Scarlette Rose Cottage: DIY Flagstone Transformation Begins

My Dear Mermaid Darlings,

I have lately been at my little labours upon several pursuits pertaining to Scarlette Rose Cottage (My Little Cottage of Belonging) and now at present ‘My Little Cottage of Becoming’, a place most dear to my heart. 

You may currently be following along on Instagram, where I share crumbs of my days in the form of stories and reels, showcasing my small endeavours and whimsical undertakings. (However, I must wholly confess to thee, my dear petals and to the underwater gods that I am not as consistent with every single uncompromised solitary day of bestowing upon the Instagram waters my comings and goings. There are little snippets where time passes me as quickly as the golden hour or thy scorching Florida sun-drenched tides confound my minutes, although I do try my heartily best, however.)

Before I launch into the particulars of stoning, thatching, and the gentle arts of interior renovation, permit me, dearest reader, to drift back upon a tide of memory and imagination to share what is afoot at Scarlette Rose Cottage. After penning and illustrating The Tale of the Christmas Bunnies last year, I had already painted in my mind’s eye a vision most dear: a little English cottage clothed in enchantment, the very dwelling of dreams.

Thus it was that I set about packing away the contents of the cottage, clearing each nook and cranny, as though sweeping the slate clean to begin anew. For, as any artist may confess, the shaping of a space often requires much musing and tender hesitation—one must flesh out the dream, coax it into form, and let the heart decide. So it has been with Scarlette Rose Cottage.

All my little storybooks, though adorned with whimsy, hold within their pages both teaching and truth. The Tale of Merrymaid Scarlette Rose was born of my days as a mermaid at Weeki Wachee Springs, and gently whispers the lesson of reaping what one sows and following the true call of the heart. The Tale of Sawyer Lamb honours my sweet son, teaching young and old alike that even in the shadow of death, beauty and optimism may bloom. And The Tale of the Christmas Bunnies—ah, that is the tale of a wish most fervent, of Oliver and I desiring companions when others said “nay,” and manifesting our heart’s dream, proving that with belief, nought is impossible.

Yes, there was a time I prepared to move elsewhere—and indeed, one day Jeffrey Shawn and I shall take up our abode in the dear house beside my parents, the very one I manifested in but a fortnight, debt-free. Yet life is not a straight and narrow lane; it is a meandering country path, filled with pivots, turns, and delightful surprises. And therein lies its beauty.

Already, I have shared a short film (Above)—a glimpse of this voyage—and more shall follow, a little series chronicling the renovation and adornment of our Victorian mermaid’s English cottage.

I bid you, gentle soul, to swim along beside me, as together we watch this humble dwelling blossom into a cottagecore dream most charming and enchanting.

There shall be further tidings of these cottagey capers in my following epistle, yet for the present — with a steaming china cup of fragrant tea at my elbow — I felt irresistibly compelled to set down a few musings, if only to gladden my own heart and, perchance, to entertain you in this little missive of “Taking Joy”.

A fortnight ago, all alone but for the whispering breezes, I gathered a noble heap of flagstones to commence the fair entirety of dear Scarlette Rose Cottage, as it called to mind that beguiling illustration, and the darling dwelling I once espied in Carmel-by-the-Sea (Below), so many moons ago. That quaint abode impressed itself so deeply upon my spirit that I pledged to the kindly fair folk that, one day, I should dwell within my very own stone-clad, thatched-roof storybook cottage — and lo! the dream unfolds apace.

Dreams, sweet Mermaid Darlings, are merry things to tend and nurture, and as an artist, I know well the slow and savoury delight of such becoming. Yet I would gently remind thee of life’s tender brevity, and of how wondrous it is to live whilst one yet abides in this earthly garden truly. Too oft gentle souls tether their joy to some fancied ‘once upon a time’—when pounds are shed, when a fine house is procured, when fickle fortune deigns to smile.

Meanwhile, the present hour—ripe and brimming with enchantment—slips like silver sand betwixt their fingers.

Alas, such a day may never dawn! Let us blossom where we are planted; let us be satisfied in the present moment, whilst yet eager for the morrow.

So I counsel thee; burn thy candles down to the very wick’s end, adorn thy humble chipmunk’s nest with care, clear the neglected chamber or storeroom by a single trifling task — for such small steps are the ones that truly matter.

Charm need not be costly; change a cold lamp into a golden Edison bulb (Take care it bears not the tell-tale letters of LED), or let a flickering flame light bathe the room in an antiquated glow. Procure beeswax tapers and set them aglow at eventide, transfiguring thy home into a sanctuary. Replace a dreary fixture and crown the space with some quaint antique treasure discovered upon the marketplace.

