Nelson’s Gin School

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botanicals, gin, Neil Harrison, Nelson's Distillery and Gin School, Nelson's gin, No 7, steampunk, still, Victory

Victory – a glorious piece of 21st century steampunkery

‘Mother’s ruin’ – gin is going through a bit of a renaissance – it’s a bit trendy.

As I’ve sampled a few(!), Julie thought it would be a good idea to see how it’s made, so she took me to Nelson’s Distillery and Gin School, in Staffordshire.

Our collection of botanicals – at least 40% Juniper berries (or it’s not gin)

We started by browsing cocktail books, history books, and recipe books, and the rows of herbs, spices, and other botanical samples – just to get our gin-brains going. Then we spent the day blending and distilling our own bottle of gin. We each had a mini desktop copper still, chose our own blend of ‘botanicals’ and were steered through the process by the owner, distiller extraordinaire, Neil Harrison.

Neil, the man himself, supervises the fine art

Julie and I were a little concerned that the amount dripping from our still was not going to be enough to make a bottle, but once the specific gravity (a measure of the strength of the alcohol) was checked, it was apparent that we were going for quality, not quantity. We achieved a maximum of 89% ABV (alc. by volume). As the strength of the final product would be adjusted so each bottle was around 40 – 50% there would be no issues for us.

While we waited for the gin to ‘appear’ we were introduced to ‘Victory‘, the special, one-off still produced specially for Nelson’s – a glorious piece of 21st century steampunkery, in gleaming copper and stainless steel. A real beauty.

We also got to try the company’s mainstay product, Nelson’s No 7. A suitably large sample appeared and was consumed without complaint. The tone of the gathered would-be distillers became a tad more boisterous after that.

Nelson’s also produce a ‘Navy Strength‘ gin. By tradition this has to be at least 57% ABV as it was stored next to the gunpowder, and if a spillage should occur (heaven forbid!) the gunpowder must still ignite when soaked with the gin. Seemed like a good plan.

With our gins bottled, it was blended with pure water to bring it to the required strength. We called our product, ‘All at Sea’ to maintain the maritime tradition. It was finished at 45.2% ABV. The strongest in the class.

Anyway, my task now is to design a suitable label for the bottle. I shall partake a small measure as inspiration. Watch my other blog for the nautical artwork to appear …

[Visit nelsonsgin.co.uk for the full story of the distillery, school, and their gins]

Inspiration Monday – Written Radio

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bekindrewrite, cats whisker, creative writing, flash fiction, H G Wells, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, radio, steampunk, writing ideas, writing prompts

Crystal radio using cat’s whisker technology

Another late entry for InMon! When will I learn? Anyway, from this week’s list of words, ‘written radio’ grabbed my imagination.

(‘Bertie’ was the name his friends and family called H G Wells)

***

There was a gentle tap on the door of Smythe’s workshop.

“You in there, Sam?”

“Yes, come on in. You’re just in time.”

Sam indicated a knot of electrical wiring and other pieces of equipment on his bench.

Joshua knew he need not ask …

“I’ve been interested in this radio phenomenon for a while, and I think it has great potential.”

Joshua nodded, technology wasn’t really his forte.

Sam continued, “The work of that chap Morse in the United States fascinates me. Listen.”

He held up the headphones and Joshua put them to his ear.

“All I hear is blips, Sam. It is meaningless.”

“They are not just ordinary blips, there are short ones and long ones – it is a code – and messages are being sent – it is transmitted information.”

“I can’t see there is a future in it.”

“But what about this, Joshua … ?” Sam twiddled and adjusted the tiny wire touching the small piece of crystal, “ … listen again!”

Joshua held the apparatus to his ear.

“Tell me what you hear!” Sam was almost bursting with excitement..

“Just crackling …” Sam fiddle again with the device he called a cat’s whisker.

“Now what can you hear?”

“Is it a voice? It’s got a strange tone – and it’s not a language I recognise.” Joshua was non-plussed with the whole thing. All this was playing with dangerous, new fangled, electricity. The stuff was unpredictable – you couldn’t see it, unless it was leaping across the bench as a blue flash; you couldn’t smell it, until it set fire to Sam’s wires. At least you knew what was going on with gas lamps and candles.

