smokingboot (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
smokingboot) wrote2008-02-18 10:48 am
smokingboot) wrote2008-02-18 10:48 am
Cardiff, parrots, old friends, Ninian
Cardiff has a lot of parrots in it. I mean a lot of parrots, more than I've ever seen anywhere else, including Egypt and Nepal. They live in a brightly jewelled castle, full of funky carvings and neat decorations. The Marquis of Bute, who redecorated Cardiff Castle in the late 1800s picked a dazzling architect/designer, who made the place a tribute to the Marquis' interests and his own. The marquis liked biblical study, language, and medieval times. The architect liked parrots.
It wasn't just parrots, though clearly they held pride of place. Pillars with beetles and flies and seahorses painted round them, fountains of bronze beavers pointing their fish at you like little gatling guns, crabs and butterflies dotted all over the walls...I'm such a kid about this stuff.
We were in Cardiff to celebrate the 15 yearsgreatbigshowoff and wildwinter have spent together. The party was something of a cunning ruse organised by greatbigshowoff, as her partner had no clue we were all going to be there until shortly beforehand. Then the band played, the dancing started, old friends talked and people munched at the huge buffet...it was a much simpler night than their beautiful Notwedding 5 years ago, but very satisfying. We had decided to make a weekend of it in Cardiff, and though I enjoyed shopping and the waterfront (must confess I cannot be as rabidly devoted as Russel T DrWhoAteChipsHereCoolOrWhat?) the castle was the biggie for me.
One room was not medieval; it was kept very simple and elegant with portraits, including a one of a young man in the jodphurs outfit of a first world war officer. Perhaps the painter had imbued the canvas with forlorn knowledge, as I could find no date for the painting, but it had a great pathos to it; one looked and instantly knew the gentleman had died in the war. He was handsome in a terribly English way, all rose bud cheeks and blue eyes and full lips hidden under a terrifying moustache - the sort of thing a very young man attempts to look strong and older. A delicate face, eyes with a gentle expression, Ninian Crichton-Stewart, one of the sons of the house. All gone. While he lived he was wealthy and loved and I reminded myself of the millions not immortalised, poor, plain and forgotten. But still, I couldn't help a sadness for Ninian. I waited till the others went into the library, and told him goodbye before we left the castle for sunshine.
It wasn't just parrots, though clearly they held pride of place. Pillars with beetles and flies and seahorses painted round them, fountains of bronze beavers pointing their fish at you like little gatling guns, crabs and butterflies dotted all over the walls...I'm such a kid about this stuff.
We were in Cardiff to celebrate the 15 years
greatbigshowoff and wildwinter have spent together. The party was something of a cunning ruse organised by greatbigshowoff, as her partner had no clue we were all going to be there until shortly beforehand. Then the band played, the dancing started, old friends talked and people munched at the huge buffet...it was a much simpler night than their beautiful Notwedding 5 years ago, but very satisfying. We had decided to make a weekend of it in Cardiff, and though I enjoyed shopping and the waterfront (must confess I cannot be as rabidly devoted as Russel T DrWhoAteChipsHereCoolOrWhat?) the castle was the biggie for me. One room was not medieval; it was kept very simple and elegant with portraits, including a one of a young man in the jodphurs outfit of a first world war officer. Perhaps the painter had imbued the canvas with forlorn knowledge, as I could find no date for the painting, but it had a great pathos to it; one looked and instantly knew the gentleman had died in the war. He was handsome in a terribly English way, all rose bud cheeks and blue eyes and full lips hidden under a terrifying moustache - the sort of thing a very young man attempts to look strong and older. A delicate face, eyes with a gentle expression, Ninian Crichton-Stewart, one of the sons of the house. All gone. While he lived he was wealthy and loved and I reminded myself of the millions not immortalised, poor, plain and forgotten. But still, I couldn't help a sadness for Ninian. I waited till the others went into the library, and told him goodbye before we left the castle for sunshine.
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My googlings were equally unsuccessful. All I found were bronzes of aristocrats and photos of rugby players, all of them moon pigs!
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He died at Loos and left a painting and a statue. :(
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In a photo in the castle circa late 1800s he is shown as one of the Marquis' sons, a toddler dressed as a girl. They did that regularly, presumably to chase away the cruel but dim spirits who would nick one's precious males while disregarding those pesky XXs. Cunning use of petticoats confuses them every time. Demons, tcha!
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Thank you so much for coming. We had a wonderful evening
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