ladyofastolat (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ladyofastolat) wrote2007-05-13 07:40 pm
ladyofastolat) wrote2007-05-13 07:40 pm
Adventures with cloaks
Well, the Wight has been Walked. Pellinor did the full 27 miles (not 28 as I said yesterday), though he was an idiot to do so, since he could barely put his feet on the ground at the 18 mile checkpoint. I did the 8 miles I'd planned to do, and can also barely walk, due to hip pain. It rained horribly for the first 16 miles or so, then got sunny and nice, but is raining again now.
Next year, I think I'm going to run away and Walk the Fens, or something. The island has far too many Downs. (For the benefit of stray Americans, Downs mean ups. It's rather like the way that Public schools are private.) The trouble is, all the Downs have downs in between them, so we're up and down like yo-yos. At one point, we were teetering down a very muddy path, and it struck me that it just needed one person at the top to slip, and 200 people would go down like dominos. I'm not sure whether I was disappointed or relieved that this didn't happen.
We did do the walk in Mummers' costume, after all. For me, this meant a cloak. This has given me a unique insight into the lack of realism endemic in fantasy novels today. Here is my shocking expose.
Fantasy novels do not properly address the issue of mud. If you are a hero trudging through wind and weather, with the fate of the world resting on your every footstep, you will inevitably go through foul weather and fouler ground, put there by your foul enemy. In other words, you will get muddy. As you can see, scabbards are not exempt. (Unless elven-made scabbards have some sort of in-built mud repellent.)
However, how often do you read something like this:
"As the enemy approached, Aragorn drew his sword. But, behold!, the movement dislodged the mud that caked his scabbard, and a fleck of mud went into his eye, which did blind him and cause the enemy to prevail."
You will also observe that walking through a landscape with an interesting geological composition results in overlaid layers of differently coloured mud.
Fantasyland always has interesting geology (all those volcanoes and fiery rifts and the like. yet often do you read this:
"You say that you are Mr Underhill, but I can see from your boots that you started in a place with red mud, walked through grey mud, then white, before getting the black peat of our own fields on your shoes. From this, I deduce that you, Mr Underhill, are actually Mr Baggins, for only between Hobbiton and here can one encounter mud like that."
But we now move on to the worst enemy that a hero can face in Fantasyland. Do I mean the three-headed dogs of doom? Nay! Do I mean the foul armies of ugly-faced minions, whose hearts know no pity? Nay! Do I mean the dread Dark Lord himself - he who cannot be named? Nay! I mean - *tremble. hushed voice*... I mean... the hero's own cloak!
Imagine a cloak with a hood, beloved by Black Riders and the like. What the books don't say is that the hood flies off one's face in the slightest breeze. It then sits there behind your neck, secretly gathering rain is a helpful water-butt sort of fashion. Some while later, the intrepid hero/foul dark minion reaches some sheltered spot and tries the hood again. The result is a large dose of cold water straight down the neck. Clearly Black Riders have some sort of magic imbued in their hood. Either that, or they have Velcro on the top of their head. Maybe Sauron almost won because he discovered Velcro first.
When the hoods do stay up (as happens with proper waterproofs, not cloaks), you then have the problem that you are one of 6000 people, who all, from the back, look identical:
"Is that you, Eater of Babies?"
"No, I'm Cruncher of Hamsters. Eater of Babies's over there. The one with the hood."
The cloak does actually do a wonderful job of keeping the rain off. However, by doing so, it becomes as heavy as four elephants. As soon as you reach a windy hill-top, it becomes possessed, leaping around like a mad thing. By rights, we should encounter the following scenarios in fantasy fiction:
"What is it, Sam?" Frodo asked, horrified, as Sam collapsed to the ground, gasping in agony.
"It was your cloak, Master Frodo, sir," Sam gasped. "It hit me in the eye. I... I'm done for, Master Frodo."
Alternatively: "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't go on." Frodo pointed to his ankles, whipped by his cloak until they were as red as raw steak.
We also have the hitherto-unexplored wind resistence effect of a cloak worn on a windy hilltop:
"I'm sorry, Sam. I can't go on. Let me die here."
Sam hurried to Frodo's side. "Is it the Eye, Master Frodo? Is the Ring so very heavy?"
"No," Frodo gasped, almost too spent to speak. "The chill wind from yon mountain is catching in my cloak, making every step feel like ten."
Add to this the strangling effect as ten tonnes of water-sodden cloak is billowed backwards by 50 miles an hour of wind, all of which is pulling one one brooch at your throat...
All in all, I think cloaks were invented by the Dark Lord as part of a secret plan to defeat his enemies. As long as heroes in fantasy novels persist in wearing pseudo-medieval clothing, they will never defeat Evil. As one, they need to cast away their cloaks, and Goodness will prevail.
__
And, finally, a few more pictures, some of the "why on earth are we doing this?" variety, and one of the "aint it pretty?" type.
(Flash went off accidentally. I opted not to take a second picture without the flash, since I was afraid of falling down and setting off the domino reaction.)
