and she was all too willing to give you what you needed.

Este’s sister was an orderly at a small, local hospital, and it was all too easy for her to slip a tiny vial of succinylcholine into her purse one day after her shift.

And Aaron.

Poor, foolish, unsuspecting Aaron.

You’d just had to “accidentally” run into him one day after work, bat your eyes and run your hands over his chest as you invited him over for lunch. Playing the facade of a concerned well-wisher, wanting to make sure your best friend’s husband was doing alright in this horrible time, was ridiculously easy. Dress a little too low cut, heels a little too high, lips a little too red, it was easy to catch his attention.

You’re sure he thought he would be warming your bed after your “lunch” but you had other plans.

***

You heard a thump behind you, and you turned, seeing Aaron blinking blearily up at you, terror in his eyes. You left the controls of the boat, turning and yanking the duct tape off of his mouth violently. He whimpered at the sting, and you smirked.

“W–W–What are you doing?! Are you insane?! I could have you arrested for this–”

You stood up, kicking Aaron in the gut, and he groaned, curling up as best he could with his hands duct taped behind his back.

“You could,” you drawled, placing your hands on your hips as you looked down at him condescendingly. “But it’s a little hard to have me arrested when you’re dead, darling.”

His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth and began screaming. You only laughed, waiting for him to run out of air. He finally had to stop, gasping for breath, at which point you knelt back down by his face, stroking his tear-stained cheek with one finger.

“There’s one way you can get out of this alive Aaron. All you have to do is tell me one itty, bitty little thing. Think you can do that for me?”

He nodded frantically, terrified whimpers escaping from his throat as he tried to shuffle back from you, unsuccessfully.

You patted his cheek sharply. “Good boy.” Gripping his chin, you jerked his face up so he was forced to look you in the eyes. “What did you do to Este?”

At the look on Aaron’s face, you felt your heart sink. Aaron had never been good at keeping secrets, which is part of how Este had caught him cheating in the first place. The look on his face told you everything. Este was gone, and she wasn’t coming back.

You quickly schooled your features. Though you were devastated, there was no way you were letting this bastard know that. He’d murdered your best friend in cold blood, all because he couldn’t stand the fact that he’d been caught cheating, and because he knew Este would leave him destitute when she took him to court.

“Such a shame,” you tutted, voice dripping with venom. “I was really hoping you’d have a different answer for me.”

Aaron immediately began to squirm, begging, pleading with you, trying to get you to spare his life. His pathetic whimpers had no effect, and you delivered another satisfying kick to his gut before turning and grabbing the bag holding the heavy cinder blocks and the padlock and chains.

His eyes widened when he watched you pull out the chains and the cinder blocks, and you chuckled lowly.

***

The police had questioned you, of course, but Este’s sister swore up and down that you were with her, so you were quickly eliminated as a suspect in Aaron’s disappearance.

Jessica, Aaron’s mistress, wasn’t so lucky. She’d taken out a two million dollar life insurance policy on him, the stupid woman, which immediately made her the prime suspect. Apparently, she was also being looked at as a suspect in Este’s disappearance as well.

The news was making her out to be some kind of black widow, ruthlessly taking out anyone in her way to fame, glory, and riches. Honestly, they were laying it on a bit thick, but as long as they were focused on her and not you, it didn’t matter.

But the cherry on the sundae was when your firm was hired by corporate executives from the company Jessica worked for, to conduct an investigation into both her and Aaron. Apparently, Aaron had been working on a rather sensitive project for the company, and now with his disappearance and the suspicion resting on Jessica, their company wanted to make sure that none of their projects would be compromised.

Jessica was the reason your best friend was dead. You were going to make her life hell.

***

“Mr. Lord? There’s a young woman from that firm corporate hired here to see you.”

Maxwell looked up to see Cherrie standing in the doorway, and he took a moment to appreciate how her skirt made her legs look fantastic. She flushed prettily under his gaze, like always.

“Thanks, babes, send her on in.”

Max settled back into his chair, steepling his fingers as he waited for you to arrive. He’d been shocked when the bosses had told him one of his secretaries was the subject of a police investigation into the disappearance of another of his employees, Aaron.

He’d also been shocked, and more than a little angry to find out that apparently, Jessica was sleeping with Aaron. One of his employees, sleeping with his secretary? It pissed him off, and if Aaron wasn’t already missing, he’d be tempted to kill the man.

