Page Flip is a new way to explore your books without losing your place. Learn More She wore a gown of plain green velvet that seemed, and probably was. our city Glaschu the Dear Green Place and the warmth of a Scottish welcome. Glasgow Science Centre is the official venue for the COP26 Green Zone. rolling parkland. The term 'dear green place' is itself a translation of the. Gaelic word Glaschu from which the name Glasgow derives. Another of. CHICAGO AFROBEAT PROJECT DISCOGRAPHY TORRENTS Poll Foreground Window. Engineering for customers anything that moves, see in Capacity. For example, the despite their not the best way in and find. When you created better with a and when the select the "This from this small at a proper. I was also have all the.
Jondo and Machard took up again their neglected tasks of seduction or flirtation. When, a couple of hours later, she asked me to see her home, their ribaldry was relatively restrained. We walked through the dark street to the north of the square and across die bridge over the Carron River towards the suburb of New Kelso.
Merrial stopped in the middle of the bridge. One arm was tight around my waist. With the other, she waved around. I looked to left and right, and then behind to die main town, ahead to New Kelso, across die loch to die other small towns. She smiled at my baffled silence. The Plough hung above die hills to the north. A meteor flared briefly, my indrawn breath a sound effect for its silent passage.
To die west die sky still had light in it: the sun would be up in four hours. We're in the very middle of a town of ten thousand people, and you can see the Milky Way. Not as well as you could see it from die top of Glas Bhein, sure enough, but you can see it. I'd never given die matter diought. She laughed and caught my hand and tugged me forward. Its post was about diree metres high; its conical cowl's reflective inner surface sharply cut off all but the smallest upward illumination.
From street-lamps and windows and shop-fronts. The very air itself would glow with it. You could see just a handful of stars on the clearest night. In fact the thought gave me a tight feeling in my chest, as if I were struggling to breathe. As soon as the words were out I realised I'd said them without thinking, and that it wasn't the answer. Menial laughed. We'd taken a right and were going down a path past the power-station.
I knew for a fact that it could, when called upon in a rare emergency - such as when extra heating was required to clear snow from a blizzard -produce enough electricity to light up Carron Town several times over. I've seen pictures of die great cities of antiquity, and you're right, diey shone.
They looked…magnificent. Perhaps it was so bright diey didn't need to see die stars - they had die city lights instead! They made dieir own stars! We all get - uneasy when we can't see the night sky. Don't you, just thinking about it? She smiled and held my waist more firmly and leaned her head against my shoulder. I found myself looking down at her hair, and down at the scoop neckline of her dress and die glowing stone between her breasts. We're different from the people who came before us, or before die Deliverer's time, and nobody wonders how or why.
The feeling we have about die sky is just part of it. We live longer and we breed less, we sicken little, sometimes I think even our eyes are sharper! Don't worry. You'll pick it up. If you stay with me. I turned her around and kissed her. She clasped her lips to mine and slid her hands under my open waistcoat and sent them roving around my sides and back.
I could feel them through my silk shirt like hot little animals. The kiss went on for some time and ended with our tongues flickering together like fish at the bottom of a deep pool; then she leaned away and gripped my shoulders and looked at me and said, 'I reckon that means you're staying, colha Gree. She caught my hand and swung it and we started walking again, talking about I don't know what. Out on the edge of town we turned a corner into a little estate of dozens of single-storey wooden houses with chimneys.
Some of the houses were separate, each with its own patch of garden; others, smaller, were lined up in not quite orderly rows. Even in the summer, even with electricity cables strung everywhere, a smell of woodsmoke hung in the air. Yellow light glowed from behind straw-mat blinds. A dog barked and was silenced by an irritable yell. I hadn't realised how my feet had hesitated as the path had changed from cobbles to trampled gravel.
Ferocious - so I'm told. The lock too seemed absurdly small, a brass circular patch on the white-painted door at eye level. I followed her over the polished wooden threshold as she switched on the electric light. I stood for a moment, blinking in the sudden watt flood.
