The View from the Kitchen Window

Of village life...

2012-02-08T19:28:00.000Z

Reading Maddie Griggs wonderful blog set me thinking about village life and the little things that go to make village life what it is. The pub, [well this is Ireland], the village shop, the people, and the post office, if we had one that, and Dan.

I grew up in this village, as did my Mother, her Father, his Father before that and I suppose you could say "we belong". The family have been here since after the Famine which wiped out that branch of the family and resulted in my GGF leaving Sligo on the west coast and taking to the road to emigrate to England, at the age of 13 in order to survive. He got as far as the Wicklow/Wexford border, having been taken on by a cattle drover in Dublin, as he sought to earn the fare. He took work, as we say here, with the farmer whose cattle he had brought down from the markets in Dublin, and five years later he eloped with that mans daughter. Suffice it to say that he got away with the elopement insofar as her brother maintained family ties as did her Mother, his Father in law always greeted him, and the twelve children they went on to have, with a shotgun loosely held in his arm. Time and space were good healers it appears.

In the heel of the hunt the descendents became dairy farmers here, and four years ago I became the next in line to take over the old homestead. Almost before there was a village, our family have been here. In my childhood we boasted two shops, one of which sold newspapers and I still lick my lips when I remember being told by Mrs Margaret, as she was called, that I could put my hand into the biscuit tin of my choice and pick a biscuit. As a member of an old village family she allowed certain privileges to my peers and I. Mikado was a major favourite with me, my friend always went for the gingery ones, and her brothers always went for the Rich Tea. We never could figure out why they didn't go for the sticky ones until Raymond admitted you could get two RT's and even three with a bit of luck whereas the Mikado's were big and Mrs Margaret would spot you had more than one if you chanced your luck.

Miss Imelda ran the local post office and one of my memories entailed being sent down with 10/= to her and being told to invest 5/= and I could spend the other 5/=. The large, wide, brass railed counter was approximately an inch over my head, and I stood up on the rail, shot the post office book across the counter to Miss Imelda squeaking at her that "Mum says five in and five out and please Miss can I have it in change so I can buy a book". I was 7 years old at the time. She looked across her pince nez at me and told me I was a good girl and handed me back 2/6 and told me one book would do me just as good and was it Enid Blyton. Taking her for a mind reader, I dumbly nodded and clutching the 2/6 in a probably grubby paw, I stalked out the door and roared my head off all the way home.

Our other pride and joy in the village was the other shop where meat and veg was available and for many years there was stiff competiton between Mrs Margaret and Mrs Foley for custom. The newspapers were the deciding factor. The pub was owned by a man from Leitrim, 6'5" if he was an inch and we were all terrified of him; he owned a gladstone bag and we were never quite sure if the local men seen going into the pub after work weren't going in for medicinal reasons. But, sure isn't Guinness good for you anyway?

Maggie Twohig was an elderly widow who lived in what would, by todays standards, be called a slum. Indeed we were always, my friends and I, very industrious in our manner of walking past her house on the opposite side of the road. Maggie always had her hall door open and anything could come flying out. Broom handles, chamber pots [with contents], her mangy dog Bosco, or Maggie herself to spit her chewing tobacco out into the gutter.

Legend has it that my Great Grandmother was passing the door when Maggie was a young "gel" of innocent years. Appearing with a pot in her hand, filled to the brim with cabbage, Maggie hailed GGM and asked her what was wrong with the cabbage she was cooking for her Daddy. Her Mammy was in bed producing infant #2,345 or thereabouts, and she was chef for the day. Taking a small bit, GGM spat it out and said "It tastes appalling". Taking a bite herself, Maggie then announced in an astonished voice, "So that's where me chewing tobacco went to". GGM continued on her way to the post office to regale her close friend and confidante Miss Imelda of the latest of the Twohig's tales. Indeed there were many to tell. Maggie never married and had six strapping sons of her own and two of them were even able to share the same father.

Maggie was 86 when I was a child and had cleaned her act up. She lived with her Granddaughter and had a bath every month without an R in it, cut her tobacco chewing back to Sundays and never in Lent and was rarely invited to assist Grainne with cooking the dinner. She outlived her own sons and Grainne was generally considered worthy of nomination to sainthood for putting up with her.

The Bull Maguire was another character of my childhood, of whom legends aplenty abounded. His proud boast that he could drink any man under the table was only challenged, and beaten, when Larry Pullen [5'4 and ferret like in feature] punched him on the nose, knocked him out and, when he came to, had six pint glasses in front of him. This lead to The Bull staggering out of the pub, never to return. He took the pledge in '36 much to the publican of the day's dismay. He was that mans best customer. Larry the Pullet Pullen never drank the six pints. It was a stunt thought up to try to get the Bull to curtail his alcoholic intake. The Pullet was the Bulls brother in law. It worked better beyond their wildest dreams. I remember the Bull standing at the village pump, handing out leaflets for the Sodality and Temperance group and he was well in his 70's at that stage.

Today we have the same pub that was always there. However, it is now decorated in contemporary fashion by people who were considered to be blow-ins. The locals drink in the next village and each week end a designat

Of village life Part 2

2012-02-08T19:25:00.000Z

For some reason the previous blog lost its tail end, so I have decided to add a Part 2 to it. To complete the last sentence, "designated drivers" has become the way to go for the locals now. A fact that saddens me when I think that, instead of being able to stroll down to the local of a Saturday night for a pint, they migrate to the next town and someone drops them off and collects them.

Dan was a sort of local handyman. He was 6'4" and devastatingly George Clooney-like with ravens wing black hair, eyes of violet blue and no idea how good looking he was. When I was eight, Dan was twenty five and any girl over sixteen had an eye to this gorgeous man. He was incredibly shy. I adored him from the age of seven, when he rescued me from an oak tree in a neighbours garden. I had taken refuge from her puck goat, as nasty a piece of work with huge horns and mean diabolical eyes. Dan, coming up home from the pub at lunchtime, strode past said goat, horns and all, and calmly lifted me down and carried me to a safe distance. Therein was Dans problem. The pub. He was its best customer.

For many years I would walk up the road with him on my return from school, or work and we would chat about the local bird life. Dan could name any bird and this gentle giant had another string to his bow. On the rare occasions when he gave up drink, for Lent, the month of the Holy Souls [November] two weeks before and after his mothers birthday, Dan could make the most fabulous furniture, complete with intricate carving. He could take a piece of plywood and by the time he was finished it would take an expert to tell the difference between Chippendale and his work. Dan made few pieces, and those still in existence, are treasured.

Ten years ago Dan was found frozen to death in a bus shelter. The drink had finally gotten him. He had lost everything, his looks, his talent for woodwork, his home. After his Mother died when he was 52, he had stayed off the drink for fifteen months, as he proudly told everyone. However, the demon drink is a hard mistress and she called him to her like a Siren of old. He lost his house because he couldn't pay his rent, and the Council in those days took very little heed of where people wound up. He had tried rehab, but fell off the wagon. Dan was too shy to really communicate, but he had more friends here than he realised. There wasn't a dry eye in the village over him. Most interestingly enough those that wept for him all could trace their ancestry back in this village, as I can. Only the "in-comers" sneered in contempt. What did they know of this kindly man who never harmed anyone, and who quietly did more good deeds around the place, whether under the influence of alcohol or not.

Part 3 to come...The Great Snowball challenge.

Spring is raising her head all about us

2012-01-28T22:24:00.000Z

Madam Pounce enjoying the sunshine at the hall door last week end. It was delightfully mild - indeed it was surprisingly mild and to be able to leave the hall door open and let fresh air in was a wonderful treat.

A few of my favourite things.

The tea-pot came from a charity shop, the tins were a "find" reduced from €36 to €16 a couple of years ago and all because of a tiny dent in the largest one.

A reminder of last year's snow, and a reminder to say THANK YOU GOD for a mild Christmas this year. I spent most of early December panicking in case it would snow over Christmas. Eldest now lives in London and I had visions of not being able to get to the airport to collect her, or flights being cancelled...but she got home and we had a wonderful Christmas. Mother in Law passed away last June, and Sister in Law decided to spend it with friends instead of with her brother's family [us]. The dynamics changed with that one decision. For over 30 years dinner was always served up at 14.00hrs, in order to enable SinLaw and MinLaw to return home as they "never liked to be away from home for too long". This year we dined at 7, after a leisurely day chatting, going for a long walk on a nearby beach en famille, played Ludo, and ending the evening with lovely hot creamy Bailey's Irish Coffees.

There is nothing like a few farmyard animals to remind us that this was once a dairy farm; hen-keeping is on the agenda. That is if we can get past his insistence that a cockerel is a necessity, and mine that hens are independent and need no male to make them cluck happily! He only wants a cockerel for two reasons, one is to back answer the neighbours two donkeys, and the other is he is blessed among women.. YD and I, and ED when she is around...another male voice to crow about the garden would suit him well! Yeah! Right!

For some reason, this cloud reminded me of someone being blown along! YD says it reminds her of Mary Poppins. Taken at dusk at the end of a lovely day.

We had a mad rush to finish the decoration in the "sitting room" [as my Grandmother used to call it] for Christmas, but gone is the 80's taupe/gold/brown squiggly carpet and a nice wine Axminster with a small pattern on it graces the floor. Far more complimentary to the fireplace, with its blue tiles, and the walls are now cream instead of a dull beige as they were when we moved back in in 2008. For some reason the fact that ED was coming home for Christmas put a push on OH to get the long promised decoration finished; and, even if I do say so myself, the sight of her face as she viewed this room and her own newly re-decorated bedroom was the best present we could have had.

We are now in the next phase of the five year plan, but a year ahead of ourselves; conversion of an outbuilding to a cottage to let. I still haven't decided if I will use if for holiday lets or full time letting; but with the way this Government has clamped down with its austerity measures, the extra income will not go amiss. Nowadays, here in Ireland, you turn on the t.v.,/radio with fear and trepidation; newstime announcements only seem to bring news of more taxes. We have taxes for owning a house, septic tank taxes, you name it and they'll tax it, yet nothing seems to stop them from paying exorbitant amounts to "Advisors" way beyond the cap on their income. A cap that is mesmerising to the ordinary Joe O'Soap in the street. Bets are now being taken on how long before we find ourselves with another General Election to rid us of the Government that was going to put things right after the unholy mess we found ourselves in reached mind boggling proportions. We're still wa..................it.......................ing.....................!

However, they haven't managed to tax bird song. Yet. We hope. It was wonderful today to stand in the garden and listen to the thrush, blackbird and robin form a quartet with a dunnock and treat us to the best Opera going. The hedges and trees are alive with the sound of flitting wings as blue tits and coal tits roam from tree to tree. The long tailed tits arrive promptly at eleven and four and the greats lurk around the fat balls ready to attack all would be incomers.

The narcissi and daffodils are showing willing, and if the wind that has blown us out of the garden for the past week drops for long enough we may even see that river of daffs we planted last year come to bloom. In the lane the flowering current [Ribes] is showing its pink petticoats, and the dwarf Iris are abundant. My favourites, the snowdrops, are late this year, they usually show by Christmas, but this year they are peeking daintily at us - maybe they await St Brigid's day on Wednesday.

From Monday on for the next few weeks the sounds of building will be ringing in our ears, and this year it won't be just the birds.

2011-11-02T15:41:00.000Z

It is that time of the year again, winter is on its way, a chilly breeze greets me on the door step each morning as I check the post box and the range has been lit. At the moment there is a pea souper fog obscuring the view, and I like it. I am in that mood to hide behind it, the range crackling, the smell of roasting lemon and herb chicken coming from its oven, the kettle hissing on top and the prospect of a large cuppa and a chance to sit down and blog. Somewhere out there someone is out with his gun shooting at rabbits; I think the local woodpigeon population may be safe as nothing is flying in this weather.

Grubstake

OH's constant companion, this little chap knows how to find the juciest grubs. He is never far from OH as he gardens, and how he has survived Mme Pounce is beyond me. His is a derring do attitude, and he will risk feather and beak to pursue his desires.

Madam Pounce, doyenne of our house, boss of YD, bad tempered, fussy, ocd, mouser extraordinaire who has recently discovered the futility of trying ot catch one of our local robins. Her Ladyship was seriously underwhelmed last winter when it snowed, this is one of the early days, the Heuchera behind her was totally invisible two days later. She declined to go out when it turned really bad, and upon being helped out the door at meal and "ahem!" times, turned a vicious and baleful eye upon the simple minded one who thought her life would be improved by a snow clawicure. That was me by the way.

Winter wonderland

Our local Golf course, scene of many a happy childhood hour. Mum would gather up my friends and I, pack an enormous flask of hot tea, sausage sandwiches with apples [we were big 3 Jays fans] and head off across the snowy plains. She would leave her basket in one of the shelters, and we would try to trace the tracks in the snow. Rabbit, hare, birds, fox and the ubiquitous badger. After an hour of imagining we were in some Canadian backwood, we would tuck into the sandwiches, sponge cake and piping hot tea. Arriving home to a huge casserole fresh from the oven and some of her apple pie, we would sit before the fire and voice our day dreams, our imaginations ran around the world and sleepily, at seven, everyone returned to their homes dreaming of more fun in the snow tomorrow.

Ironically, during ED and YD's childhood, snow was a rare sight. When it did come it lasted but a few hours, yet I would pack a backpack, same basic ingredients and head for the grounds of Kilruddery House. Adventures when we are children are the foundation of our adulthood, Mum used to say. She was right. These are the days and hours we can never get back, but boy! wasn't it grand to make the best of them?

Becalmed!

No matter where I roam, the road home always calls me.

I have a strong sense of belonging living here. I loved my life in Wicklow, made many new friends, discovered blogging, made new friends, lost the Queen of my Heart and came home. I realise now that sometimes you have to "emigrate", be it locally or globally, to appreciate what it is you have. All the years of slogging home carrying a heavy school bag, dashing for buses and trains to take me to work, heading off on "foreign" holidays in an era when the holiday abroad idea was just beginning to take a grip, leaving to get married, this road, in those days, was the portal to the world and preparation for coming home eventually. My soul is at peace here.

Monarch of all he surveys!

Night time nature

2011-10-10T00:37:00.002+01:00

It is night-time, 00:38 a.m., to be precise, and I am not long in. OH, YD and I decided to go down to the village pub earlier. Something we had been promising ourselves for quite some time. We usually drop down to the next village, OH and I, catch up with all our friends [well, mostly mine, I grew up here] and last night, after Downton Abbey we decided to call into the local.

Pubs in Ireland have taken a hammering with all the pc rules that came on board in the past decade or so. No smoking; so now everybody sits out in the cold in winter in draughty shelters...well, where else are you going to have a bit of craic with your pals. In our village it's not an option, go out and be blown out of it with a howling gale...the village has become very healthy regarding smoking in the past twenty years.

It was lovely to meet up with the neighbours, catch up on whose who [my God, hasn't she aged...look in the mirror dear at yourself!] and could your one over there really be a grandmother? For heaven's sake she was three years behind me in school. How could she be a granny...and of course the questions flying back at us. YD got the usual inquisition "Have you a boyfriend love?!" or "if you're not dating pet, I have a lovely son, he's 36, on his second marriage and has 14 kids". Yes. Indeed.

As OH works anti social hours, most of the neighbours were amazed either with the fact that we were still together after 32 years, or that we still went out together, or that we actually have a mid-twenties daughter. He worked in the place 40 years ago and I was tickled pink when two of my former disco-dancing days pals informed me that he hadn't aged a bit since those days. One cast a cold eye over me and asked me had I heard of botox, the other patted my hand and said I was still quite presentable. Thanks Gals! You don't look a day over 80 either. [Loud giggle!].

As we staggered up the hill after mid-night, not inebriated but tilting head first into a howling gale force wind, a fox was sitting in the front garden having a staring competition with Mme Pounce. Pounce has not been feeling too well this week. More to do with convincing OH and YD that I have starved her and she has been indulging in extra packets of a well known cat food product - serve the hussy right for miaowing lies. My moneys with the fox. Anyhow, as soon as Mme Pounce saw us coming she hopped off the garden table and chased the poor, innocent, underfed, terrified little fox away. Am I biased? Yep, you got it. There were foxes in this garden before herself arrived.

She has put up a ton of weight since moving here. Life suits her, no big black and white bullying tom from the old house around to chase her round the garden. She has discovered the cosiest of hidey holes to rest up in during the day and with her cheating eating is as fat as a frump.

Our owl has reappeared, he is to be seen these nights floating past the dining room window. He was missing for a while, but is now back with us. A barn owl, he sails on silent wings across the garden. In the daytime we are treated to the cackling of a Jay. In my childhood there were a lot of jays around but now after an absence of many years one has come back to us.

Away with me to my bed before I fall asleep. I shall resist the urge to watch another programme on our forthcoming presidential election. I am tired enough to sleep without its benefit.

As Dixon of Dock Green used to say "Good night folks!!!".

A new Broom

2011-10-02T16:06:00.003+01:00

I call out to visit an old neighbour, when I can get him at home that is. His social life at 87 years of age is better than a 27 year olds! He lives beside our old house, and even to this day ED and YD are convinced that he and his late wife were an extra set of grandparents.

Last week I dropped out to see him, and brought the poor man a jar of my home made chutney. He is, as far as I can ascertain, still alive and feeling no ill consequences. I have become interested again in home cooking. Three years of a tiny kitchen here, and about six months of lack of access to all my kitchenalia, I lost the grá and cooking became basic. I am back with a bang and my James Martin cook books are getting great use. Chutney [a glut of apples is great incentive] and apple jam and apple sauce and apple...you get the picture. I still have friends, apparently, all of them having survived their pots of chutney!

So, back to my visit to Tom, chutney included. Being the Miss Marple type, my deductive powers went into hyperdrive when I saw the skip outside what used to be our marital home. Loaded to the brim. The wardrobes from our old bedroom [only three years old at time of sale], the interior doors, and my kitchen. All thrown higgledy, piggeldy into the skip. A wail went through my mind as I sat, to all appearances searching for something on the floor of the car, taking in the contents of the new owners skip. A marital lifetime of choosing with OH the perfect doors, the family friendly kitchen. The kitchen where all my friends headed for, nevermind a sitting room with comfy sofa and roaring fire. The kitchen where ED and YD studied, indeed learned to write and draw, the kitchen window which gave birth to this blog The View from the Kitchen Window....all in the skip. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

Taking a moment to calm myself, to resist the urge to go and bang on the hall door and demand to ask what the hell she was thinking of throwing out the best kitchen in Ireland, the wardrobe that was good enough for...ah what the heck, I told myself. She paid her money for the house, you're benefitting from that money and aren't you thrilled with your new dishwasher...she can dump what she likes honey. You don't own it anymore.

I trotted up Tom's driveway, weakly rang the door bell and tottered down the hall into his kitchen. "Are ye upset alannah?" the ever-noticing Tom chuckled; "nooo, well not now Tom, I realise that different women have different kitchens, but it gave me a start to see my pride and joy out in a skip all the same" I breathlessly returned. "Well, ye see, tis like this, as I see it...once you'd left that kitchen, the spirit was gone out of it and she'd have to get a new one". Love that man! No wonder he had 52 years of very happily married life to his beautiful Sara, Lord rest her.