As he watched a gorgeous young woman step into his office, briefcase in hand and a smirk on her face, he felt his own smirk grow. He had a feeling things were going to get interesting.

***

You woke slowly, the faint sensation of touch ghosting across your bare back sending tingles down your spine. You smiled sleepily, sighing when a pair of lips pressed against your bare shoulder.

“Did I wake you, gorgeous?”

Rolling over, you looked at the man who lay propped up beside you, his blonde hair falling mused over his forehead. You’re both naked under the sheets, skin sweaty from the hours spent pressed into the mattress, against the wall, on the desk, and even the floor.

“I should probably be getting up anyways, Max. I’ve gotta present my findings to the board on Jessica.”

Max chuckled, his hand tracing over your bare flesh, stroking the side of your breast, the gold of his rings cool against your skin. “Ah yes, the findings that prove her guilt in a corporate espionage scheme, those findings?”

You giggled, tangling your fingers in his hair as you pulled him closer to you, your lips ghosting over his. “It’s like I told you, darling. I’m not letting up until the day she dies.”

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180abroad · 5 years

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Day 128: Islay (Introduction and Arrival)

If you were to crack open a tourist book or do a web search for tourist destinations in Scotland, Islay probably wouldn't feature highly in it. Skye is obviously the most prominent, with its wild scenery and equally wild history of Highlander culture. Mull, Iona, Arran, and the Orkneys all seem to get higher billing as well.

That isn't to say that Islay is an unpopular destination, though. It offers lovely people, awe-inspiring fairytale landscapes, and evocative ruins standing testament to a kingdom long gone. But today, it's mainly famous with a very specific niche of people who are already very well aware of it.

And that niche is Scotch whisky drinkers.

With eight distilleries on one island--plus a ninth under construction and a tenth on the neighboring island of Jura--Islay (pronounced "EYE-luh") is probably the densest center of Scotch whisky production outside of Speyside. Islay whiskies are largely still made in the traditional style, using peat-smoked barely to create spirits with intense aromas and flavors redolent of campfire smoke and ocean brine.

Because they're so aggressively flavored, Islay whiskies are generally placed at the top of the Scotch difficulty curve--to be tackled only after extensive preparation with the gentle spirits of the grassy Lowlands and the sweet nectars distilled from the River Spey in the eastern Highlands. But for me, Islay was my deep-end dive headfirst into the whisky world. And a revelation.

I'd never been a big fan of hard alcohol--or any alcohol for that matter. I could tolerate a sweet, malty beer or a bit of rum mixed with a lot of fruit juice, but that was about it. I didn't even like wine. Scotch whisky was just about the last thing any sane person would expect me to get into, let alone end up on a pilgrimage for.

Like a lot of people's surprising interests, I fell into it in the most roundabout way possible. During a period of unemployment, I decided to stretch my writing skills by adapting one of my favorite sci-fi/fantasy novels--Heroes Die, by Matthew Stover--into a screenplay format. The main character of the book mentions several times that his favorite drink is Laphroaig. When I realized that this was a real thing, I decided it might be fun to try it as a way to connect with the character.

Not knowing my Gaelic from my French, I assumed that something called Laphroaig would be a kind of fancy liqueur. What Laphroaig actually is, however, is one of the most unapologetically peaty Islay whiskies you can get.

As the second lucky link in this unlikely chain of discovery, I then took this bottle of Laphroaig to drink with a friend who smokes cigars. Had I first sipped it in my own home, I would probably have condemned it immediately as vile stuff and disposed of it with a firm intention to never reveal my extraordinarily out-of-character indiscretion to anyone.

But that's not what happened. As anyone who has experienced this combination will attest, the mere smell of lingering cigar smoke holds the power to transform the harshest, most medicinal Scotch whisky alchemy-like into a sweet ambrosial beverage.

Not knowing what I had done, I simply marveled at how Scotch whisky--which I had by now learned that Laphroaig was--could be so smooth, warming, and delicious. Sweeter than rum, smoother than brandy, and instantly evocative of childhood campfire memories, this was my drink.

Of course, when I later brought the bottle to share this discovery with my parents in their clean, smoke-free home, the experience was entirely different. It was still smoky and warming, but the sweetness was replaced almost entirely with ashy bitterness and a medicinal iodine note that my mom dubbed "burning band-aids."