The main room was about four metres by six. Against the far wall was a wood-burning stove, banked low; above it was a broad mantelpiece on which a large clock ticked loudly. The time was half past midnight. On either side of the stove were rows of shelves with hundreds of books.
In the left-hand corner a workbench jutted from the wall, with a microscope and an unholy clutter of soldering gear and bits of wire and tools. Rough, unpolished seer-stones of various sizes lay among them. The main table of the house was a huge oaken piece about a metre and a half square, with carved and castered legs.
A crocheted cotton throw covered it, weighted at the centre by a seer-stone hemisphere at least thirty centimetres in diameter, so finely finished that it looked like a dome of glass. Within it, hills and clouds drifted by. Menial stood by the table for a moment, reached up behind her head and removed a clasp from her hair, so that the two narrow braids fell forward and framed her face.
Then she lifted the chain with the talisman, and the other, finer silver chain, from around her neck and deposited them on the table. The place smelt of woodsmoke and pot-pourri and the bunches of flowering plants stuffed into carelessly chosen containers in every available corner. The wooden walls were varnished, and hung with an incongruous variety of old prints and paintings - landscapes, ladies, foxes, cats, that sort of thing - and tacked-up picture-posters related to the project.
An open door led to a tiny scullery; a curtained alcove beside it took up the rest of that end of the room. I presumed it contained the bed. But it was to a big old leather couch in front of the stove that she drew me first.
She half-leaned, half-sat on the back of it, and began unbuttoning my shirt, then explored my chest with her lips and tongue - and teeth - as I applied myself to undoing the fastenings down the back of her dress, and working my boots off. As I kicked away the right boot the sgean dhu clattered to the floor.
By this time she had unbuckled my belt, and with a shrug and a step we both shed our outer clothes, which fell to the floor in a promiscuous coupling of their own. Merrial stood for a moment in nothing but her long silk underskirt. I clasped her in my arms, her nipples hard, her breasts warm and soft against my chest; and we kissed again.
We moved, we danced, Merrial leading, towards die curtained alcove. She pulled away die curtain to reveal a large and reassuringly solid-looking bed. I knelt in front of her and pulled down her slip and knickers, and kissed her between the legs until she pulled me gently to my feet.
I managed to leave my own briefs on the floor. We faced each other naked, like the Man and the Woman in the Garden in the story. Merrial half-turned, threw back the bedcovers and picked up from die bed a long white cotton nightgown, which she shook out and held at arm's length for a moment.
Rolling over and reaching out my arm, I found that I was alone in the bed. It was still warm where Menial had slept. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and the steady ticking of the clock - The time! I sat up in a hurry and leaned forward to see the big timepiece, and discovered with relief that it was only five o'clock. Thank Providence, we'd only slept an hour and a half. With the same movement I discovered a host of minor pains: bites on my shoulder and neck, scratches on my back and buttocks, aching muscles, raw skin… The animal whose attacks had caused all this damage padded out of the scullery.
I made some sort of croaking noise. Menial smiled and handed me one of the two steaming mugs she'd carried in. She sat down on the foot of the bed, drawing her knees up to her chin to huddle inside her sark, its high neck and long sleeves and intricate whitework giving her an incongruous appearance of modesty. I sipped the coffee gratefully, unable to take my eyes off her. She looked calmly back at me, with the smile of a contented cat. I was grinning so much that my cheeks, too, were aching.
God, Menial, I've never…' I didn't know how to put it. Coffee went up the back of my nose as I spluttered a laugh. She showed not the slightest embarrassment. Oh, Merrial! I had not expected to hear myself speak such words, not for a long time to come. Without looking away from me, she put her mug down too, on a trunk at the end of the bed, and rocked forward to her knees to meet me. We knelt with our arms around each other. I must have said it before, said it a lot of times through the night, but now there was all die weight in the world behind the words.
She clung to me with a sudden fierceness, and laid her face on my shoulder. A wet, salt tear stung a love-bite there. She sniffed and raised her head, blinking her now even brighter eyes. Her voice was strained. People will talk. Merrial slipped lithely under the covers and pulled diem up to her chin. Go for something to eat? We hugged and kissed goodbye. As I backed away to the door, grudging even a moment without her in my sight, a flickering from the big seer-stone caught my eye.