Yesterday I had a phone call from Tom. "Is it yourself that's in it alannah?" He hails from Tipperary and Irish is his first language. "Hello Tom, are you ok?" I asked, because at his age, every day he is still in our lives is a boon. "Faith I am", he said. "Yer wan next door has gotten a new hi-fi kitchen in, and the lad that put the plumbing in told me it cost €24k. God help us, now I'm wondering can the woman cook at all?". "By the way" he added, " Mary from number 61 took your kitchen from the skip, and has had it installed in the flat she built in the back garden for her young daughter and son in law, they love it". May Mary's daughter have as many happy hours cooking in her new kitchn as I had. I must give her a James Martin cookbook for a housewarming gift!

Harvest time

2011-08-08T18:21:00.003+01:00

We are all together again as a family for a short while, in September ED will be leaving to try her luck in foreign fields. Recession Ireland is spewing its finest out to other shores. I am philosophical in most ways. I always knew she would leave even if we hadn't been bitten by the recession bug; but I will miss her and so we are harvesting.

We are harvesting time together. Both she and YD moved in two weeks ago as we closed the door, for the last time, on the Wicklow house. Thirty + years living there; the main consolation was that, for me, I came home three years ago to my childhood home; Himself came with me, and the girls have now come to their other home, where they spent long summer days with Gran, playing on the beach, huge fried breakfasts, kite flying, chasing the hens into the hen run at night in case the fox caught them. Golden days. Memories cherished and memories are what made for a smooth transition back to living with THE 'RENTS! ED and I are harvesting those cherished memories and building more of our own.

I am up to the teeth with packing. ED had her room sorted within 48 hours; Himself has given me the privilege of putting his bits and bobs around the house [generosity itself!] and I have been raiding the Wicklow house for the past three years so my moving involved minimal packaging. YD, on the other hand, has enough boxes for all of us...she has enough to equip the whole house in fact. I have put a deadline of next Friday as the last day I want to see a packing box in sight. The dining room all but disappeared, my new long dining table vanished altogether, but I found it again this afternoon and I am assured that there IS a wooden floor under it.

My problem is sentiment. I have so much "memorabilia" from Mum - so much "memorabilia" from 30+ years in Wicklow and I am by nature a hoarder. I can hoard for Ireland. Mind you this is not always a bad thing. I saved over €3,000 on our new build extension with my hoarding, or recycled items as the builder termed it. Not bad going. I got tough with ME when leaving Wicklow, and a goodly lot went into the skip; I have made a new friend for life in the local Oxfam shop with the stuff that I brought down there, and now I am dividing things into Attic/Dump?/Awww! I have hit upon a cunning plan. I shall rotate. Six months on view and six months in the attic. Himself has asked me not to rotate him, he is quite happy to work in the garden and to hang pictures for me in the house!!!

My heart went out to him on the day we finally left Wicklow. He stood at the gate, looked back and said "I had parents when I bought this house". He bought it two years before he met me. July '76, and six weeks later his father died of a brain haemorrage. His mother died on 11-6-11, six weeks before he finally left that house. An era come and gone. He's happy here though. His favourite recliner in the study; ideal for those football matches; garden big enough to challenge him for the next 100 years and the pub just down the road, God give him health, energy and years to enjoy it all.

The girls love it here; YD has discovered the local talent. He's very attractive and nearly fell over his feet staring at her in the local restaurant the other day. Her mother is smiling and watching this space with amusement. Her father looked just the same 32 years ago!

Me? Well, I am in heaven. I pinch myself to make sure I am awake, alive and not dreaming. The house is coming around to the way I want it. I have taken over from Mum. She's still there in my heart. We catch a glimpse of a tartan skirt flitting around the crocosmia now and then, but it's my turn to put my stamp on it...third Lady of the House to do so. Granny Alice would be pleased to see how much influence she had on me, and Gran Lillian would be enormously chuffed as well.

Now, if I can get this flipping computer to speed up so that I can get to blog and keep in touch with my global pals...life will be totally amazing!

Packing up and the memories

2011-07-14T15:58:00.002+01:00

We have had an interesting time since I last blogged; both YD and I were made redundant, we have just sold the old house and have to be out by the end of the month. This brings a rake of memories with it such as the day I first walked through the hall door, a new bride of one week, full of ideas, plans for redecoration, and hope. The day I returned from hospital two years later after we lost our first born child, and the safehaven the house became then. The joyous days we shared bringing ED and YD home from the maternity hospital. The storms that rolled down the mountains behind, the floods - particularly the one that threatened to make a swimming pool of the kitchen.

The times of tears, fears for the outcome of exams, times spent in hospitals, the laughter and joy all year round and the extra merriment at Christmas when the entire family of OH and I, ED and YD, Sister in Law and Mother in Law and my own beloved Mum gathered round the table. Mum who made Christmas extra special for me as she sat down to the table clasping her hands together, big brown eyes wide like a childs, and her compliment after dinner when she told me "you make Christmas Dinner just like my Mother". High praise indeed, she lost her Mother when she was ninteen years old.

Mother in Law passed away on 11 June this year in her 92nd year. Thirty two of those years were spent being my Mother in Law and it was not an easy relationship. I was not the daughter in law of choice, a Dubliner I was somewhere between earwigs and inert matter. Unfortunately for her I am resilient by nature so it all rolled off like water off a ducks back. I feel sorry for OH; she was not a hugely loving Mother, but she was his Mother and did one thing right in her life...gave birth to the best husband any woman could have, and a gentle but firm father to the girls. My pity lies with sister in law. Single and having shared a house with Mother in law for the last five years, she will miss the company. Ar dheis Dé a anamh.

We moved here immediately after Mum died, and we have loved the past three years building the extension, recovering the garden and now we look forward to having one daughter live with us as the other emigrates. Such is the way of life in Ireland now she must head for foreign shores like many before her, and it is likely that YD will head in the same direction next Spring. My heart breaks at the thought, but our children must do what they must do. "Thank God", my Grandmother used to say of my father "that Liam only emigrated to Dublin from Kerry". Wasn't she lucky.

We are now in the process of discarding furniture that we have no need for, sorting all the stuff for charity shops, all the stuff for the skip and thanking God that most of what we want has already been moved here.

My new build is a huge success. The most frequent word used by all who come to tea is "WOW!". Tiggywinkle joined me for afternoon tea two weeks ago, and hers was an opinion I valued deeply. Her own home is so elegant and the lady has such style that her WOW! hit the right spot.

I am now hoping that I will have more time to blog; read my favourite blogs and get the house sorted...yet again.

Baby blue tits flit past the new side door, Mother calling anxiously to them that Mme Pounce is in the vicinity. She is like a shabby tiger, we think she has that word beginning with C; the vet cannot confirm it, but we watch her with some anxiety. If there is any sign of suffering she will go to sleep permanently; until then she is free to sit on the new balcony and insult all and sundry as they fly past. The magpies sit on a nearby elder tree and make fun of her, she just flicks an impudent tail and stretches out to bask in what passes for a sunny day in an otherwise unsummer-like summer!

Election Time Again

2011-02-24T01:24:00.003Z

So here we are, back in the fray; it's Election time again. General Election time at that! The country is in a mess, financially we are - well, let's just say that we have seen better days, but I live, cockeyed optimist that I am, in hopes that we will see better days again. Hopefully more rational days when house building and bling overspending are only a nightmare memory from the past.

This has been the most tense campaign so far. The country is deeply divided on who to vote for, and former staunch supporters of the governing party are threatening to leave the party altogether or vote for the main opposition. That is, for many of them, like killing your mother. The would be contenders have, so far, left me stone cold and I am seriously underwhelmed. What does get my goat though is the media.

We are an intelligent nation here, well able to make up our own mind on what we want and what we don't want. I would love to watch one t.v., programme with all the contending party leaders allowed time to finish their points - so that I can get to make up my own mind and not have it made up for me. As OH says, no chance of that happening anytime soon. Far too independent by nature.

We had a candidate on the doorstep yesterday afternoon, in the rain, and he found us, buried away at the back of Godspeed as we are. God love him, I really felt so sorry for him. A mere child in his early twenties, he earnestly encouraged me to vote for his candidate, I pointed out that he was the candidate; he thanked me. Exhausted, wet and knowing that he is such a small fish that his chances of getting more than 40 votes are slim. I have decided to vote for him. He won't get a 1 or a 2, but sure doesn't he merit a mark for finding us.

Our extension is completed, since Christmas, and I was able to cook the Christmas turkey in my new range. This was the best Christmas we have had in years. The snow fell, the whole family was gathered together under one roof; not going anywhere fast in the whitened world outside, and it was cosy cheer from the 25th of December until the 3rd of January. By that stage the snow was getting tedious, life had to go on. There was a major task of painting the new rooms and, by that time, I was sick to the teeth of the white emulsion on the kitchen. The undercoat for the yellow sun haze that was to come after.

January dragged on, and on, and on, and on and...The Flu Virus struck OH and I. He got the milder form, I got the full whack and a relapse to boot. The computer started to act up and getting a signal became a luxury not a right. Talk about feeling cut off...however, I spent the time reading all those books that I haven't had a chance to get to. Going through all my Miss Marple dvd's with Margaret Rutherford, Joan Hickson and Geraldine McEwan all giving their versions. I'm a dedicated Hickson fan for authenticity, Rutherford for the comedy and McEwan for the two mixed together.

February has slinged by, wet, grumpy and better forgotten. Today, as I took out the laundry to the line, an exciting experience as rain has stopped that for aided by the relapse; I listened to the blackbirds at dusk giving the warning call, the robins scooting from tree to tree singing their beautiful song and thought that March is just around the corner. The primula in their pots outside the front door are rich and jewel coloured and the daffodils and narcissi and irises are all late but the more welcome for that. There are more snowdrops than last year and our resident hedgehog has appeared out of hiberanation. Maybe he's running as a candidate in the hedgerow elections.

Spring is spritely on its way.

Bank Holiday and Inspector Fox comes to call

2010-10-28T13:57:00.002+01:00

OH was minding his Mother this Bank Holiday week end and I had planned my week end very carefully. I was to be on sentry duty on the build [what a delightful excuse] as it would be wide open, the windows and doors not due for delivery until today. Well, the best laid plans of mice, men and me [to keep the alliteration going] never did go well, did they.

My plans included a day in Dublin, solo, lunch in Bewleys, a meander around the St. Stephen's Green Centre, a stroll through St. Stephen's Green, a visit to my favourite book shop to stock up on some much needed reading material. A wander through Trinity College to view the Autumn leaves and a gentle journey home by LUAS. Saturday was to have been a long lie in until half past ten, a wander 'round the extension, daydreaming about how it will look when all finished. A walk down the Pier with my favourite cousin, lunch at her house, home to catch up on all those episodes of Campion and Mrs Bradley Mysteries. Mass at 6 o'c to catch up on all the local gossip. Dinner of roast breast of chicken and creamed potato, followed by a long evening of reading.

Reality? Yes, grumpily I feel we have enough of reality already on t.v., with half these reality programmes. Reality was I had to work Friday, the windows and doors were installed on Friday [OH had already departed for parts rural] and Peter asked me would it be all right if the chaps worked over the week end so that the plasterer could start on Tuesday. He thought the weather looked like it was coming to the end of its wonderful run; if the guys could work over the week end then, he told me, the plasterer could work inside or out as weather permitted on Tuesday. What could I say? What diligent workers they are too. Eight o'clock on a Saturday morning.

Still, I can't complain. At this rate we should be dun'n'dusted by end November. I have been blessed with a terrific builder, an Indian Summer, and, so far, under budget. May that part of the build hold true until the end. Plumbing and heating come on-site next week, kitchen the week after and range and floor laying week after. I have picked a wooden floor for the dining room, and linoleum for the kitchen, hall and shower room. A friend of mine is still trying to get me to put down tiles but I hate them, I am terrified of slipping on them and feel like I am walking on ice on some of them. Besides which, tiles are so permanent. I love the idea of, if I get fed up with the lino - I can change it whenever I like.

Last week, while tidying up the old kitchen I turned to look out the window to see what was causing a furore with the crows and magpies and there, sitting calmly surveying me, was Inspector Fox. Mobile phone to hand I grabbed a few quick shots. These were probably the kindest shots the fox had to endure that week. OH was cutting gorse at the top end of the garden when he came across three snares, all set at fox height and all nastily vicious. I am furious. Furious at whoever set them, trespessed on our property, and afraid for my beautiful foxes. Even my neighbour who keeps six beautiful bantams was enraged when he saw the snares. Bad cess on whoever the perpetrator is. May he die roarin' as they say in country parts.

A golden October day & other things that spring to mind

2010-10-08T21:07:00.004+01:00

I am thoroughly enjoying my holiday, I must admit. I have taken a month off, partly annual leave that was left over from two years ago and had to be squared away, and two weeks of this years leave. The joy of being able to watch Downton Abbey on a Sunday night and not have to retire shortly after is intoxicating. Usually I am in bed by ten thirty on a Sunday night, early Monday start, and this goes against my grain. I'm an night owl and life is good at two a.m.

This morning, after a v-e-r-y late night, we got up at ten a.m., and after a full Irish breakfast, OH and I headed out for the veggie patch. This was started earlier this year, and we have feasted on our own lettuce, onions, beetroot, Kerr's Pink potatoes, Orla's, Cultra's and Roosters. The peas were plentiful and the strawberries few but superb. We will not mention the carrotts. Shush! not a word. Suffice it to say that those teeny weensy orange balls were not, and I repeat not actually berries, they were, allegedly supposed to be full grown carrotts. If I was a rabbit, I would have gone blind.

My little herb plot, on the other hand, was bountiful...that is apart from the lemon thyme that got murdered, well, o.k., smothered by drooping potato leaves [OH and planning not mutually conducive] and I have lavender for the airing press, night scented stock which eventually struggled past all OH's obstacles, thyme, sage [variegated] rosemary and chives. We came to an amicable arrangement today. He will line up his drills the other way this year, we will not have orange pebbles with feathery tops, we will have more rhubarb and I will have a bigger plot for The Herbs! I have also coaxed two extra feet of soil from him, all the better to put in a path to get at the other side of the herb bed. Honestly, I know he thinks I am wonderful, but I have not mastered the art of hovering over the herb bed...yet!

In between all the weeding and pruning and snipping away I trailed in and out hanging out clothes on the line. With the roofers on site lately, they had taken over the socket into which I plug Gertrude, so a backlog soon cropped up.

Gertrude I hear you ask. Well, yes...Gerty is a decrepit washing machine and she belonged to my Mum. Gerty's speed wash is a mere two and a half hours long. Her woolen wash ensures that all wools are throughly boiled, and the lock on the door opens twenty minutes after a wash has finished...if Gerty feels like it. Needless to remark, cometh the new kitchen, cometh the new super speed washing machine.

Lunch was heating up a tin of Baxter's gluten free Cockaleekie, brown bread and huge mugs of Bewleys tea to wash it down. Carmel, an old friend from my youth, called by to leave in some seeds of a flower, the name of which she wishes she could remember; we have decided to term it "Senior Moment" until either [a] she remembers what it is or [b] they grow and we see the evidence for ourselves. "Good Lord, she remarked, "look at your builders having their lunch...my aren't they eating healthy. When Roy and I got our extension done twenty years ago it was 'someone nip down to the chippers' and cans of Fanta, this lot are positively glowing with nutritious good health". I had to laugh, I remember that extension being built, and it was Carmel herself who nipped down to the chipper for the lads at lunchtime. She put up two stone on that build.

All the while birds sang, robins hopped around grabbing juicy worms and leatherjackets, beaks barely big enought to cope with such largess. Sadly the Greenfinches are not with us, wiped out this year by a virus. Overhead the Sparrow Hawk fancied his chances with some racing pigeons and a tortoiseshell butterfly flew into the new build, fluttered around all the rooms and gracefully headed off out the new side door. The sun, a mellow gold sitting lower in the sky, shone on us, the breeze was balmy and all was good.

YD came up from the old house for a visit and to inspect what will be her new bedroom. This is her first time up since the build began; she is enchanted with the shell of what will be her room, and I could see her plotting beds, wardrobes and flooring - the last I saw of her before I had to nip out grocery shopping she was discussing the benefits of wood flooring over carpeting with Peter.

The Latest was collecting her at quarter to seven, so we sat in the garden with cups of tea and chatted until he arrived. It is his first time here and seven text directions finally got him safely to his destination.

The old house is on the market, viewing is slow, it is a buyers market but we are not in any great rush. If it doesn't sell before the new year we shall let it, but I notice an impatience in the girls to have it gone and to get to move up here full time. This pleases me, it tells me that they have enjoyed living without the 'rents, but as ED said to me the other day "I look forward to coming in from work of a winters evening and having a Mum cooked meal". Y-e-r-s-h! Well, that will happen, of course, but Mum has gained her independence too, and a life, so don't forget your cook books my darlings. Here's the number of the local Chinese takeaway, girls, 01-23456789 - just in case.

Building - the new Yoga

2010-10-04T17:19:00.003+01:00

At the moment I am sitting in the study, surrounded by the contents of the dining room, and half the sitting room. Things have progressed on the build at a rapid pace and the roofers started today; hence the big clearance from the other rooms. In order to sit here and blog, I am lying half sideways and reaching around a tipsy pile of magazines...really must sort and dump them!

We are hoping now that all will be done and dusted by the end of November, and that Christmas should see us warmed by the new range, cosseted with more space and enjoying our turkey on Christmas day, without a mile hike from kitchen to table!

Peter has the patience of Job, and I have discovered that I am a frustrated blocklayer, I would love to be in there doing all those bits and pieces...so I curb my enthusiasm and head for the carpet shop to pick out a nice lino for the kitchen floor. I can not believe how fast things are going, long may the pace last.

My friend, the one who likes to tell me I don't know anything about everything, called up the other day. On the phone she told me that she would be giving me helpful and practical tips on how to survive a build, "seeing as how you have never experience anything like this before". I wondered aloud to myself "what was that thing we got done in the old house?" still, she means well, and I haven't the heart to trample on her dreams of her version of a perfect world. She was a little disgruntled to find out that there is such progress on the build, rather than feeling frustrated, at wits end and full of venom towards the builder, I am getting on like a house on fire with him, and instead of all things being higgeldy piggeldy in the study, there is actually a retrieval system in place - despite yoga like sitting to use the computer. Well, you can't make an omlette without breaking eggs can you.

Ah well, away with me now to enjoy myself watching the progress, do some laundry and leave you with a few of my favourite pics...

Buiding commences, and it isn't even Spring yet

2010-09-09T22:41:00.002+01:00

After long planning, much searching and hours sort finances the build of the new extension has begun. The premier worry was foundation levels, we live on a granite sheeted hill, and the worry was that there would be weeks of chipping away with time, patience and money withering away. Last Monday week, under a cerulean blue sky and temperatures in the 20's work began, foundations are perfect and the only two places where the granite reared its head enough to be a nuisance are no problem, foundations are tied into the granite.