For a long while after that, Scotch remained something for me to sip a few times a year, either in my friend's smoky workshop or alone at my desk on a cold winter night. I tried a more mainstream Speyside whisky--Glenfiddich 12--but I found it cloying and oily. I resigned myself to the idea that maybe I just liked Laphroaig, and even that only on special occasions.

Then one Christmas, my dad got me a bottle of Ardbeg 10, and everything changed again.

Ardbeg is another highly peated Islay whisky, but unlike Laphroaig 10, it is all smoke and no iodine. I could have a full drink of it and warm my cockles without raising my gorge. And my dad loved it, too. Over the two years between that Christmas and I left on this trip, my dad and I explored other Islay whiskies, discovering the joys of Lagavulin 16, Caol Ila 12, Adrbeg Uigeadail, and Laphraoig Quarter Cask, among others.

When the possibility of us actually visiting Islay together materialized in the form of this trip, it felt almost like fate.

Sadly, we weren't able to extend our newfound passion beyond the two of us. My mom still insisted that they all tasted like band-aids, and while Jessica was able to win me over on wine, our collection of strong Islay whiskies were not at all to her liking. She did try, though--I'll give her that.

Our trip from Edinburgh to Islay was long but smooth and spectacularly scenic. It involved a train to Glasgow, a bus to the port of Kennacraig, and a ferry to Port Ellen, the biggest village on Islay with a population of around 800 people.

Checking out from our B&B was easy, and we were able to catch an earlier train to Glasgow than we expected, giving my dad and me plenty of time to grab a to-go lunch from Pret a Manger while Jessica went ahead to buy our tickets at the bus station. The lines at the bus station were short–Jessica spent less time in the ticket line than she did in the information line to find out which stand our bus would be leaving from.

The bus ride from Glasgow to the ferry terminal at Kennacraig was spectacular. We got to see more of the Highlands and western coast. I said before that Switzerland has the most beautiful landscapes I’ve ever seen. Well, so far Scotland is giving it a hard run for that title.

As our bus went along, we made stops in one cute coastal resort after another. We would have a couple hours to kill in Kennacraig before our ferry left, and we started to get excited about being able to see one of these nice towns. But it was not to be. Kennacraig turned out to be little more than a small office structure next to an old cement pier. There wasn’t even a snack machine in the waiting room.

But at least they had wifi, so I was able to start writing this down. We learned the night before that the wifi was broken at our place in Port Ellen. And the Hebrides Islands aren’t exactly known for stellar cellular data. For at least the next few days, we would be virtually off the grid.

The ferry finally arrived, and much to our relief there was a well-stocked cafeteria aboard. So we settled in at a table, ordered some fish and chips all around, and prepared to enjoy the scenery.

As we've well established, Jessica is not the most calm-stomached seafarer in the world, but fortunately the ride was smooth and we all had a good time.

As we got closer, my dad and I went on deck for a better view. With excitement of two boys on Christmas Eve, we strained our eyes until we could just barely made out the big block letters naming our favorite distilleries along Islay's south coast. Back in the days before GPS, the distilleries painted their names as big as possible on the sides of their buildings to ensure that the supply boats didn't drop off their barley at a competitor's dock.

As the ferry prepared to pull into Port Ellen, the sun shone down on the island like a promised land, and whole scene was like visual poetry in silver monochrome.

It was a short walk from the pier to our Airbnb, but it took us a little longer to figure out that we were actually staying in a guest house in the backyard, and no, the lock box on the front door wasn't supposed to open with the code we'd been given because another guest was staying there. As I anxiously tried to call our host, one of the guests staying in the main house quizzically opened the door and informed us that we were probably out back.

Upon reading our check-in instructions more carefully, I concluded sheepishly that my not having read them more clearly to begin with was probably where we went wrong.

But everything worked out after that. Our code worked perfectly, and our little home on Islay was a dream. Sure, there wasn't any wifi, but in the end we barely missed it--except for each evening when we wanted to check in with family or upload an Instagram post. Then we had to go outside and stand on our toes, waving our phones around in a desperate attempt to dowse for the faintest wisps of data service.

Next Post: Ardbeg and Lagavulin

Last Post: Edinburgh, Part 2 (History, Hiking, and Beer)

#180abroad #islay #scotland #port ellen #whisky #scotch #travel #highlands #again with the doors...

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