“That’s just it!” Sam was waving his arms about – he was about to launch himself in to another project that would cost Joshua dearly. “I don’t know where the voice is coming from. Nobody is transmitting anything other than the telegraph signals!”

Joshua was getting a vague interest now there was some mystery mixed in.

Sam continued, “Oh, I’m sure it will happen in time – but there is years of research needed yet.”

“Right, let’s keep it logical.” Joshua tried to keep the matter grounded, “Who is likely to want to get ahead of the Americans?”

“Well, I know the Tzar has a whole range of scientists at work – but the voice is not Russian.”

“Pretty much likely to be them, I reckon.” Joshua looked smug, and rocked on his heels as he lit his bent briar.

“But …” Sam gave a dramatic pause, “ … what if Bertie Wells’ story about Martians isn’t a work of fiction – what if he was trying to warn us? These blighters would have technology far superior to ours.”

“Nonsense!”

“No! We must locate the source of these emanations! It is of national importance, Joshua! I need your assistance, and that of your colleagues at the Ministry!”

Joshua hid his face in his hands – here we go again, he thought.

***

© 2016, K Patrick Moody

Inspiration Monday – Inorganic life

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bekindrewrite, Captain Fawcett's, creative writing, flash fiction, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, steampunk, writer, writing ideas, writing prompts

Steph, the name behind InMon and the Bekindrewite site has, due to seasonal befuddlement, extended the deadline for the current submissions. This can only be a good thing for me, as I’m always too late to make a contribution. But now, with an extra week …

Here is my contribution. I’ve used the prompt, Inorganic life, and my old steampunk intrepids have come to join in.

***

“Joshua!” The Bunsen burner flickered, alone at the end of the bench, “Joshua! Where are you?”

Samuel Smythe slammed the door and marched back to the main house. With perfect timing, the front door opened on his approach. The butler took a pace backwards to give the flapping overcoat enough space.

“James, have you seen Fortescue? I said I’d meet him in the workshop so he could explain the stuff in the jar.”

“Mr Fortescue left a note, sir.”

A white glove indicated a sealed envelope on the hall stand. Sam picked it up, on the reverse a single cursive F flowed across the seal.

“Sam,

Sorry, old chap, bit of a problem – not sure what’s in the jar – thought it was inorganic – not so sure now – have taken it to family crypt – bring heavy gauntlets

Best

F”

“James, I need …” The butler held out Sam’s motorcycling gloves, and a pair of heavy boots. “… er, thanks.”

As Sam was tying the laces on the boots James coughed, Sam looked up and James handed him a lantern.

Suitably armed for a situation he knew nothing about, Sam strode off, in the direction of the crypt. (He refused to run, that was a sure sign of panic, and not becoming of a gentleman.)

The crypt door was ajar. The amber glow of a candle flickered on the sandstone walls. How many shadows wavered there? Sam pushed his way through the gap.

“Joshua?” His voice sounded tiny, lost in the dark corners.

“Sam! Thank the gods you are here!” He turned to face his friend. Joshua’s face was a mass of blood and green pus; it took all Sam’s effort not to turn and abandon Joshua to his fate – whatever it was. “Please – get it off me!”

As Sam looked closer, he saw that the oozing mess was not Joshua’s face, but some life form spreading over it. He took the candle from the lantern.

“Hold still, and close your eyes, this may hurt.” He raised the flame to Joshua’s face. He paused, “Oh, you’ll probably have to re-grow your moustache, too.”

The green slime sizzled and steamed as Sam worked his way around Joshua’s face. After only a few minutes of careful treatment, just a crisp crust remained. Joshua sat on the sarcophagus and picked it off.

“Damned shame about the old whiskers, Sam.” He fingered his naked top lip, “Just got ‘em
comfortable.”

“I’ll treat you to a new tin of wax for Christmas. You should need it by then.”

They headed back to the house.

“Pity we’ll never find out what that stuff was,” said Sam.

“Don’t think we’ve seen the last of it.” said Joshua, picking a lingering flake from his shrivelled sideburn.