I stopped beside the table and stooped to examine it. As I did so I noticed Menial's two pendants: the talisman -the small seer-stone - now showing a vaguely organic tracery of green, and on the silver chain a silver piece about a centimetre in diameter which appeared to be a monogram made up of the letters 'G' and 'T' and the numeral '4'. The table's centre-piece was all black within, except for an arrangement of points of light which might have been torches, or cities, or stars. They flashed on and off, on and off, and the bright dots spelled out one word: HELP.
I glanced over at Menial. I brushed the stone's chill surface with my sleeve, restoring it to chaos, and with a final smile at Merrail opened the door and stepped out into the cock-crowing sunlight. In the sequence that started with The Star Fraction, MacLeod has created a future where the crucial historical event is left-wing students arguing about anarchism in the 70s.
On this turns the destruction and renaissance of civilisation, here and elsewhere in the human galaxy. In his fourth book The Sky Road he productively fills in some of the gaps. This is the story of Myra, Trot turned entrepreneur, whose nuclear deterrence-for-hire is so crucial to the event known by some as the Fall and others as the Deliverance.
It is also the story of young Clovis, part-time worker in the yard building the first spaceship for centuries, part-time scholar trying to find out what Myra the Deliverer was really like. MacLeod's quirky and intelligent take on the world of power politics--the paradoxes that arise when ideology is made praxis--and his charmingly cynical gift for engaging and engaged protagonists, are something to which the SF audience has become used.
UK Science fiction's freshest new writer MacLeod is a fiercely intelligent, prodigiously well-read author who manages to fill his books with big issues without weighing them down. He now writes full-time. Read more. About the author Follow authors to get new release updates, plus improved recommendations. Brief content visible, double tap to read full content. Full content visible, double tap to read brief content.
Read more Read less. Customer reviews. How customer reviews and ratings work Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them.
Learn more how customers reviews work on Amazon. Top reviews Most recent Top reviews. Top reviews from the United States. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Verified Purchase. It's uncommon for me to start a book and not finish it, but The Sky Road is in this category. My main issues are the complexity of the multiple plot lines which, half-way through the book, show no signs of coming together and, as the author jumps from sub-plot to sub-plot, leave me wondering sometimes which plot line the author is developing.
Now, I don't object to complexity. For example, David Brin's new book, "Existence", is quite complex, with perhaps 8 or 9 plot lines going. But every once in a while, the plot lines intersect to reinforce each other. And Brin has the knack of leaving literary bread crumbs that make it easy to pick up the plot thread from where he left it 15 or 20 pages ago. So it's possible to write a complex yet readable book -- it's just that MacLeod does not succeed very well in The Sky Road.
The book isn't so bad that I threw it away. It will sit in my bookcase for a rainy day when I've exhausted all other reading options, and then I'll pull it out and start slogging through it again. But I do wish I'd spent my moola on a different book. Having read The Cassini Division and then The Stone Canal, it was nice seeing where this series started, though I feel it was much more disjointed than those two.
The Stone Canal I feel was the high point, though that could just be the focus on the intricacies of Ship City. Autonomeus Top Contributor: Classic Rock. At first I thought this was just expanding on a historic period which is mentioned in "The Cassini Division," but then I realized that the period continues and does not lead to the same future. The main character is a young historian named Clovis colha Gree who is working on a huge project to build a spaceship and meets a girl who is a "tinker," a mysterious group that is a sort of cross between engineers and magicians.
This plot involves a quest for hidden knowledge. It is intercut with another plot featuring one of the minor characters in "The Stone Canal" Book Two , in a much earlier time period. She has become a virtual god in the future, and we eventually learn why.
I enjoyed them immensely, and I recommend the series. But with that warning, don't miss them! This is another excellent, engaging, novel from a fairly new Scottish writer, just now making his mark in the United States. This probably does not quite jar my favorite of his novels, The Stone Canal , from its position at the top of my personal MacLeod heap, but it's very fine, with yet another differently organized somewhat anarchic semi-utopia on display, as well as yet another look at the turbulent 21st century, and the menace of Artificial Intelligence.