Day One was spent clearing the site. Peter my builder [a man who is never happier then when he is measuring a site, digging holes with a digger, and flying up and down the road on the dumper]and I walked the site and I chose what buddleia's and lilac's I wanted to save and where we were going to move them to. The box hedge has been halved and now resides near my bedroom window; the cotoneasters were dumped, they grow like weeds here.

Day Two The foundations were dug out and frabjous day! We have lift off, no tedious weeks of hammering away at granite. By two in the afternoon word had gotten around the village that there was a dishy young hunk working up the road and we found ourselves inundated with local teens dressed up to the nines, all wandering in with the most delighful of excuses

"Mammy sent me up to get some eggs". - Sorry pet, we don't sell eggs I replied, wondering vaguely in my innocence why she was standing on tippy toe and peering over my shoulder up the garden. Amazing child, of at least fifteen years of age, she actually walked back down the yard - backwards- staring fixedly at something behind me, not, I guessed, my favourite rose. A sudden blush, a giggle or three from herself and pal and I realised that Lazlo had appeared and the girls had completely forgotten my existence.

Over the course of the next two hours we had groups of two's, three's and fives all walking Mammy's dog; more egg buyers, [my neighbour would be in huge profit if he was at home to hear all the requests for eggs], three lovely lassies 'got lost' and thought we were part of a local park. Yes - the garden looks lovely but no, we are not the local park!

Lazlo? Oh he took the adoration in his stride. Sun glasses on head, teeth shining like pearls, muscles rippling under his tee-shirt and wedding ring sparkling. The first thing he had shown me on day one was a picture of his new bride. He is six months married and uxurious. Having met her today, I can see why. Sophia Loren move over, Nadja is beautiful, speaks excellent English and has a lovely manner. She dropped him off to work as she headed off to her own job, or jobs I should say. The lady is not work shy. Fair play to her.

Rain stopped play yesterday; cloudbursts were everywhere, and we got our deluge too. Today was better and the footings have been going in. Peter keeps a weather eye open, literally, and targets so much to get through each day so that there is no wastage. He would make a great NCO in the army. Everything is organised with military precision; even the awkward task of getting cement up our narrow lane; his attitude is "no problems only solutions" which is a favourite saying of mine.

He won the contract to build not because his was the cheapest quote, rather, he got the job because [a] he "got" what my plans were, and [b] two other builders had spoken about blasting any rock that might hinder foundation-laying...BLAST???? Dear God in Heaven, the old lady would never stand that...she's heading for 100 years and wouldn't be the better of a stick of dynamite. My knees nearly buckled when I heard that.

I like to think that Mum would be proud of this new stage in the old lady's life; a new kitchen and shower room and a bedroom for her beloved grand-daughter. On sunny days I feel that she is with us, I am sure I saw her flitting about the foundations the other night. The foxes certainly are, they have laid claim to every corner so far, the smell is powerful, but hasn't managed to put off the builders or the doe eyed females who wander up to 'take a look'.

Peter sometimes brings Max, his golden retriever with him. He's had more offers of dog walking in the past week than he can count; Max divides his time between sitting watching the blocks go down, trailing foxes, and sucking up to me at the back door with limpid eyes of a very gorgeous brown and trying to convince me that he hasn't been fed since Sunday week. His pot belly belies that. Now, if I could only get ten weeks of sunshine, or at least dry and mild weather...

August at home and in garden - when it isn't raining!

2010-08-05T12:59:00.008+01:00

This is a picture of my herbs and oils shelf which reigns supreme in my tiny kitchen. When I first moved back home I had a job sorting out Mum's kitchen - not that there was much, she had infinite patience for the garden and little or non for kitchen and in thirty years she saw out seven sets of saucepans to my one! I love to cook, and although I am not a cake-maker, I love traditional main courses - with a twist...my own version of the recipe.

OH and I spent two full days clearing out Mum's tiny kitchen, and repainting it to brighten it up. Under the sink we took off sliding doors that drove her wild, they never ran smoothly and I replaced them with a curtain hurriedly made up from an old curtain. In time this was replaced with "The Great Idea", otherwise know as maternity dresses that I found in the attic in our previous home. Well worn and used back in the day, I washed them, cut the ends off them, turned them down at the top and slid them onto a curtain wire. Now I have curtains, in floral patterns, plain and with lines on them. God bless the nuns for at least managing to teach me how to hem neatly. The girls love my recycled curtains, as they call them.

So far August has been a major disappointment with the weather. OH and I set out to freshen up the back patio with some exterior wall paint we found in a shed. Hopefully building work will start in the next two weeks or so on our new extension on the far side of the house. In the meantime I felt that the patio was sadly lacking in "relax" appeal and we got one half wall painted on Saturday morning before rain and relations visiting put paid to our efforts. That said, the Bizzie Lizzies [Impatiens] are looking much chirpier. I tried to get a picture up, but things are not going smoothly on that side this morning.

Winifred Wood-Pigeon, a stately dame of her kind, is currently trundling around the Blue Cedar followed by P.C. Magpie, who is, akin to all his brethren, permanently terrified that another bird will discover a juicy morsel that managed to escape the Magpie Brethren. Winnie shows scant interest in PC Magpie, she's well used to their ways and her complacent attitude serves her well, he gives up and flies off to find more interesting things to investigate such as OH's newly planted Monbretia at the end of the garden.

I sat up in bed early yesterday morning, bedazzled by the joys of a sunny morning, albeit six a.m., and there, grazing on the lawn placidly as ever was Winnie and six Magpies. A comment a friend passed recently came to mind. "I know this used to be a dairy farm IE, Frisians grazing down there and all that, but honestly IE, six black and white magpies...what's this? the economic version of black and white grazers?" I had to chuckle at that, while at the same time ruefully wishing that there was at least one bovine view to be seen. OH would have a fit! His lovely lawn, retrieved from a wilderness? NEVER! Of course, back in the day it wasn't Frisians grazing there, but a motley crew of multi coloured placid cud chewers. I remember Molly - the last of my Grandfathers dairy cows. She was elderly and past milk production but Mum kept her on for sentiments sake. Molly would back up to the end of the house wall, and blissfully scratch her derriere while lowing contentedly. She provided the inspiration for a blog some time ago.

There is something about cattle that appeals to me. From their gentle brown eyes, inquisitiveness, and soft gentle voices. No matter the breed, no matter whether they are beef or milk producers, give me cattle over sheep anytime. Eek! I can hear all my sheep farming blogging friends hurl insults at me, but no my friends. I am not averse to sheep, it's just that sheep are clannish, stand and look at you as if they can't work out who or what you are [but instinctively know you are inedible], whereas cows come over for a chat.

Have you ever stepped over a stile into a field of cattle? Some people are afraid to do so, the size of the beasts intimidating them. I have always found that if you step smartly down and head straight for your destination they stand back respectfully and let you pass on. Mind you, dear reader, I haven't put this theory to the test with bulls.

So, back to gardens. Well, I do have to confess that it does my heart good to look out [on wet days] at the splash of colour around the garden and to think of the difference in the summer of '08. There are three more flower beds since we moved back in, Mum's bed still reigns supreme. There are pockets of colours of every hue brightening up previously dull and uninteresting corners; the bee and butterfly population are holding their own with all the buddleia's that have come into prominence after the clearance. The fragrance of roses abounds. Since that first summer we have added ten new varieties, some old favourites like Albert Darcy, some redolent of honeysuckle and some we may never know the names of because of my penchant for buying the "cast-asides" in garden centres.

I think it is a source of bemusement to OH how I can go into a garden centre, pick out the runts, the plants that the centres consider are no longer commercially viable and so place them on the half price counter. I bring them home, plant them and tell them "grow or die" and within two years they are off, racing up walls, and making a laughing stock of the "commercially perfect" pieces that cost an arm and a leg. What the heck, if you are supposed to hard prune roses, doesn't it follow that they must be strong, ergo the runts are worthy of a second chance?

My joy will be unconfined if I can encourage rabbits back into the garden. OH says, with some cynicism, that I only want them back to feed the five foxes who reside here. My reply to that is that we will be lucky to have even one fox left considering current happenings. It appears that someone heere in the village is poisoning them. A lingering and awful death - we lost the Hopping Fox on Tuesday. She was a quiet little charmer, almost tame and would often sit under a nearby Forsythia of a summers evening as I sat reading a book on the patio. We didn't trouble each other, but I think she liked the company. The others would either race through when they saw someone was about or turn back the way they came, but she would come down off the hill, have a good sniff around, stand and look at me for a while and then walk over to the Forsythia and curl up, occasionally looking up and then wrapping her brush around her.

We were at a Blessing of the Graves down the country last Sunday night. As the Priest gave a long sermon on a rain-lashed hillside, my attention wandered. I looked across the fields to a nearby ditch dividing two fields. There, betwixt a rowan tree and a hawthorn bush, outlined by the weak rays of a sun trying to shine through the rain, sat a rabbit. Upright and engrossed in washing himself, he reminded me of Fiver in Watership Down. "Bright Eyes" came to mind and, I have to admit, this view made more impression on me than Fr. Doyle's sermon.

Autumn is coming, and with it a whole new adventure for this years garden.

A break from the garden

2010-07-07T23:42:00.007+01:00

Inspiration corner.

I walked into the kitchen last night and faced all the tidying up that needed to be done; groaned, moaned, guided a few plates into the dishwasher and OH arrived in. "What's up with you" he cheerily enquired. "Hate housework, hate delph, feel like a holiday but we're not going away until September...GAWD I HATE housework!". Monosyllabic answers, and two red spots on either cheek were enough to warn him that yours truly was in fed up and feisty form.

There comes a time when we need a break from routine, and routine has been the order of the day lately, particularly since I recovered from that dose in May. "Right," sez he masterfully! "We're taking the day off tomorrow and heading off to wherever a cent lands on in the map book. Open the page for County Dublin". I did, and just before I dropped a cent on the page I plaintively asked "what if it lands on where we live, or near too" - "then we're in the garden for the day" he cooed. Hmmmp! He'd love that of course. However, the Gods were kind and we chose Balbriggan for our destination. A town in North County Dublin.

We had intended to leave around nine a.m., after a good full Irish breakfast; trust us to fall out of the bed round ten thirty; stagger into the kitchen and throw something into a bowl each; using our inbuilt radar we found the dining room and then, fed, cleaned and presentable we hit the M50 for Balbriggan, having decided that we would go out the motorway and come back down the coast road.

Just near the airport we discovered IKEA. I have never been to IKEA before, and have to say from what I had heard, wasn't willdly enthused. It was complicated enough to get there what with twists and turns, but get there we did. Five minutes inside and I wanted out; it was like being in the Ghost Train with all these colours coming at me, and my lazy eye and I don't like overload. However, we eventually found ourselves in the kitchen area, and there I fell in love. It is white, square and porcelain. It is a kitchen sink. It will, when I go back to purchase it - grace my new kitchen; if, that is, our future builder ever comes back off honeymoon. I even discovered the sink I want for the shower room; so, although I was seriously underwhelmed by IKEA I have to say that I found exactly what I was looking for there. Getting out of it was another matter.

Two and a half hours after we went in we arrived in Balbriggan. A small town, as I mentioned, in North County Dublin. This is arrable farmland, home of potatoes, veggies - as in cabbages as high as an elephant's eye; and it is on the coast just three bays up from where we have our own piece of heaven. If you're not Irish or at least not from Dublin, you have to understand that the great and large County of Dublin is divided in two by the river Liffey. Northsiders regard southsiders with suspicion, convinced that only stuck up would be rich folk live south of the Liffey, and southsiders view Northsiders with EXTREME caution; not quite sure just what planet they come from. It's rather like the view Kerry people have of Cork people and vice versa. It always amuses me that a Northsider called Bono settled in the Southside...mind you he does get around a bit on a global basis so maybe he hasn't noticed he's southside yet.

North County Dublin is rather flat, whereas the South of the county is hilly, mountainous in fact, and - well, not that I am biased, you understand, of course, - spectacular. However, I was interested to see how this town had prospered in the Celtic Tiger, as it must be fifteen years since OH and I brought the children [as they were then] out for the day. In those times it was dull, grotty, down at heel in fact, trying to make up its mind was it a satellite town of the Greater Dublin Metropolitan area or was it a country town. Well, it developed, got a face lift, but it still doesn't quite know which foot it is standing on. We drove up through the town, hindered from stopping by non-stop yellow lines and well hidden parking facilities.

Eventually we turned at the top of the town, disgruntled and irritated with jaywalkers and bad town planning and, driving down the main street, we took a left hand turn which put us on the coast road. We spotted a likely place to get to what we imagined would be the seafront on Fancourt Road, - and what a lucky turn it was. It proved to be a private housing estate right almost on the water. Porpoises played, cormorants were diving, sea gulls wheeled overhead and there, closer to us than we usually see them were the Mourne Mountains in Northern Irelnd. Children played in the rock pools not six hundred yards from home under a gloriously sunny July blue sky and it was heaven. If only we had remembered the camera; left sitting on the hall table! Typical!

We enjoyed our picnic lunch sitting on the grass taking in the vista, with the Mournes on our right and Lambay Island on our left. What struck me was, apart from the three or four children down on the rocks, the place was virtually deserted. Are children nowadays so removed from such joys as hunting crabs in a rock pool in favour of Gameboys? Has WII taken over the world? Dear Lord I hope not.

We ambled down the coast stopping in Skerries to look across to our own headland; I was fascinated to look across from, for a change, the view I usually look at when having breakfast. We stopped off for ice cream in Rush, the market garden of County Dublin, and finally we decided, as he wanted to see the WC match, we would bypass Swords and Malahide and Howth and take the M50 back home again.

When we got back home I sat out in the patio relaxing and occasionally getting up to potter around the plants and to chat with my neighbour who is painting his brother's cottage. Overhead the magpies welcomed me back and the bullfinches flitted from tree to bush to plant - pretty as a picture with their salmon pink breasts, black backs and grey waistcoats. Arriving back here was like coming back to heaven. It was only a day away from home, but it felt like a weeks holiday. I feel invigourated and ready to tackle housework again; sometimes you need to step outside the comfort zone and see how the rest of the world is getting along.

Garden Blog

2010-06-29T22:53:00.003+01:00

Overhead, against a thundery sky swifts cut a dash through the air as they gorge themselves on flying insects. Down at the old cowhouse fledgling blue tits perform Immelman turns as they dart about the place. Biggles flies again, except the Kestrel took Bertie out this morning, leaving us with three aces, Biggles, Algy and Ginger. Von Stalhein has nothing on our predatory Kestrel; Baron Von Richtofen and his Jagdstaffel would be put to shame by our three heroes.

My neighbour will be devastated when he gets home from work and sees Berties feathers, bloodstained and tattered, lying at the foot of the gate. The Blue Tits grew up in a nesting box in his sycamore that had lain unused for a decade.

We don't credit birds with feelings like ours, but since noon, when the dreadful deed took place, there has been a succession of birds landing nearby. Maybe they hope to lelarn something about Bertie's death that might aid them escape Baron Von Kestrel for another while. Flight Lieutenant Bertie Blue Tit, RIP.

Since I moved back here in 2008, we have always had a plethora of Magpies. Six in next door's Lawsonia, eight in the firs over the wall at the end of our garden. Many's the pitched battled waged overhead, and indeed, on our lawn as the Over the Hill gang took on the Seaview Eight. Magpies and Hoodie Crows would gather from all over the hill to watch the great aerial battles, sometimes joining in. No doubt a political manoeuver to incur favour from whichever side won. We are reduced to three magpies from the Over the Hill gang and one lone Seaview clan magpie who sits sunning himself on the grass forlornly. No breathern to keep an eye out for predators.

The relief from the Siewview Apartments [fir tree] residents - i.e., The Woodpigeon family, is palpable, the numbers of woodpigeon, blackbird and thrush has escalated dramatically. You could be in danger of loosing an eye from a low flying Great Tit. The Long Tailed tits, heretofore twelve in number, now rejoice in a squadron of 18.

Last night OH, YD and I sat out on the back patio until ten to one in the morning. A mild, humid night, we investigated the contents of a bottle of Merlot Pinot Grigio - perfectly satisfactory! Check, the latest young fox to grace our garden, strolled onto the patio around eleven, bypassed us within 2' and, not finding any juicy tidbits, passed on by. She has no fear of us; her grandmother would nearly vanish up her own brush at the mere sniff of a human, times - they are a changing.

At 2p.m., Torquil and Dean, the two donkeys bray their contentment as Old Alex arrives with a tasty morsel or two for them. The sound of their ectasy carries far and wide and can lift you out of your skin with shock, and yes, that IS Torquil and not Torville. May read the name Torquil in a Georgette Heyes novel many years ago and decided it would be a nice name for a donkey. No comment!

The elderberries are in full bloom and roses are prolific everywhere, Mum's Gertrude Gekyll is coming out and I lookforward to a sterling display. Apparently all the rain during the winter has made for a great Rose year. I have nearly achieved a dream - roses 'round the hall door. I took a cutting of a dog rose from down at the cowshed, liberally dowsed it with comfrey tea and it has raced up through the Pyrricantha. By next summer it will be possible to bring it up and over the door to meet with a newly planted Albertine rose.

Fox gloves abound this year. From one seedy looking character in'08, I have seven, self seeded. The bed under the front bedroom window is beginning to look like a proper cottage garden flowerbed. Antirriniums, foxglove, bizzy lizzie, campanula, poppies, wall flowers and pansies. We will get there. The three year subplan of a five year plan is beginning to come to fruition.

I have kept one flower bed solidly and forever Mums. Bit by bit OH and I are making our changes. Yd has set up a bed of her own, boy! wouldn't Mum be thrilled? YD is the last person she would have thought would take to gardening. See Mum, told you so!

The cabbages took off so well and the lettuce in the veg garden that our friends are starting to grow white tails and whiskers and, in truth, I am getting a bit weary of salad teas, lunches etc. OH will plant slightly less next summer and probably less will grow!

Aha! The long tailed tits have arrived in the Blue Cedar. Time for afternoon tea. they always land promptly at 4p.m.

June is bursting out all over...well the sunshine helps

2010-06-22T22:22:00.002+01:00

Back to work on Monday week after two weeks feeling dire; the only consolation was a bright round orb in the sky that, I was told, was - The Sun. Neighbours stood at garden gates looking at it, wondering if it might stay around for long, would it heat up the country and - could we get more than four days of it and have to deem that Our Summer????

Having been on the 'sick list' for the previous two weeks, the house was in dire need of a good shake out, and nothing loathe, I set to on Tuesday morning, determined to hit every nook and cranny. I forgot two things, one being dust and allergies, and just recovering from a chest and sinus infection, and t'other was the fact that this house has more nooks and crannies than the Wicklow house. Add to that chaffeuring OH around because his car, which went in for a routine check up discovered that liked being 'hospitalised' and spent another day in the garage getting a new gear box. At least damage to the gear box cannot now be laid at my door, I have my own jalopy and she's singing like a bird.

The reason for the big clean up? Mother-in-law and Sister in law visit in sight. Mother in law might be in her nineties, early dementia approaching [so we are led to believe] but I do not particularly relish a walking stick being waved at a ceiling corner and a stentorian voice demanding "how long do you intend to keep that spider in permanent housing?" or words to that effect.