EDIT: I should just add that it fills me with a warm, fuzzy glow that so many people on my Friends list are able to share cloak-wearing tales, rather than going, "What? A cloak? Are you some sort of weirdo?" (Feeling really quite unwell now. I think it's the after-effects of getting out of breath while still having the tail-end of a chesty cold. I'm now going to curl up somewhere and whimper.)
Next year, I think I'm going to run away and Walk the Fens, or something. The island has far too many Downs. (For the benefit of stray Americans, Downs mean ups. It's rather like the way that Public schools are private.) The trouble is, all the Downs have downs in between them, so we're up and down like yo-yos. At one point, we were teetering down a very muddy path, and it struck me that it just needed one person at the top to slip, and 200 people would go down like dominos. I'm not sure whether I was disappointed or relieved that this didn't happen.
We did do the walk in Mummers' costume, after all. For me, this meant a cloak. This has given me a unique insight into the lack of realism endemic in fantasy novels today. Here is my shocking expose.
Fantasy novels do not properly address the issue of mud. If you are a hero trudging through wind and weather, with the fate of the world resting on your every footstep, you will inevitably go through foul weather and fouler ground, put there by your foul enemy. In other words, you will get muddy. As you can see, scabbards are not exempt. (Unless elven-made scabbards have some sort of in-built mud repellent.)
However, how often do you read something like this:
"As the enemy approached, Aragorn drew his sword. But, behold!, the movement dislodged the mud that caked his scabbard, and a fleck of mud went into his eye, which did blind him and cause the enemy to prevail."
You will also observe that walking through a landscape with an interesting geological composition results in overlaid layers of differently coloured mud.
Fantasyland always has interesting geology (all those volcanoes and fiery rifts and the like. yet often do you read this:
"You say that you are Mr Underhill, but I can see from your boots that you started in a place with red mud, walked through grey mud, then white, before getting the black peat of our own fields on your shoes. From this, I deduce that you, Mr Underhill, are actually Mr Baggins, for only between Hobbiton and here can one encounter mud like that."
But we now move on to the worst enemy that a hero can face in Fantasyland. Do I mean the three-headed dogs of doom? Nay! Do I mean the foul armies of ugly-faced minions, whose hearts know no pity? Nay! Do I mean the dread Dark Lord himself - he who cannot be named? Nay! I mean - *tremble. hushed voice*... I mean... the hero's own cloak!
Imagine a cloak with a hood, beloved by Black Riders and the like. What the books don't say is that the hood flies off one's face in the slightest breeze. It then sits there behind your neck, secretly gathering rain is a helpful water-butt sort of fashion. Some while later, the intrepid hero/foul dark minion reaches some sheltered spot and tries the hood again. The result is a large dose of cold water straight down the neck. Clearly Black Riders have some sort of magic imbued in their hood. Either that, or they have Velcro on the top of their head. Maybe Sauron almost won because he discovered Velcro first.
When the hoods do stay up (as happens with proper waterproofs, not cloaks), you then have the problem that you are one of 6000 people, who all, from the back, look identical:
"Is that you, Eater of Babies?"
"No, I'm Cruncher of Hamsters. Eater of Babies's over there. The one with the hood."
The cloak does actually do a wonderful job of keeping the rain off. However, by doing so, it becomes as heavy as four elephants. As soon as you reach a windy hill-top, it becomes possessed, leaping around like a mad thing. By rights, we should encounter the following scenarios in fantasy fiction:
"What is it, Sam?" Frodo asked, horrified, as Sam collapsed to the ground, gasping in agony.
"It was your cloak, Master Frodo, sir," Sam gasped. "It hit me in the eye. I... I'm done for, Master Frodo."
Alternatively: "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't go on." Frodo pointed to his ankles, whipped by his cloak until they were as red as raw steak.
We also have the hitherto-unexplored wind resistence effect of a cloak worn on a windy hilltop:
"I'm sorry, Sam. I can't go on. Let me die here."
Sam hurried to Frodo's side. "Is it the Eye, Master Frodo? Is the Ring so very heavy?"
"No," Frodo gasped, almost too spent to speak. "The chill wind from yon mountain is catching in my cloak, making every step feel like ten."
Add to this the strangling effect as ten tonnes of water-sodden cloak is billowed backwards by 50 miles an hour of wind, all of which is pulling one one brooch at your throat...
All in all, I think cloaks were invented by the Dark Lord as part of a secret plan to defeat his enemies. As long as heroes in fantasy novels persist in wearing pseudo-medieval clothing, they will never defeat Evil. As one, they need to cast away their cloaks, and Goodness will prevail.
__
And, finally, a few more pictures, some of the "why on earth are we doing this?" variety, and one of the "aint it pretty?" type.
(Flash went off accidentally. I opted not to take a second picture without the flash, since I was afraid of falling down and setting off the domino reaction.)
EDIT: I should just add that it fills me with a warm, fuzzy glow that so many people on my Friends list are able to share cloak-wearing tales, rather than going, "What? A cloak? Are you some sort of weirdo?" (Feeling really quite unwell now. I think it's the after-effects of getting out of breath while still having the tail-end of a chesty cold. I'm now going to curl up somewhere and whimper.)
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