***

(c) 2015, K Patrick Moody

 

One Word Challenge – The Tunnel

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flash fiction, good short stories, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, One Word Anthology, One Word Challenge, steampunk, Tunnel, writing ideas, writing magazine, writing prompts

The prompt for the October challenge was trouble. It was another tricky one. I decided to go ‘steampunk’ and introduce one of my regular characters to the Writers Online event.

I’m pleased to say that I was chosen as the winner, with the prose judge commenting:
Brought back memories of the steam age. Clever use of alliteration to capture the train sounds. Good story with a hint of mystery and the last line comes as a shock. (and who, exactly, was Smythe?)

Of course, regular visitors will know Smythe, and his associate, Fortesque, from their adventures posted here for the Inspiration Monday challenge. But with no more ado, TheTunnel …

***

The train lurched as the brake blocks bound and squealed on the iron wheels. Chains and buffers clanked as the carriages cannoned into each other. The lights went out, then there was quiet. 

Farther along the tunnel Smythe could hear the steaming of the idling engine; waiting to be released.

He poked his head through the open window and peered through the darkness towards the front. There were three carriages between him and the engine, and he could make out the orange glow from the open firebox door. Behind, the only evidence of a way out was the distant, grey daylight reflecting on the damp, brick walls.

As the passengers got used to the dark and the stillness, they started a murmur of questioning conversations. Smythe turned the brass handle, pushed open the carriage door, and dropped on to the ballast.

His shoulder was level with the footplate, so he climbed the ladder and pulled himself into the heat of the driver’s cab. The fireman’s shovel leant against the coal piled in the tender, and an oily rag draped over the regulator. 

The engine hissed; impatient. In the distance another engine whistled as it entered the tunnel.

***

(c) 2015, K Patrick Moody

*The OWC is a monthly challenge for a piece of flash fiction, 200 words or less, prompted by one word.

Inspiration Monday – Paper Police

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bekindrewrite, creative writing, flash fiction, good short stories, inmon, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, steampunk, writer's block, writing help, writing ideas, writing prompts

Ok, I’m inspired! Here is a re-hashed flash to fit Steph’s InMon challenge for 23 June 2015. It gives my intrepid heroes an airing, although not fresh air …

* * *

The Library

Sir Algernon’s cellars seemed to run on under the house for miles. Smythe and Fortesque were sure they must be beyond the foundation line by now, but the serpentine tunnels and slow decent had fuddled their sense of direction.

The flickering candles in their lanterns picked out a door in the gloom ahead. A tall, dark, oaken door, heavy with black iron nails and a latch. They heaved against its weight; it opened as if it had been waiting for them.

Inside, the room opened to a high gallery. They couldn’t see the roof as the candle light couldn’t make it that far. There were row upon row of wooden shelves stretching as far as the glow would allow them to see. The tops of the shelves disappeared into the blackness above.

The stale, still air was filled with the quiet hiss of whispered words.
“Listen, Sam. Communication!”
“But they are only books.”
They edged along the aisles. The shelves towered above them, leather bound volumes filled every inch-space. So much knowledge radiating into the world, so much information hanging in the air, waiting to be inhaled.

The farther they went, the older and mustier the books. The tone of the voices changed, now they seemed like they were Latin, then Greek. There were scrolls on wooden spindles, wrapped in flaking velum, or may be papyrus, all too fragile to touch. The voices were deeper here. A darker tone, of knowledge serious with age, originating before Man could write. An original knowledge, a knowing without teaching; of natural laws. A knowledge of things only the gods should know.

At the far end of The Library, the only light was from the tomes themselves; a grey-green, primordial emanation from between the covers.
“Look, Joshua!” Sam’s whisper barely louder than that of the enveloping shelving. “Could it be the meaning of Life itself?”
A volume, embossed ‘Number 42’, glowed brightest, high up, just beyond his reach … as always.

* * *

(c) 2015, K Patrick Moody

Inspiration Monday – Stolen sleep

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creative writing, fiction, flash fiction, good short stories, how to write a short story, inmon, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, steampunk, writer's block, writing help, writing prompts

It’s Monday, I’m inspired, so here is a short submission to Bekindrewrite’s Inmon, in answer to the prompt – Stolen sleep.