I spent Wednesday coughing and spluttering like a mad thing, but had the place spick and span by Wednesday night. OH was threatened with having dire things done to him [i.e., his prize cabbages infested with slugs] if he so much as even looked into the study and I confined him to the sitting room and the World Cup. Rather he than me, I lost interest after Thierry handed Ireland out of the running. As a nation we are not bitter over that, much, but hark, is that the sound of glee I hear coming up the hill from the green fields and lean streets of Ireland now that France's WC chances have died a death. Let us give them a big Thierry...'er I mean a hand up off the pitch.

Friday night saw E.D. and I head off to the Gaiety Theatre in King Street in Dublin, "The Importance of Being Ernest" [Wilde] was on. A wonderful performance that gripped the audience from beginning to end; we got to meet Stockard Channing in the Green Room afterwards. A wonderful performance from this diminutive but powerful actress. E.D will probably come back to earth sometime in the near future, the programme with Ms Channing's autograph has already been put safely in a plastic cover. She brought it up to show her Dad on Sunday, and as sister in law flicked through the pages of the programme I feared for her life [well, her hands] in case she tore a page, or The Page, by accident. No mother ever watched a child as protectively as E.D watched her programme.

We have been basking in sunshine and warm weather since Thursday, it is always a bit colder up here than down in the plains; on Sunday I was delighted to be able to serve the inlaws Sunday lunch out under the Blue Cedar. A gentle breeze kept us cool, the flies away and we had a very relaxed afternoon. Mother in law is, however, concerned that there is an above average number of woodpigeons about the place and they might damage her sons cabbages.

OH and I haven't had an indoors meal since last Thursday, we dine on the patio and life is made easier not to have to traipse the length of the house to the dining room from the kitchen, by next year hopefully a different tale will be told. I have found my builder and as soon as he comes back off his honeymoon we will sit down and discuss "the doings". The three year plan is beginning to come together. At last.

Tonight, after the WC Match was over, OH and I took a gentle ramble around the hill. The lanes are redolent of the smell of woodbine, clover both red and white, purple loosestrife, purple tufted vetch, campion, ladies fingers, and the humming of bees. We stood at a break in the hedge to look out over the golf course and admire the rabbits grazing in the evening sunshine. These are the days when the day will last a bit longer until it starts to slip back bit by bit. We stopped along the way home to chat to neighbours. The weather, as always, the main source of gossip.

As I grew up with a lot of the people we chatted to this evening, and played on the hill on long summer nights with them, our thoughts turned to evenings spent making daisy chains, playing chaineys, hopscotch, rounders over on the commons, and collecting wild flowers for our Mothers, a good way to get out of a scold for being in later than the deadline. To-day is the feast of St Winifrid. Happy feast day to all Winifrids [or Winnefreds or Winnifreds or Winifreds as my elderly cousing used to spell her name].

Yesterday, being the longest day, I sat out in the garden until well past midnight. It was wonderfully tranquil after a very busy day solo in the office. I have re-vamped the back patio, the frost and snow had damaged Mum's plants, we managed to save a pelargonium and I am nursing another one that climbs all over the place. In place of the lost plants I have started filling all available pots with bizzie lizzies, and I came across some beautiful double flowered ones that enhance the whole place by looking like miniature roses.

As I sat there, Check, the latest youthful fox incumbent of the garden [ancestry traceable to her grandmother the Silver] trotted around the side of the house and into the patio. I don't know who was the most surprised. I sat still, spoke quietly to her and she backed off up towards the veg garden. She sat there watching me for twenty minutes, sniffing the air delicately, looking around her. She was quite unfazed by my presence. After a bit I think she realised I wasn't going anywhere so she trotted off around the flower bed down by the patio wall, past the kitchen window to pick up the bread we throw out for the birds in the evening. The poor adult birds have had a busy time of it with the fledglings, so they need a bit of a helping hand. Check and her family are not unwilling to clean up the leavings.

Long may the fine weather reign.

En4ced Rest & life b4 txt frm me 2 u

2010-06-04T17:27:00.002+01:00

Things were going along swimmingly since the last blog; but a suspected sinus infection sent me to the doctors [three units of ambulance men were nearly needed to revive me when I got the bill] and a chest infection showed itself to accompany its fellow ailment. If that lot sounds pompous, try sixty euro to be told what you already suspect and another 48 euro to pay for medication that makes you want to call for the priest!

Short form is: Antibiotic's made me feel like passing over, doc recommends drop to one a day and I know stomach will never be the same again. Enter Trudy; "Yogurt, me dear, Glenisk is the best - it'll help your stomach". Trudy has now been voted lifesaving pal of the century. We go back a long way, 56 years to be precise, our Mums were three beds apart in the same ward of the same maternity hospital. Our Mother's came from neighbouring villages and we never knew each other until thirty seven years ago, come August, when we were introduced by a mutual friend. It was dislike at first sight. We l-o-a-t-h-e-d each other. Mutual friend emigrated to the USA and we continued to travel home together by train in thinly veiled truce. All this ended when a pal of hers let her down over a summer holiday and she came along to Greece with my friends and I. We had a blast! Things were never the same again...well, they couldn't be could they? After all I remember her and that night with the Ouzo, and she recall's my being chatted up by whatshisname...all very tame really by today's carry on in such places as Ibiza, but a mutual bond was formed and we took to the disco's upon our return like they were going out of fashion.

We have been firm friends ever since. Mind you, most of her and my other friends are convinced we are arch enemies - the level of what they see as sarcasm and what we see as never ending 'slagging' or leg pulling being high. We refuse to text each other, despite both being fairly competent with texting vocabulary. It's a sort of "lets be old-fashioned" about it. It's also an excuse for very long, very hilarious chats which keep Eircom in business, despite both having "packages" to save on calls.

As the week progressed the text messages started to roll in, it was obvious I was not seen in my usual haunts so Lisa landed this one "wer u? Nt cn u 4 4tnite - u ok?" or, for the text illiterate Where are you, haven't seen you for a fortnight, are you ok?...she got back, "nt so gud, antibi's mkng me fl yuk" to which she replied "por u, cn i gt u n-e tin" or, poor you, can I get you anything. Ger's "herd u r sik, hop ur betr, u up 4 cofy nx wed?" up for coffee next Wednesday, darling girl, I was hoping to reach the "able to eat tea and toast and keep it down" stage by then, never mind sit at our favourite cafe and slosh back cappuchino's and latte's by the gallon!

And it went on. And I started to think. And it hit me that by 2025 there will probably be classes in schools in Old English, and for those really interested Olde English. What will differentiate the two? Olde English will be the English of Chaucer and Shakespeare, and Old English will be the sort of thing we currently write our blogs in. Most communications will probably be in Nu Nglsh or Txt speek 4 u. When people speak to each other, ninety per cent of the words will be drowned with the "like" insert as I call it. Like, it will be, like speaking, like, in, like short4m, like, and, like, if, like, we can ever, like, get a sentence, like, out, like, we will, like, be, like, doing good. Like.

Have you ever eavesdropped on non-national English speaking conversations? The Irish have their own format, and it is not necessarily filled with shure and begorrahs! The English have theirs [regional variations included], American English and Canadian English is different again, take in New Zealand and Australia and the varying formations of a sentence are interesting. Like.

Anyhow, I am now off out to the patio, to like, sit, like, and read a book, like, and recouperate, like, before I have to, like, txt a fu pals 4 d l8st nuz! like.

A blog from the garden

2010-05-23T12:58:00.005+01:00

It has been a busy week, extra days at work, hospital visit for a check up and the wonderful news that I have lost 15lbs:3ozs and kept it down; major high. All in all I was glad to see the end of the week and looked forward to Friday immensely. Friends came for supper, and my great plan to dine al fresco came to naught - the mist rolled in from the sea, and you couldn't even see the garden gate! The upside and the downside of a heat wave. Brilliant temperatures, and rolling sea-fog. So, windows opened to the sound of the fog horns from the Bay, we dined indoors and had a hoot. Good company is a blessing from God and before we knew it the hours from eight to three in the morning had flown by and we never felt their passing.

I was up bright and early, despite the lateness of the hour when we retired, and after watching Edward Petherbridge as Lord Peter Wimsey in "Gaudy Night" [Dorothy L Sayers}, I was busy catching up on laundry and other household chores. There is something very satisfying about seeing a clothesline blowing in the breeze full of fresh clean linen. I brought the laptop into the garden in the afternoon, and after a refreshing cuppa decided to blog from the garden...however, the best laid plans of mice, men and this blogger are always a floating issue. Not one but two daughters decided to arrive - just in case you were lonely Mam. Mentally I wailed that I wanted to grab this rare opportunity to sit in brilliant sunshine, shaded by an umbrella advertising a nation's favourite drink (!) and blog about the collar doves racing each other around the leylandii in next doors garden, the enormous bumble-bee that had a face off with a dunnock on a cherry tree branch...and yet I was delighted that they had come to see me. Who knows, this time next year we might all be leading different lives, so grab your graces when they come as my paternal Grandmother used to exclaim - and rightly so.

The ladies stayed to dinner, OH headed off to work and I cleaned up...God bless the dishwasher, a mother's greatest asset. We did manage to dine al fresco this time and it was heavenly. The Collar doves cooed, the Dunnocks sang their cheery song and a nosey Robin decided that this al fresco lark was wonderful, all those crumbs, and look, some generous human has decided to throw me tid-bits. All quiet at eight o'clock I rambled down the garden and sat under an elderberry tree. We have recently reclaimed this area from the gorse and general scrub and I love it. As a child we used to have picnic tea's out here. We had the idea, my childhood friends and I, that we were the Secret Seven, The Famous Five, and we would head off with bottles of cold tea, apples, cold sausage sandwiches and a slice of gur cake each. An old blanket thrown down and we would idle the hours planning what we would do, when we grew up; we solved mysteries. Big mysteries such as Why Did Beatrix Potter write about rabbits in her garden when we didn't have any in ours. I wonder did we ever think that a preponderance of foxes might have had something to do with this lack of bunny habitation? We trawled through Bunty, Judy, The Beano, The Dandy, The Hotspur and other publications, "swappies" was the order of the day, and we swapped for all we were worth. The Wolf of Kabul was my particular favourite. Oh yes, you guess correctly, I was a tomboy. Happier hanging out of a tree than playing with tea sets. If Mum could see me now, afternoon tea on the lawn with the pals during the week. She did say it would happen, I laughed...I can hear a ghostly chuckle even now. You haven't lived until you have bitten into a batch loaf bread sausage sandwich and a green apple and washed it down with cold tea from a Fanta bottle. Sheer heaven.

I digress, typical me, I sat under the elderberry until the sun sank in the west. One thing to be said for the Eya...whatsit volcano, the sunsets are pure Turner and breath-taking. I sat on in the dusk until every last bird had gone to sleep. The song Thrush had entertained me with his "Dia Dhuit" [deeya-gwit] obviously an Irish singing bird, the layering started after that with the blackbird up in the Douglas Fir seranading the sunset and the robins, dunnocks and indeed the bullfinches adding their chorus to it. The Sunset Opera, fabulous!

This morning back out at nine, papers in hand, breakfast on the back patio, tempramental sunshine, fog horns in the distance, birdsong aplenty and the smells of lilac, apple blossom wafting past, enhanced by gillyflowers [wallflowers]. The tulips I planted last autumn are eyecatching and the front lawn is showered like a bride with the confetti of cherry blossom. I have lilac all around the house in vases, even an old tea-pot. There is something very gentle about lilac, relaxing. The phone rings and I am too lazy to answer it; who would want to break the magic spell a springtime garden binds us with. I am far more interested in watching a ladybird explore a leaf!

The darling spuds of May

2010-05-16T13:00:00.002+01:00

So here we are in the month of May, April seems to have flown by so fast that I nearly missed it. I have been busy "collecting" builders; at last, two years down the line the "extension project" has moved up to getting prices. So far two have impressed me, one floored me with his"...it might be better if you knocked the old house down and rebuilt completely..." but I think the Euro signs floating about behind the pupils of his dimly lit eyes alerted me to "Builder In Crisis Needs Cash". He got a short visit, sweet smile and a "be in touch" NOT! I have a few more I want to investigate before I finally decide. One has really impressed me, he has a great reputation, is salvage/period of house/eco friendly and, providing his submission is reasonable may well win the day. Fingers crossed. Meanwhile ED and YD are enjoying life as parental tenants in the old marital home, rent free and utilities to be paid for only. I sense a restlessness in YD and I think she is now ready to move back in with the 'rents as soon as her bedroom is built. Happy days.

Speaking of YD, we had a great night last night. She came to stay for the week-end; so a bottle of Merlot, Chicken Balls, Fillet Beef with Mushroom and Prawn Crackers later we watched "It's Complicated" and then sat and chatted - between drifting out to examine what was on offer when the outside light went on. The Bracken Fox was seriously distressed last night. His behaviour was odd to say the least. He spent over half an hour walking around the cottoneaster bush, spraying, muzzling at it and walking around between two other bushes, marking territory. We later discovered that there was a gang of "gurriers", to use the old Dublinism, up on the hill drinking, shouting and roaring and generally acting in time dishonoured anti-social behaviour. Since the Local Council decided, in its total lack of wisdom, to put in nature trails through the gorse, we are beleagured with youths spending time on the hill with "nefarious intent".

We have cleared more scrub from the garden and this has provided the birdlife with a new supermarket. We have five robins, no less, hanging around this part of the garden and I have termed them The Round Robin Society (!) they are like brown puffballs of feathers with a red daub. Feeding is rich here in this garden with the newly reclaimed land. The lilac and the cherry trees are in full bloom, and the tulips, a disaster last spring, are a joy to behold. Bit by bit OH is putting his stamp on the garden while keeping Mum's area's well tended and I am putting my stamp on the house.

I decided last year that I would put in shelving and a press in each alcove beside the fireplace in the sitting room. OH persuaded me to use a "local man" from his home-place and, reluctantly, I did. Marital harmony and all that don't you know. Well, six months later and they are up, exactly what I designed, and painted brilliant white by OH. They add light to the room and everybody is taken with the Art Deco doors [a pattern I copied off a dvd of Lord Peter Wimsey tales] and I am struggling to come to terms with what Yer Man charged. Let us just say that I had had a generous budget in mind, very generous indeed, and let us just say that Yer Man was even more generous - still, they are bespoke and solely mine...but...€'s later and I still get a cold chill. It has made me very cautious and although one of the builders I am getting a quote from is the son of the man who built this extension - in which I am presently sitting - I will not be racing to throw my money away on sentiment.

I spent our cold and icy winter looking forward to spending lazy afternoons in the Maytime garden, afternoon teas with friends - you have the picture in your mind, and this cold weather is killing off all those lovely daydreams, it's tea in the dining room looking out at the sunshine, and a warm jacket on when gardening. We are delighted with our new veggie garden, all right, his vegetables - my herbs, and growth has been spectacular with the potatoes rocketing up. He has taken to planting potatoes in unexpected and newly cleared areas of the garden, so it will be an interesting summer.

Mme Pounce is coming for her holidays for the June Bank Holiday. I put a barring order in place on her coming here in case she attacked the bird life. With all the changes in the garden in the past two years we took some losses with avian tenants; I am keen to reestablish the numbers of birds and apart from Ginger Tom from over the cliff, they are thriving. He has a penchant for Fresh Blue Tit avec Feathers. Miserable Moggy. He is a great pal of Mme Pounce, and together they make an effective hunting team. I am not keen on giving hostages to felines.

March - in like a lamb...out like a lion - this year

2010-03-31T12:12:00.003+01:00

This has been a busy month for OH and I. On the 15th we celebrated our Pearl Wedding Anniversary, the 20th my OOth birthday and Dad and Mum's 40th and 2nd Anniversaries respectively on the 21st and 22nd. Time, as the saying goes is the great healer and time, or thirty years in this instance, is wonderful.

Thirty years ago, when I walked up the aisle to exchange vows with OH in our local parish church, the fifteenth of March was a bitterly cold day. A vicious day with sleet and ice in the rain. On the following day we headed off to Tralee for our Honeymoon to a warmer climate down south in Kerry while family and friends trod their way through snow in Dublin to their varying destinations. Upon our return to Co. Wicklow the new bride started married life with a huge fry-up which was nearly more of a necessity than a 'big breakfast'. The house was cold, his relations who had been staying there over the week end of the wedding had departed on the Monday morning and had 'thoughtfully' put the central heating off.

We returned late on Saturday night to frozen pipes, a snowed up driveway, and a house that bore close resemblence to a freezer. I still shudder to think what the story would have been had we been away for two weeks. Mum, snowed up here on this hill, wasn't able to get out to check on the house before our return; it sat there freezing miserably and, no doubt wondering what the new broom in the form of the new bride would do to it. Thirty years on and no longer living there, if I could take it - lock, stock and every brick, bit and bob of it - and put it on to this house as an attachment, I would have perfection. Just as we had it entirely the way we wanted it, life stepped in and changed our direction.

We celebrated our Pearl with the girls, I cooked a meal for the four of us - the days of dining out in fancy restaurants are not a priority now. Between the gluten intolerance and the diabetes, I am happier to do the needful myself - the dishwasher does the really hard work. It was a lovely evening and I sat back after dessert looking at the three people, oh yes! I had better add Mme Pounce too, that shape my world. I have much to be grateful for.

We departed, as they say in travel terms, bright and early on the sixteenth for the Kingdom of Kerry and my beloved town of Tralee. The recession has bitten hard across the country; as we travelled down to Tralee I could see the for sale signs and the whited out windows of failed business in the small towns and business where, last June they were still thriving. In any given town in Ireland this year there is at least one business going to the wall each week. The Banks have much to answer for, but they don't - they just look for more taxpayers money to keep them in the style they imagine they are entitled to. There are go-slow's in Government departments, the public service and the field of education. The saying "somebody should do something about it"... "Somebody" is like Romantic Ireland, it's with O'Leary in his grave...and not the modern famous airline O'Leary at that.

The break was just what we needed. On St Patricks' day we were up bright and early and after a huge breakfast we headed out to visit my Grandparents grave, followed by early Mass in my beloved Grandfather's favourite church The Dominican's. OH was amazed by the turn out. Churches seldom get that full in Dublin nowadays. There were green jumpers, jackets, ties, scarves, and breast pocket loads of shamrock aplenty.

Seasoned travellers in the Kingdom, we made up our own packed lunch and headed down Princes Street and out towards Blennerville. The day was with us as they say in that neck of the woods, and the temperatures were 17-20 degrees. The sun shone on the Sliabh Mish mountains and we had the Conor Pass, in all its narrow glory, to ourselves. Out past Dingle, awash with few tourists and more locals awaiting their St Paddy's day parade, and on towards my beloved Slea Head.

There is much to view, and a different season gives a different perspective. Everything etched in stark lines, hedges brown and burnt with the hard winter's snow and frost, cut hard back in complete contrast to Summers softer floral dress of Fuschia and Monbretia. There is a gaunt architectural beauty to the bare trees, lifting their arms to Heaven as if pleading with God for compassion; given that Easter is just around the corner - there is added significance to the beauty.