Even in a humble rental, thou mayst alter and adorn at will, then with a merry hand restore anon, when fresh adventures beckon thee upon the tide.

Thus, let us live enchantingly now, rather than defer joy to some elusive tomorrow. For our cottages — whether stone-clad or thatched only in dream — deserve to be cherished, dressed, and illumined with wonder whilst our hearts still beat merrily within them. 

Sage and Onion~Beatrix Potter painted colour at the gate of Hilltop.

Pray allow me to share the humble manner in which I fashioned the window muntins for dear Scarlette Rose Cottage. I procured a selection of wooden screen door mouldings and millwork from the local emporium — Lowe’s, if you please — and set about painting them with a most delightful shade of my own invention: Beatrix Potter Onions and Sage, a gentle green reminiscent of wind-swept hills and kitchen gardens in springtime.

For the affixing of said muntins, I employed a marvellous modern contrivance — 3M Super-Strength Moulding Tape, intended, curiously enough, for the adornment of motor-carriages — which held the pieces fast with the steadfastness of a butler’s promise. My tool of choice was a pair of Gartol Mitre Shears, which sliced through the trim with the precision of a parlour maid folding linens.

Each piece was painted lovingly on both sides, as any proper muntin ought to be. The colour — a mingling of green sage and tender onion, which I christened Beatrix Potter Hilltop — was mixed by my own hand, inspired by the soft, mossy palette of the Lake District on a misty morning.

Should you be inclined to undertake such a bewitching task yourself, I dare say you will find great joy in the doing, for there is little more satisfying than seeing sunlight dance through a window framed in enchantment.

LINKS:

. Wooden screen door mouldings and millwork from Lowe's

. 3M Super-Strength Moulding Tape for automotive use

. Gartol Mitre Shears

I do hope you'll consider subscribing to my YouTube channel, where I shall continue to share the process — each quaint step and curious detail — as the story of Scarlette Rose Cottage unfolds. There’s so much more to come, and I should be ever so delighted to have you along for the voyage.

Most affably yours til my next swim, Lady R

The Sovereignty of Lace and Light: A Manifesto of Feminine Grace at Chinsegut Hill Historical Site

My dearest friends, I must share a most wondrous happening, for my heart brims with gratitude and gladness. In May of this year, a most delightful event took place. After many a disheartening attempt to secure the noble halls of Chinsegut Hill for our Women’s Day Retreat, I had begun to feel quite discouraged. Yet lo! as though the heavens themselves parted, the Great Creator sent forth a heavenly messenger—our beloved Ronera—who, like an angel in mortal guise, caused all things to flow together in perfect harmony.

What a gathering it became! I was blessed beyond measure to meet the loveliest of women, whose gentle souls and shining eyes spoke of sisterhood and spirit. We conversed of mediumship and of that sweet veil betwixt the living and the departed, where voices of love ever whisper. We spoke, too, of motherhood and womanhood—how these sacred callings must be nurtured as natural blossoms of our being. We encouraged one another, weaving threads of strength and tenderness, until our parlour was rich with the tapestry of true fellowship.

We did not shy away from tender subjects—death, the loss of children, the sorrow of miscarriage—yet even here we found beauty, for in speaking openly we discovered not despair, but the deep treasures of compassion and womanly understanding. And as if the unseen world would seal our communion with a sign, a little bird tapped and tapped against the window of the tea room—an omen most poetic, whispering that spirit was present amongst us.

Oh, how my soul rejoices! To know that these gracious ladies needed not to be coaxed or cajoled, but simply believed—believed in the vision, in the dream, in the necessity of such gatherings for our community. Their faith, their support of my books and my labours, their simple willingness to plunge into the waters of something new and good—these things filled my heart with unspeakable joy. Truly, it was one of the happiest days of my earthly pilgrimage.

And when the last teacup was set aside and the parlour fell quiet, I felt my precious Sawyer whisper in the stillness, “See, Momma—you are doing it!” Ah, sweetest comfort to a mother’s heart!

And to you, dearest Ro—you are as an angel descended, a shining star dropped into my parlour, and I love you beyond all measure.

Take Joy, my darling companions, for we are only at the beginning of a most enchanting voyage. 