* * *

“Smythe! What are you doing?”

“It’s OK Sam, it’s perfectly safe. We needed a volunteer, and now we have one.”

Joshua Fortesque stood in the doorway and watched as his friend and fellow adventurer adjusted the corpse’s position.

“Are you sure Albert’s wife agreed to this?”

“Of course she will – as soon as I explain it all to her.”

“You mean …”

“Not yet. We need to move quickly, before he starts to go off.” He stood up and faced Joshua.”We need to get the process started as soon as we can. She won’t be back from London until tomorrow afternoon, and by then …”

“Alright. I know. Let’s get on with it.”

The corpse has to be recently deceased, no more than an hour. All fluids have to be drained and replaced with Smythe’s new, soon-to-be-patented preserving liquid. It had been successful with rats from the garden, a couple of pigeons. And the neighbour’s cat; it was very old and chose the vegetable patch as its place to expire. Sam only realised it was dead when it refused his commands to ‘shoo!’, so he brought it to the laboratory and gave it ‘the treatment’.

They worked for most of the morning, with syringes, rubber hoses, galvanised buckets and hand pumps. As Albert’s blood and other runny contents oozed from one end, Smythe’s concoction was forced in the other.

“Wonderful! Better fire up the compressor and get the refrigerator going.” Smythe pulled off his black rubber gloves, and hung his stained apron on the hook next to the door.

Albert was neatly tucked in to the heavy oak crate, insulated with woollen felt, and it was all held together with wide copper bands with brass tensioning screws.

Joshua wheeled across a huge flask, and parked it next to the crate. It took both of them to tip it and pour the steaming liquid into the space around the body.

“We should have just enough to freeze him solid, then the refrigerator will have to maintain him in that state until we are ready.” said Joshua. “Nitrogen as a liquid is pretty useful stuff. Those Polish chaps certain had a good idea.”

As the mist drifted around their feet, they pushed Albert’s temporary residence in to the refrigerator, to wait.

“How long do we leave him?”

“Well,” said Sam, “the cat is still there, and I’d like to bring him out after a year. The rats were fine after six months, but they didn’t live for very long after we restarted their hearts.”

“You think the cat will fare better?”

“He’s bigger than the rats. I think his organs will survive better.”

“We’ve got bodies going again, but what about brain function, Sam?”

“Ah. I don’t know. Hopefully Albert will be able to tell us … although he wasn’t too bright before he fell out of the tree.”

“Excuse me,” the voice behind them enquired, “Is my Albert in here?”

* * *

© 2015 K Patrick Moody

 

Inspiration Monday – Smells like disaster

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airship, bekindrewrite, creative writing, disaster, good short stories, Inspiration Monday, steampunk, writing ideas, writing prompts

Back again for InMon – Bekindrewrite‘s weekly writing challenge. This week I’ve gone with the title of Steph’s inspiring post – Smells like disaster. It’s a little longer than my usual submissions. Let me know what you think …

* * *
Captain Smith left his First Mate in charge on the bridge.

“Number One, what’s that smell?”

“Sorry, captain. I don’t smell anything.”

Smith grunted and went out in to the night air. He looked out from under the canopy at the clear night sky. His breath condensed in the chilly air.

The Hermes cruised on through the night, the engines running at a relaxed pace. Smith rested his arms on the railing and gazed out over the city lights drifting by, slowly, below. Something wasn’t right. He could smell it, he just couldn’t identify the odour.

So far their maiden flight had gone well. They had crossed the English Channel and made Paris by midnight and, using Gustav Eiffel’s new tower as a navigation aid, turned left towards Germany. That was two hours ago. The passengers in the gondola, strapped underneath a million cubic feet of hydrogen, had gone to bed, just the night crew were about. Smith paced about the decks, checking, looking, listening – smelling. Everything seemed to be as it should. But there was still the faint smell that he couldn’t place.

As he got back to the bridge he said, “Situation report, Number One.”

“Engines are good. We are maintaining our course and speed. The engineer reported a loss of pressure in the front section. He has trimmed the others and we are maintaining level flight.”