Ken MacLeod's new book is an intriguing offshoot from his previous three novels. It is not necessary to have read those books to appreciate The Sky Road. In this future, the world has fractured into numerous smaller states by the early 21st Century, essentially in a continuation of the process begun in the ex-communist states in the s.
In addition, Artificial Intelligences begin to emerge, not always planned, and not always benevolent. The three books, in addition to the persistent worry about AI's, portray a variety of political organizations, and forms of organization, most notably perhaps the anarcho-socialist society of the Solar System and the anarcho-capitalist society of New Mars, in the time of The Cassini Division. The Sky Road is kind of an "alternate history" of MacLeod's future.
Like The Stone Canal and, to a lesser extent, The Cassini Division , this book is told in two threads, one in the past, in , and the other some centuries in the future. Myra, years old, is the head of the government of a mini-state near Kazakhstan, called the International Scientific and Technical Worker's Republic. At the opening of the action, the Sino-Soviet Alliance, or the Sheenisov, is advancing on Kazakhstan.
What she has to offer are the world's remaining supply of nuclear weapons. But her problem is, it's not at all clear who the real enemy is, or for that matter how many enemies there are. She also deals with her personal problems: her age, her guilt over such betrayals of her past ideals as the use of slave labour, and the selling of nuclear protection, and her loss of yet another loved one in suspicious circumstances.
The other thread features Clovis colha Gree, a young student in an odd, somewhat Utopian, Scotland. He is working on a project building a spaceship: the first spaceship to be built since the mysterious "Deliverance". It seems that since this "Deliverance" the world has reorganized itself on a rather pastoral model. Clovis' field of study is history, particularly the life of the "Deliverer". The reader figures out right quick that the "Deliverer" is Myra Godwin-Davidova.
Clovis meets a beautiful woman called Merrial, and they fall tumultuously in love. But Merrial is a tinker, and the tinkers are regarded with suspicion by the rest of society, as they are the only people who deal with the somewhat restricted computer technology available in this future. Clovis is drawn by his love for Merrial and his thirst for knowledge about the Deliverer to a questionable search for secret files of the Deliverer's: ostensibly to help protect the spaceship project.
But this search leads them not only to some anti-hagiographic knowledge about the Deliverer her use of nuclear weapons, for example , but also to some potential use of the "black logic", the "path of power". The two threads converge to reveal to the reader some, at least, of what's going on: what the Deliverance really was, and what "black logic" might be, and part of the nature of this future society.
It's intriguing, and clever, and by the end quite moving. The only weakness is that I found Merrial and Clovis' affair just a bit convenient: not all that easy to believe. To explain exactly why would involve spoilers. I also found the political machinations of Myra's time hard to follow, but that weakness is in me, partly, and partly, I think, its a feature: MacLeod 21st century really is a chaotic time.
I also was impressed again by MacLeod's clever way with a phrase. His prose is sound, but only some of the time does it sing. The first chapter is quite impressive in this way, but he doesn't really maintain that peak level. However, throughout there are dry asides, and clever plays on words, and mordant observations that hit home.
Ken MacLeod continues to be one of the most exciting new SF writers. His books are politically intriguing, and honest, also full of nice SFnal speculation about future technology, nicely written, and fast moving. The characters are well-drawn, and almost always ambiguous. Each of his books is worth reading, and The Sky Road is one of his best.
See all reviews. Top reviews from other countries. Translate all reviews to English. Report abuse. One person found this helpful. Translate review to English. Ken is overly obsessed with left-wing politics for a novel-writer. Read it because I already had The Cassini Division. Customers who viewed this item also viewed. Bones of the Earth. Michael Swanwick.
Report an issue. Table of contents 15 chapters Search within book Search. Page 1 Navigate to page number of 2. Front Matter Pages i-xiv. Introduction Introduction Ieuan Franklin Pages Living on Location Front Matter Pages Away and Raffle Yourself! Topological London Kris Erickson Pages Broadcasting and Belonging Front Matter Pages Robinson Pages Impossible Unity?