I have of late been treading the deep corridors of ancestral memory, tending to the tender wounds of childhood and soothing the old ache of abandonment. And what a revelation hath dawned upon me! For I perceive that my fervent longing to restore and preserve noble houses such as Chinsegut Hill Manor, its lands, and its retreat, was in truth the mirror of my own yearning to rescue my very soul.

How profound the acknowledgement—that to save a once-bleeding, forgotten home, though “technically” preserved in name, was but to swallow a bitter draught of empty promises. For oft have I heard from lips in lofty stations fine proclamations of care, gilded words of grand intent, yet ever did those syllables melt away into mist, leaving only silence and neglect. Money was cast like ribbons upon a worn garment to feign concern, but the spirit of the place, like a discerning cat, perceived the insincerity.

Once upon a time, I bent my steps to tilt the scales, hoping the masculine powers might behold my labours with honour. Yet, as life will echo our inner wounds, my offerings were spurned, my dreams dismissed as fanciful, my voice muffled beneath the louder tones of men. Again and again, they plucked my bright ideas, repackaged them, and handed them to others, all while dismissing me as too whimsical, too unqualified, too much the dreamer.

But hark, my loves—here is the gladsome news! For whilst others were weaving false nests, I have been weaving the golden threads of my inner healing. And as I laboured in the quiet garden of my soul, I blossomed. No longer do I linger at the doors of “high society,” begging admittance. I am now amongst the circles of true doers and dream-makers, whose endeavours bear real and lasting fruit.

Let us be clear: preservation of our lands and histories shall not be secured by plaintive cries nor by cloaking ourselves as victims. Nay, none shall hear us until we, as women, hear ourselves and crown ourselves sovereign. I have soared beyond the limits of those who once mocked me, for I reap now the harvest of sovereignty, optimism, and manifesting power. For verily, when I decree a manifestation, the heavens themselves bow to make it so.

Henceforth, let us stride forward with elegance and assurance. True feminine power is not the shrill clamour of weary old feminisms, but the radiant strength of a woman clothed in grace, draped in lace, her hair flowing like rivers of silk, the sovereign queen of her own castle. She speaks with gentleness, she walks with beauty, yet her might is undeniable. This, my darlings, is women’s empowerment—sacred, refined, irresistible as the tide.

Most affably yours til my next swim, R

When the Land Weeps: A Love Letter to Those Who Still Feel It

My dear Mermaid Darling's,

There's a particular kind of heartbreak I've come to know well. It's not the kind born of betrayal or personal loss. No, this one comes quietly—like a sob beneath the soil—and it stirs whenever I see another ancient tree torn down, another patch of earth flattened for someone's fleeting vision of "progress."

What aches me most isn't only that our sweet little sleepy town of Brooksville, Florida, is changing. It's that so many don't seem to care—or worse, that they pretend to care. Another notion that is maddening is that there are people, many of whom don't even live here, buying up land as though it were lifeless — as though the trees, the wildlife, and the memories tucked into every blade of grass were somehow expendable.

They tear through the woods like they're swiping crumbs off a table. They call it "development," but to those of us who feel it's devastation.

Our foxes are driven from their dens. The deer have nowhere left to wander. The owls who once called in the dusk now cry out to empty lots and hollow silence. I walk these lands and feel the echoes of what was — and I wonder how many more trees must fall before someone hears the forest scream.

And let's be honest — many of those voting for this change are not being led by vision but by money. There are those who accept payments to look the other way. Those who sign without a pause. Those who smile in public and scheme in private, and while intentions are hidden neatly in paperwork, they cannot hide from Spirit.

I do not seek to ruffle feathers, nor do I arrive with disdain in my heart—but let it be known: I see through the silken smiles and honeyed words of those who cloak self-interest in the guise of preservation. Some would wear the wool of the lamb whilst bearing the cunning eyes of the wolf, weaving tales of care for our historic sites whilst quietly tucking coins into their own back pockets or chasing the shimmer of local adoration. Yet I, with no need for vanity nor applause, shall go on—gracefully, intelligently, and without retreat—speaking truth wrapped in velvet, dressing fools with the lace of my tongue, and walking ever more boldly into the heart of this town. For I do not plan to go anywhere save to delve deeper into relevance and further into the legacy I came to tend.

A Protest of a Different Kind

I often ask myself: what can I do besides weep and remember?

And then I remember Elizabeth Robins.
A suffragette, a writer, an actress, and one of the fiercest women ever to wield a pen — Elizabeth protested not with shouting but with Spirit. She didn't march with fists raised. She wrote The Convert, a novel that carried the message of women's rights straight into the parlours of those who might've never given the issue a second glance. She changed minds not through aggression but by revealing the soul behind the cause.