Fox coat coloured leaves of Monbretia line the roads, a proud pheasant browses for delicacies beneath the gorse. Blackback gulls soar above the ocean wave, cormorants sit ladylike on the rocks, wings outstretched. In a small field above the rocky cliffs a few native black Kerry cows, dainty and as pretty as a Jersey herd, cling to the hillside grazing on the salt blasted grass; their meat tastier because of the wild herbs growing there. We round a bend and there, to the mewing of the seagulls lie Ná Blascóid, half hidden in the mist that rolls in across the broad Atlantic. I am in Heaven. The magic of the Blasket Islands never ceases to enrapture me.

It is St Patrick's Day and I am in the best place to feel my native Irishness. Road signs of Gó máll [slow down] pronounced guh mowl, or Tóg bóg é - take it slowly [tog, as in toga, tog bug ay]. Ireland, Mother Ireland loose not your native tongue. OH romantically informs me that I look like an overgrown snowdrop - white shirt, green jumper and brown trousers. Thank you darling, you'll always keep me grounded anyhow!

We pull into the parking area at Dún Chaoin, watching the waves roll into the shore and cliff, a surfer's dream, turquoise and white and inky blue out into the depths. We sit awhile in companionable silence. Small holiday cottages align the road, houses that once were family homes to people who once lived on the islands, Peig Sayers among them. My mind is focussed sharply on their lives, fraught with hardship, surviving wild winters of gale and cold. They were fine hardy people God bless their like. We pic-nic'd overlooking Smerwick and its dragon backed cliffs. I always think of the film Reign of Fire when I see them.

On Thursday the morning's rain gave way at mid-day and we headed out for Mount Brandon and then up to Ballyheigue. A sadness came over me, or maybe the Irish word uaignais [loneliness] came over me. For most of my life there was a wish to live in this wonderful county hidden deep in my heart. Time and it's attendants have changed that for me. I have come home in more ways than one to my hill where I grew up, the Kingdom will always be Paradise, but for visiting rather than putting down my own roots there.

I am a 'jug' collector, Shannonbridge Pottery to be exact. Lovely floral jugs of all sizes and a trip up Rock Street to Loramar and it's lovely chatelaine is a must. She gives wonderful discounts, and I am in need of restraint before I purchase all her stock. She remembers me everytime I go in to her, even if there is a gap of a couple of years since my last visit. She is the heart of the rowl as Dubliners say, her warm welcome is the quintessential "Ireland of the Thousand Welcomes". In Kellihers at the bottom of The Rock [Rock St.,] I come across a willow pattern pepper and salt set, a man and woman in oriental dress. At a mere €9 it will grace my table on special occasions. It always fascinates me that in Kerry the name Kelliher is spelt with an 'i' and in Cork with an 'e' as in Kelleher. Prefer the 'i' myself.

Friday and homeward bound but not before we lunch in Cork with Dad's only surviving sister. She is now 80 and I adore her. We have always been close, and it pains my heart to see how frail she has become in the past year. When she is gone that is it, I have no one to say "do you remember when" to about my family childhood days. God spare her the years, may she see her century. I am overjoyed to learn that she will be in Dublin the following week for her Grand-daughter's concert, I immediately grab my chance for more time with her. Last Wednesday I picked her up from my cousin's house and we had afternoon tea before a cozy fire and she travelled down memory lane with me. Those were golden hours and I treasure them.

Tagged about my Bag...or should that read...

2010-03-04T12:24:00.003Z

Bags! for I am a bagaholic. OH is oftimes heard to wail "NOT ANOTHER BAG FOR GOD'S SAKE...MORE COWS HAVE DIED TO PROVIDE YOU WITH ANOTHER BAG!" Well not quite. I love a good handbag and on a recent visit to T K Maxx with YD who was in search for her first 'good handbag' I had to hold his hand and repeatedly assure him that no, I was not purchasing, it was strictly YD's hunt. But I did eye up a really nice tan leather...

Contents?

Well, one good thing about me is that the contents never vary. The bags will change with the outfit...without being ocd about things I am usually co-ordinated in my outfits [well, it is a good excuse for a new bag isn't it?] but the contents religiously stay the same.

Here goes>>>
Diabetes monitor bag - a necessity and a "never go without"

6 pens as in 1 fountain and 5 good 'biro's'...I am not into the advertising kind, I love the type that looks like a fountain pen...and that is my other great obsession...pens! Some women cannot live without their Jimmy Choos, yours truly cannot live without ink.

A notebook; for taking down shorthand [or my version of it] notes on whatever catches my fancy. I'm also a doodler when having to sit in waiting rooms, so out comes the pad and I doodle away the time. It is a leftover habit to have a notebook in-bag from the hectic days of being secretary of more committee's than I care to remember.

Cheque book - with dust attached to each page...

Linen handkerchief - last of six beauties bought in Killarney a long time ago;
packet of tissues - the eucalyptus type.

The latest book I am reading [usually] - Jeffrey Deaver is in there at the moment.

Comb.

Purse. Resident moths included.

Small bottle perfume.

Mini-manicure set - or as ED calls it "Mum's McGyver kit".

Bar of chocolate for emergencies as in when levels drop.

Apple in plastic bag usually for when I go out and am not sure when I shall be home, so if I get a 'drop' there is one hours 'lift' in an apple - the healthier option than the chocolate but not as long lasting.

Diary - size can vary - as I buy what takes my fancy when they come out, but this year I have upgraded myself and am keeping all and sundry on the final component of MY BAG...

...Mobile phone - my contact with the outside world, I am an unstoppable texter, it organises my life, my contacts and a few committee's I am on as well.

So there you have it, my handbag, always capacious, always with me and the last daughter that referred to me as The Baglady is nursing a shock from the evil look the baglady sent her!

A bag of thoughts

2010-02-17T13:25:00.003Z

An army of clouds marches in serried ranks across a chill blue sky, chased by a giant dinosaur. Behind the hill grim grey clouds lurk menacingly. A cargo ship wends it way through safe channels towards the mouth of the River Liffey. Dublin Port silts up with monotonous regularity - dredging is a profitable business in this old town and in these recessionary times.

On the horizon the Mourne Mountains lie mistily foretelling bad weather, but, not as bad as January when their snow covered valleys were so close as to make me feel I could reach out and touch them.

High overhead, lit by the Westering sun, a Sparrowhawk hovers. A wily Magpie forrages in the stalky shade of a leafless Contoneaster. Joined by a Comrade they shoot up into its protection as the hawk swoops down towards them. You can almost hear them sing "you can't catch me I'm part of the Union" - the collective of Magpies that scream warnings at each other while fighting at the same time over a crust of bread.

The Hawk recovers and spirals up into the sun, a few moments later a pigeon fancier's best bird will not return to its loft this night. Feathers trickle down to earth to be examined by the Magpie detectives. The Hawk flies to a nearby rock, prey secured. Food for energy to beat the sub zero night time temperatures.

The dirty delph is stacked everywhere in the tiny kitchen; the dishwasher clean and empty. I have no thought nor inclination to load it. I am on a mission. This is one of those rare days that are mild in this hideously long winter. OH is starting to set up his vegetable garden on the site of the now defunct hen shed. I have a backlog of laundry and a steely determination that it will all be cleared today. I have a need to hover and gossip with OH in between loads. Admiring crocus and dwarf iris is far more compelling than laundry loading.

These are the bulbs Mum planted in November 2007. Two years ago today she went into hospital and never came home. The yearning for her company to idle the hours away with, gossiping about this and that is strong in me today. Last Sunday I cosied up to a blazing log fire, read a good book and sipped at my tea while outside the world was lost in a heavy fog. I had convinced myself that I am over her loss. I could take thoughts of her out of my memory jar as and when I wished. Oh! greater fool there never was - the sledgehammer blow comes when least expected.

A month ago I got my lengthening locks cut. Mum, best friends, OH on occasion had all encouraged me to grow my hair longer. A softer image suits you they chorused. Bah! humbug! I hated it, and since I made the decision to go au naturel and not get it coloured any more I hated it even more. The wispy young mistress of a sharpened scissors informed me with great authority that "ais Modom hos daysided to disponce with dee colour, Modom will need to fonk hit up". Funk it up I thought, and before you could say "Croi na ngael" she had started to 'fonk' it from the back. Forty five euro for what? You couldn't fill a mouses pillow with the cuttings on the floor. Yesterday I purposefully marched into the salon Mum went to. There, surrounded by ladies of all ages, shapes and sizes and conversation aplenty, the lovely lady did the deed.

By one of those chances of fate, she was the same lady who as a 'young gel' had cut my hair thirty years ago for my wedding, long time no see. Down to business with her and I emerged with a Judi Dench style of silver threads upon a happy head. No, Judi isn't in any danger of having competition from me, but the hair style and length is similar. Or so I tell myself. End result? I am thrilled, feel forty years younger, happier and everyone is remarking on the pep in my step. Even Bf who threatened removal of friendship if hair was chopped is telling me how glad she is I took her advice. Yes dear. Fifteen euro dearer but worth every cent! The frump is vanquished.

The Office 'do' was held last Friday. With the new, easy manageable haircut, a new outfit, the nails done in a smart red and a comfortable pair of shoes [always a must at 'do's'] I was the centre of attention. I suspect a few hairs will be cut in the next few weeks.....

Outside, the bird chorus is magical. A disgruntled blackbird sits humped up with the cold, cold of eye and heart as he waits for the future Mrs Blackbird to come along. God help her, with misery like that for comfort, she'll need every egg she can get to give her something to do instead of listening to his wheezing. Two feet away on the cowhouse roof a dashing young Yellow Beak [blackbird male] is seranading everyone, but someone should point out to him that Robins don't sing Blackbird, so the fetching female b'bird in the hedge would be a better proposition.

The robins have come over all territorial, the greenfinches are living the dream that they alone are private detectives and have found the source of all happiness. The feeding tray with its variety of tidbits. It takes the Great Tits to shred that dream, backed up by a very impertinent bluetit.

There was war last night in the front garden. Mother and sister in law were out for dinner on Sunday and I had cooked two beautiful chickens for lunch, one with lemon and the other with garlic. If someone tells you Foxes don't do garlic, don't listen. I threw the well scoured carcasses out onto the lawn, put off the sitting room light and sat at the window to wait. The bracken fox arrived first, she sniffed daintily at everything, making up her cunning mind as to what morsel she fancied first of all. Then, with appalling bad manners last years cub dashed in, grabbed the biggest piece and off with her to the nearest gorse bush. Nothing loathe, Bracken gave chase, as they stood screaming awful insults at each other, in tripped the Silver Vixen, mother of the Bracken in 2008 and Blacktip in 2009.

The vixens tend to stay close to home while various dogfoxes trot elegantly through during the week, on their jaunty way to someones dustbin. Selecting a gloriously manageable piece she wended her way up past the old henshed [ahh! the memories she must have] while the Bracken was left with the leftovers, literally. She'll need to buck her act up or else kick Blacktip out of the territory. Blacktip has the Silver's haunch colours and her Dad's black tip on the tail. The Bracken on the other hand has a white tip to her tail and an almost black back. Her Dad was a very dark fellow indeed.

I love this time of the year as we head into March. March born myself on the Vernal Equinox, I can feel the sap rising. Planning permissions sought have gone up this year, the Magpies are in dire need of extra accommodation since a tree was chopped down, during the winter, next door. Our garden gang have lodged the necessary formal objections.

After a grim autumn of floods and winter of snowbound discontent, here's a prayer for long, warm sunny days. A balm to the wounds Mother Nature has inflicted upon us and a cure for all that ails us.

Mme Pounce and her festive season

2010-01-27T15:01:00.001Z

Mme. Pounce arrived in style on Christmas Eve in her new Cat Box [far nicer than being stuffed in that old brown wooden box with makeshift lid. YD carries her gently into the garden. She has become such an old paw at living here that we have no hesitation now about letting her out in the garden; before this there was a major worry that she might race back to her usual home. She sniffs the wind, cautiously looks about her, identifies the strong smell of fox and you can almost here Yippee in the soft growl she emits as she races off up the garden at 100mph [she’s an old fashioned cat] letting vent to a boost of energy that is never in play back in Regular Home.

Up here, she is friendly, kittenish [she is heading for her 7th birthday in June] and full of play. She grandly ignores the foxes as they trot past her, sitting comfortably on a windowsill her nose and whiskers clearly indicating that should they choose to start something, Mme Pounce is more than able to deal with such nonsense. At the same time you can hear the feline prayers running through her fur…”somebody open this window QUICK!” Because there is so much space, the birds are in no danger, their flight paths to escape are manifold and they have the local tabbulary, [their word for the many tabby cats living here] sorted!

On the subject of tabbulary, what a grand word and how clever are birds. Mme P is in the process of establishing Foreign Relations with Missy Mew from over the hill. Missy is almost pure white except for a very fetching blanket of grey tabby, a tail cover extending to 2/3rds of her tail, and four tabby paws. She is affectionate, articulate and she and I spend many a happy hour chatting when I am in the garden. She is well versed in the subject of bird flight, and how, when she decides it is time to pursue her aerobics by jumping on one of the bird tables, I am likely to let a roar at her. “Shoo” has no effect, however “NO!” works a treat.

Mme P is now the proud owner of an entire garden shed with luxury bed - complete with, no less, a wine coloured paisley pillow - and lawn mower should she ever wish to trim her claws. It even has a special opening in the door just for her, and whomsoever of the pals that will be made, to use. She has her own private Mock Tudor fronted style home in Regular House. Built especially for her by OH years ago. This is even bigger and she thoroughly approves of the counter on which her bed lies, the windows through which she can watch life pass bye as she cuddles up contented and snug, safe from wind, rain and that blooming white stuff that arrived from nowhere this year.

Christmas morning dawned bright and early and she announced her arrival on ED’s bedroom window by thumping the pane of glass. Once in she greeted everyone with a loud yowl and enquired when the presents were to be opened. Disgustingly, she had to wait until the Elder Lemons had returned home from morning Mass, breakfast for humans was consumed [tedious] and they all passed the parcels to each other. It was infuriating to have to wait so long. The tabbs were waiting up at the Fir Tree for her and here she was…delayed…UGH! The wait was worth it though, there was an idiotic football - feline sized from Head Cat [ED & YD’s parent - female] - a box of kibble from Other Cat [OH], darling YD produced a super snug new bed for curling up beside the radiator on extra cold winter nights, and ED gave her a pat on the head and a packet of Felix market produce…lovely…vegetables…just what the dog ordered!

Things have changed with Mme P, since she started to stay for holidays here. Once upon a time in Regular House she would have turned her nose up, in high disdain, to a saucer of turkey, stuffing and gravy. This year we ate heartily, cleaned the saucer, and looked for a morsel more. Fresh air certainly gives a cat an appetite. She had a romp around the dining room with the football, a tabby has to keep the Chief Cat happy, it is her territory after all, and then off on a hot date with Ginger from down the lane. After swatting him in the face and the use of unparliamentarily language to him for the last eighteen months, she has finally succumbed to the fact that he just wants to play Race Round the Rocks and has no ulterior or ungentlmanly motives.

One fiendish night just after Turkey Saucer time that white stuff started to fall from the sky; it was so cold that the pads of a paw were frozen. The wind whistled through the finest fur coat and even the foxes were not straying far from their den. Pounce shivered on a windowsill; where was everybody. She had been up at her personal shed, but she knew there was a warm fire in The House. YD was in there too, and this was definitely a time when a girl wanted to cuddle up to her best human friend. The front door opened and there, thank all Cats, was YD calling her in.

Two days after the snow fell, ED and YD returned to Regular Home. Pounce was invited to stay, and despite her great love for YD, no feline in their right mind would turn down a fireside chair to sit in, the comfort of constant companionship, fed just inside the kitchen door, and let out only at a time of ones own choosing. It was fun to sit in the dining room window sneering at the foxes passing by. There they were, hoping that something had been left out for them, while she, Queen of the Hearth, sat comfortably in the window over the radiator.

Pounce stayed with us until the 9th of January and then returned home to YD. I get the warmest greetings now when I call in, methinks they are actually cries for an invitation back up here. She will be coming for a visit in February, and eventually will move up here full time with YD. The snow gave her wonderful manners, and for the first time in six years, a friendly attitude. We will never be close pals, but we have discovered how to live in harmony.

Santa is coming

2009-12-22T13:01:00.002Z

Mammy was making butter for the Christmas dinner; the turkey had been plucked and was now hanging from the rafters of the outhouse with sacking over it. The cake was made and iced and fingers had been smacked with the wooden spoon when they hovered over it in an attempt to scrape off some of the rich sweet icing sugar.

"Away with ye now" called Mammy,
"Wrap yerselves up warm and head up to Catherine's, take the small churn with ye, and tell her I'm making butter and there'll be some for her. Be sure ye tell her that the dinner'll be on the table this year at one o'clock and could she make it down the lane in time and not three o'clock like the last few years?" she sniffed.

"Tis well for her, a single woman and no man to tell her what to be doin', and me to make her dinner for her on Christmas day." she grumbled. It was an ongoing complaint and Pat and Maggie barely heard it anymore. Pat was eight and Maggie was six; they were far more pre-occupied with what Santa might bring for Christmas, suffering from the strain of being angelic for the past month in case Mammy wrote him a letter telling him to pass on by, she threatened them regularly with this whenever she thought they were stepping out of line. Mammy was the strictest Mammy in the village, there was not much love for anyone in her heart but herself the neighbours said.

Pat and his sister Maggie drew their winter coats tightly about them, it was Christmas Eve and it was bitterly cold. Maggie wrapped a woollen scarf around her head and Pat pulled the cap down over his ears.

Frost lay thickly on the lane, on the ditch and over the hedgerows. Sadie Pender, who considered herself the best educated woman in the village, having, as she frequently pointed out, spent a whole term at the convent learning better things than the rest of them, was strongly of the opinion that it was minus five and that there was an anti cycling over Ireland this very night. The local weather expert, she frequently called anticyclones anti- somethings!

Carrying the small churn between them they skipped up the lane in the twilight. They loved going in to see Catherine, she was 80 years old, bent over with arthritis, her gnarled fingers barely able to hold her knife and fork, but she was kindness itself and loved them dearly. She was Pat's Godmother and had a special place in her heart. Maggie, she thought, was a little too like her Mother for her own good but would, she prayed, grow out of it. She offered them tea and hot buttered soda bread to ward off the cold. Heating their little hands in front of the fire they sat and chatted to her for nearly an hour before Pat remembered that they had been sent for a purpose, and jumping up hurriedly, nearly knocked the kitchen table flying. Catherine stood at the door, her shawl pulled tightly around her, and waved them down her lane. When they reached the road they turned and waved back at her and, struggling with the weight of the now filled churn they headed down towards their own lane.

"D'ja think Santy will remember us this year Pat?" Maggie worriedly asked Pat, her big brother and man of great knowledge, in her opinion.

"Sure he will, didn't we do everything we were told, didn't we say our prayers, and didn't I milk the cow and pluck the turkey for Mammy and didn't you keep the hearth clean and keep the sods of turf burning and didn't you go for kippin's to keep it lit?" he said. "What more could we do, and didn't we say the Rosary every night and didn't we do our sums and spellin's and we didn't give Mr Burberry cheek, so surely Santy will come". On this comforting thought they continued down the lane.