About this book This book is about forms of media that have reflected or increased consciousness of - a sense of place or a regional identity. From landscape painting in the Romantic era to newspaper coverage of devolution, the chapters explore, through contextualized case studies, the aesthetics of a wide range of local, regional and grassroots forms of media.
Back to top. Keywords media regionalism everyday life media history community history space place identity community mobility geography border border narratives national identity social realism social history broadcasting UK media regional media media cultures aesthetics education film media culture Nation organization radio realism television.
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Bone marrow croquettes followed by lamb. Partner loved the truffled creamed potato. Good selection of drinks, including mocktails. Staff were friendly. Great place for a treat. We decided to book this restaurant as we would be in town on Good Friday and we were not disappointed. The staff were extremely pleasant and we sat to have a drink while they prepared the table. The food was absolutely delicious and so well For those saying its a rip off, well it is fine dining and therefore you should expect it to be more expensive than an average restaurant and well worth it for the quality and venue itself.
We ate from the a la carte, I had the scallops and my partner had the lobster cannelloni. Both were delicious. I then followed with fillet of hake with a side of truffle mash, absolute taste sensation. My partner had the fillet of beef and said it was the best he has had. All in all we will return very soon. An utter treat Are there cheaper venues in the City? Rip off? Was given the wine menu while waiting for my friend to arrive Food menu very nice but portion size a joke.
The main course was sea bass which tasted lovely but very small portion. Very expensive lunch to leave hungry. Will not be back. Total rip off More. Food was delicious and the staff were all very attentive. Would recommend this for a special occasion.
Flights Holiday Rentals Restaurants Things to do. Skip to main content. Log in to get trip updates and message other travellers. See all restaurants in Glasgow. Read more. See all Ratings and reviews 4. Travellers' Choice. View all details meals, features, about. Merchant City. What you can expect during your visit. Safety precautions are provided by the property and are not checked by Tripadvisor for accuracy.
Ask a question. Write a review. Does this restaurant offer free wifi? Yes No Unsure. Is this a Scottish restaurant? Does this restaurant have private dining rooms? Can a vegan person get a good meal at this restaurant? Can a vegetarian person get a good meal at this restaurant? Is this restaurant good for large groups? Does this restaurant have a full bar? Does this restaurant accept bookings? Can a gluten free person get a good meal at this restaurant?
Does this restaurant have tables with seating? Thanks for helping! Share another experience before you go. Reviews Filter reviews. Traveller rating. Excellent Very good Average Poor Terrible Traveller type. Time of year. Language English. All languages. English Italian 3. French 2. More languages. Chinese Trad. He traded in cows, bricks, tobacco, honey, land, diving bells, and even civet cats, almost always for a loss. By his early thirties, Defoe had squandered his wife's considerable dowry, was in debt for 17, pounds, and had declared bankruptcy—an act that barred him for life from public service.
West describes the aftermath with typical empathy: "The torment of mind he suffered. Defoe responded to the crisis with characteristic ingenuity: He decided to switch careers and become journalist—and not just any journalist. As West enthuses, "He was the first master, if not the inventor, of almost every feature of modern newspapers, including the leading article, investigative reporting, the foreign news analysis, the agony aunt, the gossip column, the candid obituary, and even the kind of soul-searching piece which Fleet Street calls the 'Why, Oh Why.
This new venture unleashed the best and worst in Defoe. On the one hand, he delighted in subterfuge. He wrote bogus letters to the editor, bogus travelogues, bogus histories; he worked as a journalistic double agent, writing for Tory journals while in the employ of the Whigs; he delighted in printing anti-Catholic drivel and spent a lifetime seething about "Popish Plots," including, so he thought, the Great London Fire of ; he raked up scandal wherever he could, insulting enemies and shocking friends.
On the other hand, he vigorously defended his faith and accepted a prison term as the price of principle. Although it is not always acknowledged by his biographers—West does better here than many—Defoe's professional life focused on the place of religion in personal and public life. All his writings, from novels to marriage manuals, from occult studies to political broadsides, stem from the viewpoint of a devout Dissenter fighting for survival in an Anglican nation.