“Has he located the leak?”

“He said there wasn’t one and he is still trying to find out why pressure dropped. We are coming down to a thousand feet in the mean time.

“Keep me updated.”

“Aye …” A junior rating arrived with a note.

“Well?”

“Sir. Both engines have failed. Engine room are investigating.”

“What is our position and heading? What is the wind speed? Where are we going?”

“I’ll get that for you, sir.”

Captain Smith sat and waited; airship, passengers and crew going where ever nature decided. Once the ship stopped making headway she pitched, yawed and wallowed aimlessly.

“What’s that smell, Number One?”

“What smell, Cap’n?”

“Never mind! Just get us operational!”

“The Engineer is bringing us down another two hundred feet to try and keep gas pressure steady.”

For another hour the Hermes drifted idly. The first mate gave Captain Smith regular updates of their estimated position; Smith studied the charts. He had decided that they needed to beach the ship and was looking for somewhere suitable.

If the calculations were correct, they were heading south, southeast, towards the Alps and 800 feet was insufficient altitude.

“The next city should be Dijon. We need to ditch into the low ground to the south of it. Prepare the crew and passengers.”

As the first streaks of dawn shone over the horizon the silhouette of the city passed by at eye level. Once over open ground the crew threw out two ground anchors to slow the progress. Speed reduced, so the engineer released gas to bring the ship down.

The gondola brushed the tops of the trees, then the bushes. Everyone braced for the crash. The canopy ripped and released the hydrogen, the rapid deflation brought the ship to the ground. Eventually all was still, just the creaking and cracking of framework, glass and panels.

“How are we doing for injuries among the passengers?”

“We lost a couple, sir. A few broken bones, lots of minor injuries. Two crew dead, and injuries. It’s a disaster, Cap’n.”

“Indeed, Number One. That was what I could smell. Disaster.”

“I think that’s field manure, sir …”

* * *

© 2015, K Patrick Moody

Voice Week 14 – Day 5

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bekindrewrite, creative writing, flash fiction, good short stories, how to write a short story, inmon, Inspiration Monday, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, steampunk, Voice Week, writing ideas, writing prompts

Well, this is it. The last VW post for another year. What with working for a living and trying to fit in everything else that a normal week throws at you, we’ve been squeezing in extra writing, so it’s been a really hectic few days. Well it has for me, but I’ve enjoyed it. Over the weekend I will catch up with everyone else’s posts and make a few comments.

But enough! My last Voice Week 14 post …

* * *

Smythe’s experience with cloaking technology was somewhat limited. He struggled with the balance between chemical reactions, static electricity and crystalline formations; not usually getting the result he desired, or expected.

Only last week he spilled a batch of cloaking crystals on his trousers, and spent all day looking like he had a leg missing.

Fortesque was not impressed; he believed that chemistry, physics, and magic should be kept separate.

“For Heaven’s sake, Sam! Why can’t you stick to what you know?”

“Engineering is such a slow and boring subject. With this I can get instant results. Look!” He waved his apparently empty sleeve.

“Put it away!” Joshua buried is face in his hands. “Now the barmaid has seen you! Let’s at least perfect the process before we go public.”

* * *

(c) K Patrick Moody, 2014

The ‘other place’

Tags

altered art, artist, BADFA, bekindrewrite, decorative art, folk art, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, non-fiction, steampunk, trompe l'oeil, Voice Week

In the British Parliament there are two ‘houses’; The House of Commons and the House of Lords. by tradition they don’t refer to each other directly, they speak only of ‘The Other Place’. Isn’t tradition wonderful!

I haven’t posted here recently, but I have another blog that I use for arty things, so we shall call that the ‘other place’. I posted there instead. You may find it an interesting place.

Over there I deal with my other writing, The Decorative Folk Artist, the non-fiction bits, along with any painting I get to do along the way.

The ‘other place’ is called … Kim, splash it! should you wish to visit.

But stay tuned here, because it will soon be Voice Week, so ‘this place’ will be busy then.