Mr Burberry was the schoolmaster, prolific in his use of the ruler across bare knuckles, a big florid faced man with the distinct odour of Jameson about him.

Suddenly Maggie pointed to the sky, the moon was brightly lighting the lane for them, which was just as well as the churn was so heavy they couldn't manage a lantern to light the way. "Look Patsy, there, see, something cycled across the moon, I, I, I think its Santy!" she cried. Looking up quickly Pat was sure she was right, something was crossing the sky, lit by the moon. "Quick, quick" he called, "run, if we're caught outdoors while Santy's on his way we'll never get a present". Struggling up the lane, they almost fell in the door, spilling some cream. "What ails ye" asked their Father, sitting smoking his pipe beside the open hearth. "Santy, Santy is coming" cried Maggie. An hour later, supper over and tucked up in bed Maggied tapped on the wall separating her room from Pats. "Do you think he saw us Pat?" she asked softly. "No, I think we made it in in time, now go to sleep".

Christmas morning dawned, the family headed down the village to the parish church for Mass, afterwards, a hearty breakfast having warmed them up, presents were opened. Pat loved his new train set, and Maggie thought the blonde haired, blued eyed doll in the crinoline dress was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

December daze

2009-12-02T12:40:00.004Z

It's hard to believe that it is December already. I have been angelic and have my Gluten free Christmas cake made, substituting a bottle of Paddy Whiskey for Rum, and leaving out the almonds [which I hate]. This is my second year to make a C-Cake and I am very proud of the result, even better than last year's first effort which got a little 'over done' on top, but was edible nonetheless.

OH is in fine form today, he is taking down the hen shed and run. It is an Herculean task as he himself built it 25 years ago for Mum who had decided she wanted to go back into rearing hens. Many's the Silky Bantam first saw the light of day there, Rhode Islands, Marans, you name the hen and she more than likely had it; not forgetting Guinea Fowl, Woodcock, Pheasant and a Quail - he got the old rabbit hutch and lived a long and prosperous life and died of old age. What OH builds stays up. Permanently! He has his work cut out for him.

I hope to follow in Mum's footsteps regarding the fowl, but they will be housed down in the glen. Every summer the smell from the hen run wafted into the living room, and a then 5 year old ED told her, "Gran, I love eating in the garden but not with that pong!". The flower bed just below the run was fecundity personified with the run-off. We will be putting in a vegetable garden there, and we are going to keep two sides of the old run for growing peas against.

I had a lovely day yesterday; coffee at a pal's house in the morning, catching up on her recent trip to the USA for Thanksgiving. Her daughter has just had a baby girl, after two boys, and Granny is justifiably proud - particularly as the baby is named for her. I had intended to go out in the afternoon, but it was wet, cold and miserable and Bergerac called from the t.v., so on with a good log fire, in with a big mug of tea and sit down to watch until it was time to prepare dinner for OH and then to head out to visit a friend.

Life throws lovely treats our way when least expected, a call from Tiggywinkle was indeed a very lovely treat. Regretably this week I am not free, but we hope to meet up next week for a cuppa and a gossip, and perhaps a ramble around Avoca Handweavers. I have a few last minute knick knacks to get, again with the "angelic" bit...I have 95% of my Christmas pressies bought - my usual is the first week in December. I'm not a great last minute 'rush-out' shopper.

I know it's cold out, but I am quite sure that the air surrounding OH is blue for another reason, that recalcitrant nail is obviously the cause of it!

Last night upon my return home, I parked the car and as I looked up towards the house the sitting room curtains were open and I could see the shadows of the dancing flames of the fire welcoming me home; however, it was a moonlit night and I couldn't resist taking a ramble in the garden before going in. Just as I was about to open the back door I heard a soft swish and turned just in time to see the barn owl land on the blue cedar nearby. It is moments like these that make me feel how lucky I am to have eyes to see and ears to hear.

I am highly amused with the amount of letters coming in from builders who would like to build my new kitchen when I get things up and running. One company assured me that they "ar in busines for the psat thity years an are well know in there area for good work and stanrads". Now I am not extending sympathy for their spelling being due to dyslexia, ED is dyslexic so I know the story on that, this sort of thing in a letter and the grubby paper the letter was written on tells a huge story, and "there high stanards" are not impressive. If whoever signed the letter couldn't be bothered to check the spelling, what hope have I that their spirit level will be straight as well? Blame it on the Secretary? If he's that stupid enough to employ someone who cannot spell, well...I rest my case, oh! and what happened to F7 spell check?

Another company sent a lovely glossy brochure; this informed me that they extend graunts [yep, you read correctly] for tiling and kitchns [!] - picky I may be, but if you don't keep track of the little things, the big things haven't a hope, after all, for the want of a horseshoe nail....

Away with me now to revive a frozen looking OH with hot coffee and a bun, and to investigate how my fuschia cuttings are doing out on the hill.

Weather Reporting

2009-11-23T14:52:00.000Z

Windswept and Weary of all that Wind and Rain

Climate change is something that is probably on more than we human’s minds lately. If Magpies could talk to us I am sure that the crew that live in next door’s Leylandii would be howling at the wind, literally, given that it has kept them from venturing far in the daily food search. It is coming in from the West and howls up the glen, eerily banshee-like with its lonesome whistle.

The Christmas Cake is done, finished, completed and…wait for it…A HUGE SUCCESS! The next hurdle is the icing. Oh well, hopefully that will be a success too. Aha! I hear you say, what is she on about with her Christmas Cake is done…well you see the ‘09 cake is the second Christmas Cake I have ever made in 50+ years. Mum always made the cake, Mother in Law made the plum puddings and I cooked the turkey. That’s what I am good at, plain, wholesome, no fuss, honest to goodness traditional cooking.

Cakes? Considering that my Grandmother’s Mother ran the village sweet shop in another part of the county and Gran made the cakes and sweets that were sold there - it is a sad fact that yours truly has not inherited her light hand. Neither did Mum, come to think of it…I am sure there is an Army Contract lurking about somewhere for one of her apple pies for use as a missile. God love her, she hated all forms of cooking with a passion - jam making was probably the only one that slipped under the radar. If she couldn’t fry it she didn’t want to know, and my long suffering Dad was thrilled when I started learning cookery at school…be it ever so humble my roast chicken was an improvement on burnt offerings. We won’t go into casseroles. Nope! Not going there.

I am so ahead of myself this year that I have half my Christmas presents bought, in one fell swoop, in T K Maxx, in Arklow, oh! Bliss. They have a lovely trug and garden tool set and I bought two of them - one for a cousin of Mum’s who is a keen gardener and who is a joy to be with, and another for my friend who has just inherited her parents house; there is a rose garden with it to die for. Her parents have moved into sheltered accommodation and they decided that as she would inherit the house anyway she might as well have it now. She and Liam sold their house, and managed a better price for it than usual in this current downturn, and they will use it to restore the old family home which is 80 years old and showing more than a few wrinkles.

I bought some unusual glasses for sister in law who collects such things, and who has had to have new units built in the alcoves on each side of her fireplace to house them. I am in the process of having units put into the alcoves in my sitting room also, the difference will be MORE BOOKS as a poor long suffering OH moans. I look at her shelves and think…what a waste, look how many books I could get in there. He has often plaintively said “if the house went on fire you’d risk your life to save those books of yours before you’d save me” , “not at all pet,” I coo at him lovingly, “I’d dowse you in water first and then save the books, that way you could help me!” He’s still looking at me out of the corner of his eye, very suspiciously.

We have acquired a sky box and a new 32’ flat screen, [guess what OH’ll save first in the event of…] and I have to admit I have fallen in love with it. I had been very sniffy about the whole deal, there was nothing wrong with the aerial and five stations we have here, I would murmur, three home stations, UTV and the Beeb. Sufficient for my needs, but of course there was the question of Football, I was told. ED and YD put in a word for the joys of music television, Rihanna or Those Twins caterwauling at top pitch, and needless to remark I succumbed, so last Friday a strong, silent East European young man installed the needful. I asked him did he want Coffee, the reply being “umph!” and a negative shake of the head I assumed that was a no, he looked disparagingly at our tv and told us that another brand was better and two of my neighbours had that other brand. He was on a hiding to nowhere with this one, I am definitely not into the “Jones” game.

So why did I fall in love with it? Nothing to do with the fact of 7 zillion channels and record this and pause that and put the kettle on…nooooooo! The first programme was about Ron and Valerie Taylor and sharks and it tickled my sense of humour pulling OH’s leg about watching out in case the sea slipped out onto the carpet and mind that great white…a joke that soon lost it’s flavour when the news came on and reports on all the flooding going on came into view. If you have been a victim of the current floods, you have my fervent prayers and deepest sympathy, we were flooded in ‘82 in the other house and it is no joking matter.

Time to go and do a bit of housework, may your day be safe, sunny and may you be flood free, wherever you are.

Of Village life

2009-11-04T16:32:00.001Z

Of Village life and kindred histories

It is now fifteen months since I moved into the ancestral cottage, and I love it! There are, needless to remark, the two days. Days when I miss Mum and go to tell her something, usually some change I am about to make, but there are the glory days, some rain sodden, some washed with sunlight, in which I relish being back here. Yesterday was one of those days.

We are busy clearing out old outhouses at present, and the skip hire company is making a huge profit for itself..however needs must when the devil drives. I had called into the neighbours to ask them to move their cars as none of them have front gardens into which they could put their cars. The lane is a relic of a bygone era in which my Grandfather’s dairy cart, the neighbouring “Big House” Lagonda and a few bicycles were sufficient unto the day for travel. For the most part the residents on the lane are like myself, returnees to the family home upon the death of a parent, or the need for said parent to take up residence in “Dun Raving Happy Retirement Home” - all have made changes to their homes so there is great give and take when it comes to “Skip Hire” which has become a sort of local mutual loathing society; the loathing stems from the hoity voices of the “designated assistant who will advise you as to what YOU need in a skip”…no hazardous waste, asbestos, paint cans [empty], electrical goods, batteries, the cat, your mother in law [after Hallowe’en week end I could do with a skip for mine] or fresh air!
Are you with me so far? Good, hang on while I make a cup of tea and we’ll survive Skip-life.

I called into the neighbours at the week end to advise that the day of skip-doom is pending - five cups of tea, one gluten free bikkie and a history lesson later I returned home. Hospitality is not lacking, and I have to say that I am blessed with my immediate neighbours. In the first house I went into, upon entering the kitchen [traditional site of hospitality in the Irish home - that or the best parlour] I spotted a large blue and white plate, the exact twin to my own beloved turkey-at-Christmas-holding plate. I asked curiously where it had come from and was told it was found in the shed at the back of the house when major renovations were being done [another mover-back]. We had a great chuckle when it was discovered that I have its twin, one of the vegetable dishes that goes with it, and used to have the milk jug from the service until Mum dropped and smashed it shortly before she went into hospital. The service dates from around the 1880/90’s and the grandfather of the present owner of the plate was a gardener. I was able to fill her in on the two ladies of distressed means who were unable to pay their gardener or my grandfather who delivered milk to them, and who had run up substantial bills all over the area in the course of many years “since Father passed away”. Two houses later a soup toureen appeared in that kitchen, discovered in an attic when the parent had to move to a nursing home. The grandfather in question here was the local baker and the debt owed to him was settled by more of this beautiful dinner service.

It is sad to think of gentlewomen being reduced to such circumstances, but it was a fact of life for many “gels” who never “took” and who were left living on in the family home after the parents had passed away - perhaps a foxhound or cat for company, trying valiantly to keep up appearances and fading farther away from the harsh realities of daily life, while living an even harsher one themselves that no one ever suspected. Shades of Molly Keanes “Good Behaviour”.

I know that my grandfather never put pressure on these type of people and when he died prematurely my grandmother was amazed at the number of them who came forward to pay their bills and to confirm that the dairy would still deliver milk to them. Mum told me often about one “big house” family who said to my grandmother after the funeral that “Mr X never left us short, he was a gentleman and we wouldn’t like to see you going short at this appalling time”. My grandparents had been married for 9 years, and she was left to run a business she had no experience in and three children all under 7 years to rear. There is decency in many people but sometimes nowadays you wonder if that sort of community spirit has become diluted.

We are all agreed that we will be using our respective pieces of that dinner service that once graced a “Big House” dinner table on Christmas day. There’s more than neighbourliness unites us on the lane.

A Night at the Opera and the rest of it

2009-10-15T13:47:00.004+01:00

Fortunately I had Tuesday night free as E.D decided to surprise me with a trip to the National Concert Hall to see Bizet's "Carmen". We had a wonderful evening and being me, I enjoyed studying the attendees as much as I did listening to the story of Carmen and Don José. For me the show was stolen as the saying goes by the singers who portrayed Mercedes and Frasquita - divine voices.

Two rows down a lady had her "seeing eye" dog with her. A ripple of comment passed through the row when they arrived "would he start to howl when the music began?" but not a bit of it! He was a perfect gentledog...apart from getting up now and then when the drums grew louder to check on her, he snored quietly through it all.

It was the third night of the Opera and during the interval I enjoyed a quick study of the crowd. I was reminiscing on how years ago everybody dressed up to attend, nowadays diamons to dungarees are the norm. Rightly so in some respects, but yet I ask myself, have we become too casual in our dress sense nowadays. There was always something glorious in dressing up in ones finest to attend functions, today in some instances it is casual almost to the point of why bother attending something at all.

Yesterday OH and I decided to travel into Dublin on the DART [Dublin Area Rapid Transit system] and visit O'Connell Street. I'm a Southsider by nature, south of the River Liffey that is and most Southsiders consider that if you are shopping then the only place to go is Grafton street and its environs. It's an old traditional sort of 'haves' and 'have nots' attitude, we may consider ourselves a cosmopolitan city, but the olde divides still exist.

After almost breaking our necks to gaze up at the Greatest Waste Of Money [otherwise known as The Spike] in O'Connell Street, and completing our business, we decided to take the DART back to Bray from Connolly Station - which I still call Amiens Street Station through force of habit - and our route took us down Talbot Street. I can never resist dropping into Guiney's for bargains. Egyptian Cotton towels, soft as lambswool, €2 for hand towels €4 for a bath towel and €6 for bath sheet, plain or patterned. Really true good linen glass cloths €2.50c. For heaven's sake, this was heaven. I topped up our towel stocks and only spent €20. OH had a good laugh at me because the bath towels were exactly the same as one I had purchased in one of our new fancy shopping mega malls for €20, the only difference being the colour cream that time, white this time. Oh! yes, and the price - two for €8. Grrrr! I'll be back as Arnie says.

I love this part of Dublin; it's the heart of the rowle as the song says. There is a buzz of excitement about the area, I listened to two elderly women, shopping trolleys firmly planted across the pavement, headscarves to keep the perm dry from the rain and the sharp tones of true Dublin "aul wans" [old ones]. "Here Missis, dja hee-ur dat Luis was screechin about dem railin's? Dja kno wha, der'l be cro-wads at de funral so der will, yew merk my wurds" one pronounced. "Ai kno Mary, an dja kno wah? Der'll be no gettin inta da chur-ich wih all dem starz cummin - Elting Jawn is cummin der too I herd". Stephen Gately [Boyzone/Joseph & his Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat] Lord rest him, will be buried from the local church on Saturday. Thirty three is too young to die no matter who you are. I gather the church railings are getting a much needed coat of paint. Dublin has its pride.

Feeling peckish we slip into The Pantry, spotlessly gleaming, bright and cheery and enjoy an all day breakfast with a pot of tea from which you could dole out mugs of tea to a football team - and all for a tenner [€10] for the two of us. We had turned our noses up at the same across the Liffey in a cafe which would have cost us near enough to €20. There is something about a bargain that makes one feel saintly...especially in recessionary times.

Seated at a table nearby was a young mother and her toddler. With the face of an Irish Shirley Temple and curls to match she sang her little heart out with "Goosie Goosie Gander, where shall I wander" and other old fashioned childrens songs. Her voice clear and uninhibited, I thought it was wonderful. Most children nowadays seem only be able to sing Postman Pat or something from the Charts. Here was the voice of my childhood, I listened enthralled as Mother and daughter sang together, just as my own Mother and I did when I was little, the songs her Mother had handed down to her. At that very moment the Kerry side of my nature slipped into second place and my Dublin side came to the fore. I caught OH studying my face, blushed and asked him what he was looking at. "Your childhood" he replied, mine was a musical childhood with a music teaching Mother, his was more one of agricultural pursuits, cutting turf in summer, tending the hay, and Saturday nights of traditional ceilí music in the kitchen. Mindreader.

The early afternoon DART back home was filled with students, housewives reading the latest Cecelia Ahern and tourists. Two English ladies sat across from us on their return journey from Howth Peninsula. They were anxiously watching the names of the stations and I overheard one of them say "Canal Dock is where we get off to visit Trinity College". Fortunately we were just coming into Tara Street and I advised them that they should get off at the next stop Westland Row if they wanted to visit Trinity; the journey between the two stations is short and they hurriedly gathered their possessions and thanked me as they disembarked with fresh directions, they could have alighted at Tara Street, but it was too late to do so. Trinity College and College Green is not to be missed, even if new traffic regulations have started to have a disastrous effect to businesses in the locality by taking away easy access.

As we drew into Sydney Parade the sun burst through a densely clouded sky and we were invaded by the boys from the local schools; by the time we hit Blackrock the air was filled with techno jargon and the ladies with their chic lit were looking bewildered at megabytes and googling, phishing and what else was thrown about the compartment. At top vocal pitch to boot! I was fascinated at the changes wrought in nearly 40 years. I used to travel home from college on the same route and the released inmates of the same schools were just as raucous but it was rugby, rugby and....yes, you guessed it. Now it was the boys involved in their techno terms, the girls like clones of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, attempting to slay a young knight with their orange tans and back combed hair, the young knights more interested in slaying dragons online thank you very much! Pale pink lipstick is back in I see, God be with the days of my first Miners Pale Pink Frost at 2/6d in Woolworths. Ahem! cough! only yesterday of course. Yes. Indeed.

By Dalkey there was a huge disembarcation, the ladies, chic lit in hand, subsided outwards into the empty seats beside them; we swept around Killiney Bay - definitely resembling the Bay of Naples in the pale sunlight with Sugarloaf a miniature Vesuvius glowering in the mist over Bray. Cormorants diving after tasty morsels, sea gulls wheeling over a glassy calm sea and one brave swimmer on this mild October afternoon. Housewives walking their dogs along the beach and young Mothers with little toddlers throwing stones into the water across from what was once Homan's Tearooms. The self same tea rooms to which we were sent by our respective parents to bring back trays with emptied tea pots as children. We swam on Killiney Beach from May to end September or even mid October if there was an Indian summer. Glory days.

Back in Bray, laden with parcels, tired, content and looking forward to a meal handed up to us by ED who is "experimenting" in the catering department. Tasty and hot and lashings of tea.