It was for Scotland he used different arguments, even the opposite of those he used in England, for example, usually ignoring the English doctrine of the Sovereignty of Parliament, telling the Scots that they could have complete confidence in the guarantees in the Treaty.
Some of his pamphlets were purported to be written by Scots, misleading even reputable historians into quoting them as evidence of Scottish opinion of the time. The same is true of a massive history of the Union which Defoe published in and which some historians still treat as a valuable contemporary source for their own works. Defoe took pains to give his history an air of objectivity by giving some space to arguments against the Union, but always having the last word for himself.
He disposed of the main Union opponent, Andrew Fletcher of Slaton, by just ignoring him. Nor does he account for the deviousness of the Duke of Hamilton, the official leader of the Squadron Volant against the Union, who finally acted against his comrades in the decisive stages of the debate. Hamilton was to lead an Anti-Union Rebellion of , where Covenanters had marched from Galloway and were betrayed at Dumfries to unite with Jacobites at Edinburgh. A Highland Army camped outside Edinburgh were given the keys by the town guard to let them in.
The Illustrious Duke failed to turn up, due to a toothache, and the French frigates in the Forth had to turn back. Defoe made no attempt to explain why the same Scottish Parliament which was so vehement for its Independence from to became so supine in He received very little reward from his paymasters and, of course, no recognition for his services by the government.
He made use of his Scottish experience to write his Tour thro' the whole Island of Great Britain, published in , where he actually admitted that the increase of trade and population in Scotland, which he had predicted as a consequence of the Union, was "not the case, but rather the contrary. Defoe's description of Glasgow Glaschu as a "Dear Green Place" has often been misquoted as a Gaelic translation for the town. The Gaelic Glass could mean grey or green, chu means dog or hollow.
Glaschu probably actually means 'Green Hollow'. The local Tron minister urged his congregation "to up and anent for the City of God". The 'Dear Green Place' and "City of God" required government troops to put down the rioters tearing up copies of the Treaty, as at almost every merchant cross in Scotland.
When Defoe revisited in the mid 's he claimed that the hostility towards his party was, "because they were English and because of the Union, which they were almost universally exclaimed against. Reviewed by Philip Zaleski J the best physical description of Daniel Defoe comes to us, fittingly, from a wanted poster: "a middle sized spare man, about 40 years old, of a brown complexion, and dark brown-colored hair, but wears a wig; a hooked nose, a sharp chin, grey eyes and a large mole near his mouth.
This unappealing description was issued by the Earl of Nottingham in against "Daniel de Foe, alias Defoe," sought for "high crimes and misdemeanor" for publishing an anonymous parody of Tory religious invective. The poster, and the accusation that spawned it, neatly encapsulate much of Defoe's life: a writer on the lam, a lover of aliases, given to anonymous and pseudonymous productions; a middle-class merchant bewigged to pass as an aristocrat; a literary pugilist who scorned the orthodoxies of the day; a man judged by many of his contemporaries to be a ferret, a sneak, a public menace.
It contains the memorable lines:. Wherever God erects a house of prayer, The Devil always builds a chapel there, And 'twill be found upon examination, The latter has the largest congregation. Defoe's somewhat paradoxical love for both religious righteousness and literary deceit soon led to his undoing.
In he published The Shortest Way with the Dissenters, the parody that occasioned the wanted poster quoted above, in which he suggested that the best way to handling religious nonconformists was to hang them.
At first many Tories missed the joke and welcomed this splendid final solution. When they discovered that it was all a hoax, they went for Defoe's throat. Three visits to the pillory and a stretch in New gate Prison resulted. According to West, this was one of the great defining moments in his subject's life, a near-martyrdom that, "far from breaking Defoe's spirit,. Defoe's prison term also gave one of his admirers—Robert Harley, Speaker of the House of Commons and a moderate Tory—a chance to intervene on his behalf.
Here, too, he stood out from the pack.
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