Inspirartion Monday – Say no more

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Arthur Conan Doyle, bekindrewrite, creative writing, fiction, flash fiction, good short stories, how to write a short story, Inspiration Monday, James Clerk Maxwell, K Patrick Moody, Kim P Moody, new year, seance, spiritualism, steampunk, writer's block, writing help, writing ideas, writing prompts

Inspiration Monday calls. After a busy year I’m ending on a high note. I have submitted to both of my usual challenges this week, which I shall endeavour to do more regularly in 2014 – no promises though!

Here is my Christmas submission. The inspiration is from the prompt ‘Say no more‘. Longer than usual for me, but when inspired, write.

Our pair of steampunk heroes get inspired, too, as the bell tolls for a new year. What are they planning? Say no more!

* * *

SAY NO MORE

“Well, Fortesque old boy, here’s to a new year and some spiffing new adventures!”

With just a few seconds to go, Joshua Smythe and Samuel Fortesque clinked their glasses of vintage port and fell silent to wait for the tolling of the bell on the village church.

“So, what do we focus our attentions on this year, Joshua? Steam engines are doing pretty well, and the flying machines certainly are fascinating.”

“The Royal Society is buzzing with new innovations, too. But, I think electricity has a lot of potential.” Joshua took a thoughtful sip of port.

“Have you heard of that latest fad in America? There’s a whole new movement that say they can communicate with the dead.”

“I have indeed. All started with some sisters, and ghostly rappings I believe.”

“I think that with electricity we could provide the proof they are seeking. If we could refine some electrical instruments to detect finer and more sensitive vibrations I’m sure that those communications could be listened to, and recorded.”

”We need to find out what these Spiritualists get up to – and I know just the man to get us started!”

Sam looked over his spectacles at Joshua, “Who?”

”Doyle!”

”If you mean the recently knighted Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he’s in the drawing room with the others.”

“The very man!”

They left the sanctuary of the library and headed to the drawing room to join the rest of the revellers. Smythe pushed open the doors and peered through the billowing, acrid smoke from a dozen of the finest Havanas. He found Doyle in an armchair next to the blazing fire. After a few whispered words, Smythe, Fortesque, Doyle, and a man he said was a ‘medium’, returned to the library. Fortesque locked the door behind them.

All the lamps were extinguished, save for one on the mantle shelf, the large, ornate mirror cast the flickering glow around the room. Doyle introduced the medium as Cyril, who explained what would happen and how those sitting in the seance circle were expected to behave. He told them about what he knew about spirit contact and life on the ‘other side’. Sam turned down the wick.

Each man placed his hands palms down on the table, each little finger touching that of his neighbour so that the circle was complete. Cyril fell silent.k on the solitary lamp until the walls of the library disappeared into darkness.

Each sitter watched the others, sceptical as to the validity of such science. The clock in the corner, heard but no longer seen, ticked and tocked. They waited.

“Maxwell.” whispered the medium, “I have the name, Maxwell.”

“There is no-one here called Maxwell.” said Doyle.

“No. It is James Maxwell who brings a message.”

“Who is James Maxwell?”

“The link is weak, but he says …” Cyril paused, listening to a voice not heard by the others. “… he says, ‘electromagnetic induction – experiments, he never had chance – he will be heard.’ he says ‘Fortesque will know’.”

The medium pulled his hands back from the table and opened his eyes. “He wishes you good luck.”

Joshua poured a glass of water for Cyril, Sam turned up the lamp.

“Well.” said Doyle, “You have your answer.” He smiled and shook their hands. “Cyril will need a while to recover, and I shall return to the drawing room. I think another port is in order.”

“If what we have heard is true, electromagnetism is our clue.” Sam gripped Joshua by the shoulders and shook him. “Our contact beyond the veil can only have been James Clerk Maxwell. Einstein says he was the most profound scientist since Newton. If he can guide our hands, we can only succeed.”

“Thank you, Cyril. We will be needing your services again soon.”

Cyril smiled.

“We must get back to the house tonight, and be in the laboratory in the morning – a new year dawns!”

* * *

(c) 2013, KPatrick Moody

Inspired by Bekindrewrite‘s Inspiration Monday posted 16 December 2013