Autumn Glory

2009-10-08T14:33:00.002+01:00

Autumn has arrived in the garden, the recent "Indian Summer" has helped turn the rain sodden leaves of the Birch trees that rise above the gorse into molten gold. Dappled in the sunlight, they shimmer in the gentle breeze, a last dance after a miserable summer, a life of joy before the cold Northern winds sweep them from their branches.

Across the Bay the Peninsula appears to float, the isthmus is so low lying that the Head itself appears to be an island, it is at moments like this I think of my beloved Blasket Islands off the fabulous Kerry Coast. The red stems of the Rosebay Willow-Herb stand out against a backdrop of gorse and elderberry. Robins fly swiftly from Cottoneaster to Elderberry, an urgency about them as if time is running out; perhaps it is, soon will come the days and nights of late October, early November gales. The "Boomers" as my father used to call them. Winds that buffet the house, booming off the rocks , hurrying who knows whither. Nights of gale and rain on which you wouldn't put a cat out, let alone venture forth yourself.

Nasturtiums bloom prolifically in my Dad's rockery which I retrieved from the cottoneaster and yew jungle it had grown into in the 39 years since he passed away. They provide a feast for the eye, Monet's garden springs to mind, and a feast for the bees who assiduously take care of them. A small amber glass jug full of mixed nasturtium blooms rests on the mantlepiece in the study, close by Dad's pipe rack. Late blooming fuschia, of every variety from the garden, is crammed into a jar that once held English Provender Company Chutney [and very nice it was too]. I love the green glass and the effect is one of summertime profusion.

Christmas, longed for by children, and the counted days before it shall be upon us before we know it. "My, my" we shall exclaim, "I haven't a thing organised!"but sure, what's to organise I ask myself. Mid Novermber I shall order this years victim of the Turkey family and a smoked ham and I shall cook the same Christmas dinner I have cooked for 27 of 29 years of married life.

In 1984 I was in hospital with my beautiful new baby daughter ED, turkey was the furtherest thing from my mind, she was all I could ask for as a Christmas present. 1989, just as I closed the oven door there was a power failure and that year's gobbler wound up travelling here to my Mother's kitchen - to return with her, beautifully cooked and served with an accompaniment of bread and tea. St Stephen's [Boxing] day saw us feast on what should have been Christmas dinner.

I put a chicken carcase out for the fox last night; either he is too well fed or I was too late for him. The garden bathed in moonlight was a joy and I took a ramble around the older part of it where I was sure of my footing. In my childhood it was bleak without tree or bush, Mum grew blue cedar, sumach, and the ubiquitous birch grew itself. An ethereal world indeed in lunar light. OH used the word lunar too, or one very near to it and told me I'd break my neck if I wasn't careful "rambling round at that hour of the night, you're not a child anymore you know" he endearingly informs me...not ready to give up those moonlit rambles either, thank you pet!!

2009-09-28T13:54:00.005+01:00

I spent most of last week cleaning the house from end to end, prompted by a call from an elderly cousin of my Mothers. I had only met this cousin once nearly 30 years ago when Mum held a sort of hen party of her own prior to my wedding. All relations etc, who were not invited to wedding came to a supper and a good night was had by all, I escaped as soon as possible I remember, the alternative was to fill in a forty page form on the future groom, his prospects, intentions towards me, outlook on life...you get the picture! Edwina, a spinster of her parish, seven years older than Mum and cranky since childhood had been the loudest Torquemada-style Inquisitor at this 'do' and I could see why Mum had as little contact as possible with her. Think of Pride and Prejudice with Edna May Oliver as Lady Catherine de Burgh and you get the picture...if you'll pardon the pun.

House now sparkling! she arrived on Friday at 3.30p.m., precisely, and I do mean precisely. Dropped off by another cousin [my vintage] who smiled sweetly at me, said "she's all yours" and fled the scene like a rabbit seeing a very big fox. As soon as I find out what relationship that person is to me, I shall cut her out of the family tree, with vengeance! Sniffing with disdain at all the work OH has carried out, Dweena preceeded me into the house, sweeping down the hall, opening doors as she passed and commenting on each in turn. By the time we reached the kitchen at the back of the house she raised a supercillious eyebrow, and unfortunately for her,not being n possession of a lorgnette, glared at me and said 'awfully small init". Thus did I discover that her words were to be somewhat foreshortened by ill-fitting dentures which cut her words short - but not blurry short enough by halves! It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that I am in the process of adding an extension with new enlarged kitchen when I thought rebelliously "hell no, no business of hers".

Fortunately, I had remembered that this particular cousin was snob personified so THE VERY BEST CHINA was out, the sandwiches wafer thin and the cakes and biscuits displayed to perfection. I offered her tea or coffee, glaring at me she said "Don't drink coffee, foul brew, never had time f'rit, I'll have tea. Earl Grey." This last thrown at me with a smirk that clearly said "gotcha on the hop now". I said nothing, left her to snoop...'er I mean her own devices and headed for the kitchen, returning with a carefully laden tray with the necessities.

Taking a disdainful sniff of the tea she exclaimed with some surprise "It's Earl Grey". "Well, that's what you asked for isn't it Dweena?" I replied. Score 1-0 to me. The afternoon stretched into early evening. Around six thirty I asked her, having exhausted all lines of conversation by this time, what time would Delia be collecting her at. "Collecting me?" eyebrows raised and glare fully centred on my forehead she replied. "I've come to stay for the night, I told you that earlier when I spoke to you on the telephone". I must be going deaf. "First I've heard of it, and I hadn't prepared a room for you, only having two bedrooms at present and OH and I sharing one of those. "Well, [simmering lower lip] it's awful to be my age, nobody seems to want you anymore..." Ye Gods! sneaky Delia had really landed me in it, and imagine, I had never met her before. Crafty b-b-b-b-b-rat!

I rang ED, told her that her visit that evening was either cancelled or she was on the put-u-up and prayed that she would decide to come and help me entertain Edna May! Bless the girls heart, she did. The bed was soon made up, suitable night attire found for Dweena and the long, slow progression towards bedtime began. Dinner, chicken soup followed by roast chicken [God bless Knorr] Kerr Pinks and mixed veg, followed by Raspberry Ripple Ice Cream seemed to calm the visitor, mind you by the time she had commented that she wouldn't cook this, that or the other this that or the other way she was lucky that she wasn't served her head in a weak batter and flambéd!

I had elicited Delia's address during the course of dinner, and phone number. After a breakfast of tea [I won approval for this being Bewleys Irish Breakfast Tea] boiled egg [6 minutes precisely] and toast [pale gold dear and don't spare the marmalade] I rang Delia. Adopting as sweet a tone as I could [while feeling like tearing her throat off down the phoneline] I asked her what time she would be collecting Lady Dweena at...to this she replied that she wouldn't be able to collect her until around sixish, she was working in the garden all morning and would then be doing her grocery shopping. "Fair enough" I said, bid her good morning and hung up. After a post-breakfast stroll around the garden I started to steer Dweena towards my car. We weren't out of the woods yet, she was becoming enchanted she told me, she thought she might stay for the week end. No comment! Two hours later we pulled up outside Delia's house in Dunshaughlin. "what lovely surprise for her" said Dweena, "wasn't it good of IE to run her home and what a lovely time she had had!". What a pretty picture Delia's face was.

Lessons learned. Delia's phone number is now on my caller ID, next time OH want's to go and visit his Mum using my car because his is in for a service he can wait and see if the coast is clear!

Rewards for such suffering come in delightful ways though. Yesterday morning after Breakfast I was enjoying a lazy second cup of tea and browsing through the Sunday papers when my eye was caught by a young dog fox, dark black patches on the back of his ears, black ring around his brush and a tiny white tip. This years cub, learning his new territory. He quartered the lawn for juicy tidbits, ignored the 7 magpies sitting in a circle around him and generally made himself familiar with the garden, disappearing from view now and again while he rambled around the other side of the house; he reappeared on the lawn again and proceeded to chase his tail, the magpies, if they could have folded their wings in front, merely stood back and laughed raucously at him. Two robins decided to dive bomb him, clearly of the opinion that two robins good, seven magpies useless...Reynard ignored the lot of them, after sitting flat out, stomach to the ground, chin lying compass like facing east for ten minutes he got up and slowly trotted off down the garden, over the wall and away with him. I shall be keeping an eye out for this handsome chap. I hope he becomes a regular daytime visitor.

An Indian Summer, even a cool one is a joy to behold!

2009-09-12T21:42:00.006+01:00

This spell of fine weather seems to have everyone in autumnal reflective mood, and yes, I have been hit by the joy of it too.
Thursday morning I awoke after a restless night. One of those nights when you tell yourself that you know you have switched all lights off, treble checked and re-checked and still can't settle. I had a list of "things to do" the length of my arm, visit to hairdresser, meet family solicitor, grocery shopping...you know it all too well. As I wandered out to see if there was any post, the phone rang and it was the very nice lady who works for our solicitor ringing to apologise and to tell me that he would have to cancel. "Not a problem!" I said, "we can reschedule for next week". I was delighted! The golden sunlight in the garden was calling to me, and I decided that there was nothing wrong in blowing off the rest of the morning.

I was due to meet with Tiggywinkle today, and had intended turning up with a nicely cut and coiffed hair-do, but truth to tell, I don't think I could have borne to sit in the hairdressers and look out at such a wonderful day. Even though the forecast is good up until next Thursday, and even if my hairdresser and his staff are the best in the world - nothing loathe I blew it off.
I gathered up secaturs, gardening gloves, bucket [for the weeds, although the back is much better, bending is still cautious] and headed out after what seemed to be the worlds most wonderful boiled egg and toast with lashings of tea to follow. Old tracksuit on, tatty runners and a song in my heart. I marked out what was for pruning, sauntered 'round the outside of the house, and sat down to re-lace my tatty runners. I broke my arm in '98 following a fall occasioned by a loose lace so I am vigilant nowadays. Sitting down was the best and worst thing I did that day.

The worst? The pruning went by the wayside. The best? I sat, for three glorious hours, shaded by the dining room until the sun came around to that position. Sitting there I relaxed and listened to the robins singing their territorial little hearts out, watched squadrons of blue tits fly in from every direction in the garden. There were swifts riding the thermals and butterflies aplenty visiting one of the still flowering buddleia bushes. OH has been busy cutting gorse and dead bushes and trees. Three elderly maiden elderberry tree's have been cut back to a height from which they will recover, survive the winter and live to provide the woodpigeons with fruit next autumn. As a result of all this the view across Dublin Bay to the Howth peninsula has been considerably improved.

In the bay, sailing from Dun Laoghaire harbour was a flotilla of small yachts; probably one of the sailing schools still making the best of weather and time before their intrepid young Captain Bligh's have to return to school. Like swans on a calm mirror like pool they turned with gentle elegance outside the harbour. At lunchtime the car ferry arrived, like some giant whale, gently slipping into harbour, her wake like a small tidal wave rocking the tiny yachts and dinghies.

The magpies soon became accustomed to the navy and grey lump sitting on the bench at the top end of the field. Having established that I was not edible - one magpie hopping right up to peck at my runner, they busied themselves hunting for slugs and bugs and whatever tasty morsels lurked in the newly cut grass. Most of them are this years issue, they are just coming out of their moult and look like Max Wall as they hop, skip and trundle across the lawn.

I went in around one to make a cup of tea, and as I waited for the kettle to boil, there, rolling like a little barrel across the top lawn was a hedgehog. I was delighted to see him - or indeed her - because the previous afternoon I had found what looked like the spikes of our garden hedgehog up under the pine trees. We have a new resident dog fox, a big fellow with a gorgeous coat and white tipped tail, and I was afraid he had taken our little hedgey pig. He has dined recently on a couple of plump woodpigeon, there are feathers galore around the place. All this despite my leaving chicken carcases out for him. The Silver and Bracken vixens don't come around these nights until the early hours and I miss seeing them.

Last week there were several nights when there was a full moon magically lighting up the garden. The owl was busy - afterall it was a hunters moon - swooping across the field down into the glen, then up to his favourite perch beyond the gorse.

Yesterday morning, after breakfast, I brought my much needed second cup of tea out to the bench to see what I could see before heading off to do the daily chores. As I sat watching some ants busily move some breadcrumbs, out of the corner of my eye I caught movement. There, daintily coming across the rocks was the Dogfox, picking his way carefully before disappearing into the gorse.

Winter will be upon us in a few weeks time. These are the days God sends us to set us up for the coldest season. One is nearer God's heart in a garden, than anywhere else on earth. It is just over a year since I moved back in here fully, I still look for Mums coat tossed across a chair - thrown impatiently as she sought to get a little extra time in her beloved garden before her busy afternoon started; but things have changed and, at last, I now consider this our garden - OH and mine. Yet she still walks with me when I am out there, and God help either OH and I if we move a pot to another place from where she positioned it, we can hear the sharp intake of breath, and yes, we put those pots back where she put them. I have come home. At last.

That was the month that was - July!

2009-08-06T15:50:00.008+01:00

At last, today for the first time in ages I have had a chance to sit down and write the blog that has been twiddling around in what passes for my brain.

A pal called up this morning unexpectedly and we decided to do something really adventurous...morning coffee out in the garden. Huh! I hear you say, what's so adventurous about that? Well, since we returned from Kerry in the merry month of July, idyllic treats such as afternoon tea in the garden, or morning coffee for that matter have been just that, idyllic...a dream. Several attempts have been aborted due to downpours that made the Ganges seem sluggish and tiny by comparison.

We sat back, relaxed in the warmth of the sunshine, cooled by the breeze that is constant here on this hilltop, and kept a weather eye on the vicious dark purple cloud that was lurking behind the hill, a benificent Deity decreed that the wind would blow the cloud away from us, and all was heaven. The birds have come out of moulting season, and are beginning to chirrup away, baby robins flitted around us picking up tasty morsels of biscuit crumbs, blue tits warbled from the sycamore tree, and overhead a sparrowhawk lazily cruised the thermals seeking fresh prey.

July has been a horrid month in many ways. I have been crippled with sciatica - as I thought - due to all the rain, and which now, it appears, is a problem with the 3rd and 5th vertebrae, so physiotherapy is the order of the day, and I am dedicatedly doing my exercises. I haven't driven my car since the June Bank Holiday, and am decidedly fractious about the curtailment of my independence!

We have lost our "country" lane up to the garden; the local council decided to tarmac it...everybody oohs! and aaaahs! about it and says isn't it wonderful, no more potholes, but I confess I loved my potholes, my grassy centre margin, the teazle and valerian that grew along the old wall, the Monbretia that was due to burst into flaming flower...I managed to save the teazle and valerian, and have plenty of Monbretia anyway, but we have this sterile black ribbon curving round the bend, and oh! hasn't it opened the door for a plethora of "daytrippers" as I call them.

Once we were flooded with walkers tripping up what they thought was a lane that would lead them to the hill beyond and not into someones garden, now we have SUV'S driving in, loaded with sulky looking children who, when they take their nose out of their wii's throw sweet papers and polystyrene cups out the window, right onto the lawn.

This week end past, being a bank holiday was irritating to say the least. I was on my way up from the shed, about to do a little bit of putting cuttings into a few pots, when a large navy blue SUV rolled in through what will be my restored gate when I get round to it, and Mother [Cath Kidston rose pattern blue skirt that may have been a tablecloth in another life], Father, potbellied, be-jeaned, an open neck grand-dad shirt, and - well I'll call them Tabitha, Maribelle and Jonas [which is near enough] disembarked.

Jonas clearly the more intelligent of the tribe pointed out my Private Property sign, hanging limply on the gate post victim of too much rain. Daddy told him not to be an ----wipe, to shut up because "we are going for a walk up this hill, 'cos your Mother says we are". I think I won unlooked for brownie points with Dad when I pointed out, like the wicked witch in the pantomime that Oh no you are not...actually I pointed out that they were in my front garden, and that it was private. Mother wanted to argue the toss, but lost, Jonas, Daddy and Tab were back inside the SUV before you could say "whatabout". There were six more intrusions before tea time!

I have been promising myself for weeks that, as soon as we got a semi-civilised afternoon I would take myself off to a quiet part of the garden, secluded from wind, trespassers, and low flying magpies, don my reading glasses, comfy old gardening clothes and read, and yesterday I fulfilled that promise to myself. OH had gone to the country to spend the day with his Mother and ED/YD were about their business. I spent six wonderful hours reading...mind you it was Patricia Cornwell's "Scarpetta" [a bit gory for a relaxed afternoon] but I loved it; this afternoon there is a large black swollen looking cloud, the size of a space ship from "V" hovering overhead; a chill wind and huge raindrops. Yesterday may have been the only day this month I get to relax and let the world go hang while outdoors, but if so, it was heavenly! Our resident hedgehog and the four foxes have no complaints about the rain, it brings out all those tasty slugs for them to nibble on.

Around four I brought out a tea tray - favourite china cups and accessories, old reliable rose patterned tea pot and some lovely gluten free brown bread that I had made, on Tuesday in a moment of culinary madness, topped with some rhubarb and ginger spread as I call it, made recently. I look forward to the day when I eventually get to build my dream kitchen, the current arrangement is "galley" sized and 'me and the mixer' get a bit too up-close and personal. Still it was all part of a perfect day...and I'm glad I spent it with me!

A meme from Frances...hmmmm!

2009-07-16T13:22:00.003+01:00

So, I have been tasked by Frances to do a meme, well, here goes....it will be my usual random stuff

Five Favourite Songs;

Flowers in the rain [forget the bands name but think 60's era]
Scarborough Fair - Simon & Garfunkle [used to sing this in the folk group I was a member of back in the days of folk Masses.
At Vinegar Hill O'er the pleasant Slaney...good old fashioned rebellious ballad.
Such a perfect day [I'm glad I spent it with you...] love this song - sums up - well, perfect days perfectly.
I will survive - Gloria Gaynor...this came out in the 70's when I was going through the break up of my first engagement - and that's engagement in terms of out and out warfare between The Plonker and I, thank God for OH.

Five Favourite films

Watership Down [the original]...still get glisteny eyes when I hear "Bright Eyes"
Ryan's Daughter, what's not to like? Robert Mitchum, The Kerry scenary, and an ill-cast Christopher Jones!
Mogambo, Clarke Gable - There were two versions of this, 1932 Red Dust, starring Gable and Jean Harlow, and 1953 the overblown Mogambo with the glorious Ava Gardner, and Grace Kelly. Have to say that Harlow & Gardner were the heroines for me in both, and as for Gable himself...swooooooon!
Rear Window - Jimmy Stewart - never get tired of this film!
The Maltese Falcon with my man Bogart...and I could go on, and on and on with The Thin Man, any of the Powell/Loy films, anything with Bogart & Bacall - if its a B&W I'm hooked!

Five Favourite Books

Frances, darling...I'm a bookworm and that's like asking me to make Solomon's choice!!! Here goes a few...