She lit fires not with matches — but with words.
And I intend to do the same.

I will write. I will speak. I will show others what is being lost — not in terms of tax brackets or housing counts, but in butterflies and branches, in the hush of moss-laced mornings, in the sound of spring water that once ran clear.
Elizabeth once wrote, "It is the quiet work, the secret protest, the honest record, that lasts."
And I believe that.

Manifestation as a Sacred Rebellion

I am not waiting for permission. I am not asking for approval. I am manifesting from the end — and my end is this:
A land restored.
A town remembered.
A future shaped not by greed but by reverence.
When you claim something in Spirit, the outer world must rearrange to reflect it. I know this. I've lived it, and so I walk forward, knowing that even if I stand alone, I do not stand powerless.
Those who destroy for profit may think themselves victorious now. But the law of the harvest is older than politics.
You reap what you sow.
And not every seed sown with a smile is one that will grow.

That's the moral behind my book, The Tale of Merrymaid Scarlette Rose — a story for children and grown-ups alike about what happens when you reap what you sow.

To Those Who Feel the Ache, Still

If you read this and your chest tightens with recognition — if your eyes sting when you see the land cleared and the trees lying like corpses — know that you're not imagining it. That's real grief, spiritual grief. That's what happens when the soul recognises a place meant to protect being slowly, systematically unmade.

But we were not made fragile.
We are made for this.
To remember what others forget, restore what others disregard, and to bear witness.
To speak with conviction — and to do so with charm, with heritage, with truth draped in grace.

And when they ask, "But what can one voice do?"
I shall answer:

"More than you know. More than you dare to believe."

Because we are the ones who walk in the footsteps of Robin's.

We are the ones who turn heartbreak into heritage, and we are the ones who plant acorns for futures we may never see — and we do it anyway.

Most affably yours til' my next swim, R

The Alchemy of Mermaidology™

A Proprietary Method of Subconscious Rewiring through the Seven Mystic Chambers
Declaration of Origin, Trademark, & Copyright

Let it be known, by parchment or pixel, that The Alchemy of Mermaidology™ is a wholly original creation, born of countless moons of study, deep spiritual discernment, and empirical testing by the authoress, Lady Raquel M. Carter.

This sacred system—comprising seven chakra-aligned subliminal chambers, accompanying affirmations, poetic rituals, diary (The Tides Within) and audio enchantments—is a registered intellectual property. It is both copyrighted and trademarked and thus protected under national and international law.

It represents not merely a healing modality but an alchemical rite of passage—a reawakening of the soul’s deepest currents through Mermaidic mysticism and Victorian enchantment.

Unauthorised use, duplication, mimicry, or redistribution of any portion—be it the written word, melodic composition, visual sigil, or structural sequence—is strictly prohibited and constitutes a legal infringement.

To those who enter this sea-born sanctuary with honour and reverence, you are warmly welcomed to partake of its magic. But to all who seek to claim its treasures as their own without rightful leave, may you be reminded: true alchemy requires not theft but transformation.

© 2020 The Carter Settlement / Lady Raquel M. Stafford

The Alchemy of Mermaidology™

Trademarked & Copyrighted — All rights reserved. Not to be reproduced without express written consent.

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Let it be clearly understood: The Alchemy of Mermaidology®, including all written materials, audio compositions, structural teachings, and methodology—whether in part or in whole—is a legally protected intellectual property of Lady Raquel M. Stafford and The Carter Settlement.

This work is the result of extensive original research, lived spiritual practice, and years of refined study. It is both copyrighted and trademarked, and any attempt to replicate, plagiarise, repackage, or present this proprietary system or its elements as one’s own will be met with immediate and complete legal action.

This includes—but is not limited to—unauthorised use of the method’s name, language, subliminal scripts, course structure, branding, or any derivative works. Kindly be advised that digital misappropriation leaves traceable evidence, and both domestic and international law provide recourse for creators whose work has been infringed.

While this sacred offering is shared with love, intention, and the desire to uplift others, it is not to be taken lightly nor misused.

To those of integrity, you are most welcome here. But to those who would seek to profit from what they did not create, be gently warned: I stand firm in the complete protection of my work, and I shall not hesitate to pursue every lawful measure available to uphold it.

With kindness and unwavering clarity,

Lady Raquel M. Stafford

Founder of The Alchemy of Mermaidology™

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© 2020 The Carter Settlement