"Peig", [Peg] the autobiography of Peig Sayers who lived on An Blascaoid Mhór [The Big Blasket] off Slea Head, Co Kerry. I love the lilt of the language, the story of her life - the whole thing. At school we were given this book to study, in Irish, for our Intermediate Certificate [O levels] and it is generally referred to as the bain of Irish students...however, having Munster Irish myself, it was a joy to me and no hassle at all to study. I treated myself to an English translation [by that wonderful Kerry author Bryan McMahon] when on holidays recently.
"Wellington", by Richard Holmes - I love anything to do with The Iron Duke, despite his denial of being Irish ["...a man may be born in a stable..." but he was from Trim, Co Meath, and he was a brilliant master of strategy.
"News from No Man's Land" - John Simpson. I have the highest regard for this man, and read anything I can get my hands that he is the author of. I love his reports from ... wherever he is. He is a truly classic reporter who reports the facts and doesn't try to impose HIS viewpoint on his listener/reader. Unlike so many modern colleagues of his who seem to think that the general public must be nose led to the thinking trough.
"Darling Buds of May" - H. E Bates. This is one of those "comfort zone" books that you take out into the garden of a summers day, as you relax and sip a cool drink [although with recent weather that should probably read strong hot drink or nip of whisky] and watch the butterflies on the Buddleia.
"Yes Minister"/"Yes Prime Minister" Jonathan Lynn & Anthony Jay's hilarious spoof of the ministry of James Hacker M.P. No matter where, when or in what Government crises - this one is a winner.

Five Favourite crushes eh?

O.H., [should have been a politican with that one eh? ]
Robert Mitchum
Clarke Gable
Chris Jones [when I was 15]
A skinny, spotty, lank haired individual who, back in the days of being 13, I thought was a God...it lasted for six impassioned weeks - love from afar - until he sat down on the bus beside me one day and said hi. Loved died on a cross of bad breath, body odour and acne...the close up view was sadly lacking in the "from a distance" view. Met him two years ago at an agricultural show. His teeth are - well six to the gum, his beer belly preceeded him into the tent where his current wife was displaying her brown and soda breads, and he is farming on a sheep farm. It would never have worked. I'm a cattle person at heart being a Dairy farmers grand-daughter!

Five Random Things...aha!

Sunday's when we are all fogged in here, and I can hear the fog horns in the Bay and the Woodpigeons clump across the lawn, wings down, depression on their feathers as they pick among the wet blades of grass for a tasty morsel of bug.
Sunshine streaming in the sitting room window early on a summer's morning, the window open and the same wood pigeons cooing, magpies chattering and the Robin singing his little heart out before they all go quiet for the July/August moult. The buzzing of the bee's and the smell of the new rose I planted under the window - rich as Turkish delight - coming into the room.
Cattle lowing as they are being milked, that deeply satisfied sound of theirs which tells you that the heavy udders are being lightened and they are looking forward to going back out to graze in their meadows.
Leaning on the gate having a natter with the neighbours, or down the lane chatting to pals I grew up with - and reminiscing on our youth, that is when we can remember that far back :-}
The play of sunlight and shade on the Sliabh Mish mountains viewed from The Spá [spaw] across Tralee Bay as the clouds cross over and create the different highlights on each peak. It is at moments like this you thank God you are alive and no matter what burden he has sent you to carry, you just know that he has sent you the back to bear it.

So there it is, my meme...and I have just remembered - it was The MOVE who sang Flowers in the Rain.

God's Kingdom

2009-07-11T15:06:00.002+01:00

There are two counties in this green and pleasant land of Ireland who claim God’s attention. One is God’s Garden, otherwise known as County Wicklow, and the other is God’s Kingdom, or County Kerry. From the broad Atlantic Kerry gets its exquisite light, the colours are more intense, flowers seem to be more fragrant and, despite the recession, there is much laughter in the air. Anyone living along the Irish Atlantic seaboard could make the same claim, but I am biased, deeply biased and all because of my Kerry ancestry of which I am unashamedly proud.

This blog, I have decided, will take the form of a diary - for it is only in this way can I control the jumble of senses, thoughts and overall sense of joy and bring it to you in written form.

Saturday 27 June
7.30a.m., OH is fit to call our local G.P. Who is this woman who has everything packed, a final tidy-round done, and breakfast on the table. It takes some convincing but he should remember after all these years that holiday + Kerry + wife = hit the road as early as possible. We eventually get going by 11 after a massive hunt for keys to lock windows. I know they were hanging on that hook for the past six months, so who moved them eh?

Lunchtime, we are in Limerick, amazingly since we last headed south in ‘06 there are more by-passes in place and it is now a four hour journey [without break] to Tralee, instead of the seven hours of my childhood. New York could be achieved in 5 hours back in the day. We find the restaurant we fell in love with last time and promptly fall out of love with it. Normally one might think that in a recession restaurants would up their game. OH’s long dreamt of Bacon and Cabbage is a congealed lump of cold goo, the bacon ran away some time ago. YD and I opt for the roast beef. May the cow that donated its all for that cut rest in peace. Major minus to that place then.

Four o’clock and we arrive in Blennerville and make our way to The Courtyard. On driving into the forecourt we are enchanted. The air is redolent with the smell of roses, honeysuckle, and the laughter of children playing with Myra and Derry’s new Jack Russell puppy making the whole picture ‘perfick’ as Pop Larkin would say.

We are warmly welcomed by our hosts and shown to our cottage which has two bedrooms, a kitchen/diner and a sitting room. All tastefully decorated in a warm white and French grey. There are jugs of freshly picked roses and veronica everywhere, and the only fault I can find is a vase of lilies’ whose smell is not to my liking. I quickly put the vase under the stairs and that’s that hitch fixed. There are Lily O’Brien chocolates and a bottle of Merlot on the kitchen table to welcome us. Apart from the wine, I have a sense of returning to my Grandmothers house. We are contented.

Out to 8 o’clock Mass at Curraheen, where my Great Grandmother was born and reared, and after the service I stand and listen to the song of the seabirds and gaze across Tralee Bay. I find myself wondering, yet again, did she ever stand there hearing almost the same sounds, little knowing she would marry a man from Ballyheigue and where her great- great grandchildren would spread to? I feel a great connection to her.

I could sit and hear the sea bird cry and robins in the hedge,
And see the Eagle as he flies from off his rocky ledge. [unknown]

Sunday 28 June
It is cold and raining, we unpack, dash out to get the Sunday papers, and relax before an open peat fire.

Monday 29 June
Up bright and early, the sun is splitting the stones, the cattle are lowing as they head back out into the fields after milking and we are heading for Slea Head as soon as we finish a hearty breakfast, and pack a picnic basket.

Deciding to come back by the Connor Pass we head out for Dingle by Annascaul [awn-na-skaul], revamped since Tom Crean came into prominence, and Lispole where beautiful traditional style holiday homes lie idle, a sign that the recession is biting. We drive through Dingle and head for Feothannach [Fyo-hannak] and Brandon Creek.

Driving along the road the fuchsia is like a red line along the road. Honeysuckle abounds and the Veronica is of a misty mauve-blue. The fields across the mountains are like a crazy patchwork quilt thrown down by a housewife, too busy to straighten it up as she goes about her chores. Ireland is renowned for forty shades of green, they are all here to be seen.

Down to the harbour at Brandon Creek, the tang of salt sharp, sea caves - dark and brooding limestone. Razor back sharp spines on mountainside, like slumbering dragons. I always imagine this place as a suitable setting for Jamaica Inn - all that is needed is an Olde Inne on the headland. I am told in a shop that “St Brendan the Navigator sailed from here, arrah shure didn’t the Irish discover America before anyone else” by an old, toothless man, mahogany skinned and not a day short of 96 who would pass for a native Amer-Indian himself. He asks me my origin, I tell him, he welcomes me home to the Kingdom.

To Dún Chaoin, Gallarus Oratory and the Beehive huts. The Blaskets floating in a mauve tinted mid-afternoon sea. The ferry hurtling across to An Blascaoid Mhór [the Big Blasket] and I think of Peig Sayers and the hard life the Islanders had. At Dún Chaoin it once again irritates me that the set for “Ryans Daughter” was not saved, despite the good will gesture of the film makers to leave it as a tourist attraction. We picnic at the top of the Connor Pass, on one side Dingle Bay and on the other Tralee Bay and the Maharees. Heaven is a cup of tea and a view like this.

Tuesday 30 June

Shopping day and we make a ceilidh with the relations. One of the joys of being almost a local is that I have been visiting Tralee since I was fifteen months old, and I know exactly where to go. We meander around the county as we wish bypassing some places and returning again and again to our old favourites. We visit the new shopping places [T K Maxx etc.,] at Manor West and Penneys - there may be a recession by you would never think so here. Harassed mothers accompanied by children squawking as if they are being beaten to death, reality is - in a recession you can’t hand the little darlings everything they want the minute they see it!

After a scout around Caballs, beloved of my childhood, we head for Rock Street and drop into Lorramar where I go wild purchasing jugs. Ballyporeen pottery - half the price of Avoca - exactly the same patterns such as roses of all shades and sizes, and with the discount offered…I came out quids ahead. One jug, for example, white with blue roses delicately spread over it which I have seen else where at €19.95 costs €10 less here and I get it for €6.50 with the shop owners discount. She remembers us from our last visit in 2006, and we have a lovely chat. To Kellihers to pick up some willow pattern - I bought most of my set here, in precisely the same shop my Grandmother bought hers way back in the day when she was a young bride. That night we arrange to meet relations, and let us just say that great craic was had by all parties concerned.

Wednesday 1 July

To Valentia on the Ring of Kerry. We decide to do half the Ring, leaving out Sneem and Tahilla. This gives us more time to dawdle along the way to Valentia, stopping off in Killorglin [home of the famous Puck Fair] and Cahirciveen. We joke about going abroad as we cross the bridge at Port Magee and onto Valentia Island. From Bray Head we look across to the Skellig Rocks on one side and the Blaskets on the other. Swallows fly across the nap of the field swooping after flies. The smell of honeysuckle, Albertine roses, cattle grazing placidly. Fresh meat tastes better here in the Kingdom where the cattle graze on the salted grass, on birds foot trefoil, thrift and red and white clover.

To Knightstown to watch the ferry come in, back through Chapeltown and we picnic above the bridge looking over at the brightly painted fishermen’s cottages at Port Magee.

Thursday 2 July

To north Kerry and Listowel, home of the late John B Keane who’s plays Big Maggie and the Chastitute are among some of his famous works. I am a big Keane fan. Ballybunnion - funnily enough I never liked this town as a child and it still doesn’t grip me. We return to our cottage and have a long leisurely dinner. To Ballyheigue [bally-hige as in hike but with a g]. We watch the sun set after a stroll along its wide sandy beach which runs on down into Banna Beach, made famous by Sir Roger Casement and the gun-running of 1916.

Friday 3 July

Back out via Castlemaine and Inch to Dingle and Slea Head for a final visit. On Inch we watch a father and daughter team play tennis. A Fetch and Carry Match…he misses the ball, and she fetches it. Is there anything as glorious as the sight of purple tufted vetch [light mauve], buttercups and golden rod, astilbe and fuchsia along the roadway? My eyes are bedazzled between admiring the views and the flowers. In Dingle we visit the Ceili House on the quayside - I have my eye on wind chimes, and they now tinkle gently as they hang from the Blue Cedar in my garden.

A quick nip into Mary Ferriters Crafts and Gifts [dingleshop.com] and we head back for Tralee. More cousins to meet up with before we must pack and head back to the East Coast. A text from E.D tells us that they had 15 days rain in as many hours in Dublin and there is flooding; in Mayo mountainsides have slipped and villages have been cut off, here we have dodged the rain all week, it is sunny, it is warm and I wouldn’t trade it for the South of France for all the rice…

I found Me in the dump!

2009-06-20T21:14:00.003+01:00

It is a story handed down by the generations in my Mother's family of Sunday summer evenings in days gone by. How my Grand-Aunts Kate and Mary, who took over the running of the original family household after their Mother died reared the other eight siblings who came after them; of how they used to have tea in the front garden on Sunday evenings in the summer. The best china, fine damask table cloth was brought out, and delicious cakes and treats were served. All prescided over by Kate and her nearest sibling Mary. One of their younger siblings - the next eldest to my Grandfather - is alleged to have asked why the table cloth had to be changed when a smudge was found on it. "There's no one here but us" he pointed out, and the reply came sternly from Grand-aunt Kate "Precisely, because we ARE here ourselves".

It was the standard that was set for the generations to come. Those who descended from the seven of twelve children who were my Great-Grandmother's children. Two died of diphtheria, and neither Kate nor Mary ever married, one emigrated to New Zealand, and that was the last that was heard from him. I am the fourth generation to live here, my daughters making up the fifth, but the descendents are now down into the sixth and seventh generations in some branches of the family in one branch the eighth is invoiced.

In nearly every generation there are those of us for whom this standard resonates; there is a tie to those formidable women who kept things going when their Mother passed on leaving twelve children, my Grandfather being the youngest at the age of 13. For others it has passed them by, this link; there are a goodly few who don't know the family history, and couldn't care less about it.

For my own part I have always been interested in family history, but have always had a leaning towards my Father's side of the family. A bit to my Mother's disappointment in some ways, but as I grew older and my own girls were reared and independent, the fascination with the maternal side of the family grew just as strong, if not stronger. Since she died, I have come to realise just how strong that link is within me, how certain traits have come out in me that resonate with things she told me about her family history.

For the past year we have been tidying the garden; clearing, removing, restoring, replanting - OH and I. Busy days happily spent pottering about and clearing a huge overgrown part of the garden, lost to furze, bramble and weeds. We decided on the layout, kept part of the wilderness for those animals that needed feed and shelter from these regions, and while we are never going to acquire a carpet soft smooth tennis style lawn we will have something that resembles it. This has opened up a whole new world for the local birdlife, not to mention the foxes. Slugs and leatherjackets, worms and - well you name it - hitherto safely hidden deep within the thickets are having a disastrous time of it as Magpie and Thrush, Robin and Dunnock, Wren and Siskin take their toll on the life of the local invertebrates. We have a wolfpack of Robins who have quartered the would-be lawn, and woe betide the worm that wiggles! Biggles has nothing on it for dive bombing.

OH had cleared a particular part of this future lawn, and I took a ramble down to it on Wednesday. My eye was caught by lumps of coal, a badly twisted buckle, damaged by previous gorse fires, and a piece of red glass and the crest from a Valor parafin stove. Away with me to get a light rake and I set to work scraping out what I figured must be the family dump, in use from sometime in the mid-19th century and up until the mid Twenties.

An hour of industrious digging brought forth half a Willow Pattern cup, enough pieces of Willow Pattern plate to nearly restore it. A 1920's dessert dish [glass] that I can accurately date because I broke it's twin when I was five and never lived it down for the next half century. It was part of a set which had belonged to my Grandmother. I had committed a major criminal offence which was referred to everytime my two girls dropped anything. "Do you remember when you dropped, AND BROKE...". How could I forget.

Various pieces of fine bone and other china were turned over, a castor from some long forgotten chair, more willow pattern, a vial, smashed at the end but still basically intact, its original use was for the collection of blood samples from the cattle, a cork stopper would have been put in at the top end and it would have been sent off to some laboratory somewhere to ascertain that the dairy's 36 cattle were in good health. There are four medicine bottles, an old leather shoe [mans] which has survived in surprisingly good nick, and I can date this to before the 1930's because it appears in a picture of my Grandfather and he died in the early part of the 30's. There are tins of boot polish, one of brilliantine [which seems to have done a runner out of the shed where I stocked my booty].

I had pulled a muscle in my back in May and after weeks of agony was just restored to good form, believe me when I say that Wednesday undid all that, and it will be a while before I can resume my excavations. YD has suggested that I wash up the broken bits of china, put them on a wooden tray and call them my "Samian Ware" - just as Lucia did in one of E. F Benson's novels. Mmmmm, don't think the ancient Romans went in much for Willow and Floral patterns, do you?

Apart from back trouble, and OH telling me to dump all that old rubbish [not a chance], one thing has come to me. In digging out all these "treasures" I have, in some unexplicable way, found myself and my ties to this house, and this village. As soon as the weather improves it's back to the tea on the lawn on Sunday evenings with my own Willow and Floral pattern tea sets. Somethings never change, somethings should never change.

The Corpulent Candidate

2009-05-20T17:16:00.002+01:00

It's election time again, Yaay! Local Elections that is, those wonderful opportunities to lean against your hall door jamb and tantalise the poor eejit who is dipping his toe in the electoral waters for the first time. Silkily batting him with a dainty verbal paw, knowing that you'll either

not vote for him because he's not with YOUR Party;
Promise him a second preference vote which is totally useless to the poor gombeen unless it comes after giving your first preference vote to a guaranteed returnee;
Tell him you'll look after him and vote 1-10 in order of your preference, right along party lines, giving him the #10 vote;
Set the dog on him;
Send Junior [aged 9] out to tell him "Mammy's not home - are you Mammy?" - this last roared back up the hall as you lurk behind the kitchen door.

This year will be fun; recession! What, you ask acidly is he going to do about it, you fume at him after venting your spleen on Party Politics, The Government, Jobs for the Boys, Expenses, YOUR negative equity - and all this before the poor lúdramán can get a word in edgeways to remind you that this is a LOCAL election, not a GENERAL election.

Oh! Boy, has he ever been so way off the mark reminding you of that fact - so what about that footpath across the road that the Council have promised to fix since the last time? Huh? AND what about affordable housing, a new playing pitch for Dunuttin Rovers eh? while we're at it. He promised you faithfully four years ago you'd have "all dat 'n' more be deh next elekshun". Here he squeaks valiantly, that this is his first time out. "Ah go away then," you tell him, your beady eye already having spotted sitting Cllr. Murty O'Smugpuss coming down the road on the other side.

You have been waiting for him, nay lying in wait and now watch him squirm out of your Panzer attack, which, naturally you have honed and perfected in front of the bathroom mirror. Still, when you've finished with him you'll toss him your first preference, sure didn't he get your brother Matty's young one a house two year ago an' she with six childer?

I remember a couple of local elections ago, I had come home to visit my Mother. The door bell rang and she shuddered "Oh God, not another canvasser - you answer the door pet". I opened the hall door, and there, huffing and wheezing, scarlet faced with imminent heart attack was the Corpulent Candidate. I bid him a civil good afternoon, after all, he'd found the house.

"Whay hoff duh bheetin thraaak, gasp, here" he wheezed at me, pushing himself upright off the door jamb to shake my hand with a sweaty paw. "I'm your local undependent can-i-date and I'm looking for your vote".

Feral gleam entering my eye, I solemnly perused his bright, picture filled, almost totally wordless campaign literature and, settling myself on the door jamb I began...

"So, what are your major priorities for the next four years and what have you achieved since you were previously elected".

He wasn't getting any plus points for knocking on the door, because on that occasion I had been in a neighbours house on the corner of our lane when I heard him tell his canvass team "we won't bother going up there" - which cost him upward of 9 votes. After he paused for breath in a eulogy of self praise, I smiled sweetly at him, told him I wasn't on the register here, and slowly closed the door on his incredulous face.

I'm eagerly awaiting his visit on this campaign!

Issues of Abandonment

2009-05-16T13:30:00.003+01:00

Life has taken an interesting turn in the past year since Mum died. OH and I left home and moved back to the Ancestral Home. According to ED and YD it is the norm for the children to flee the nest, not the other way around. Both have developed the endearing habit of tilting a head to one side, fluttering an eyelash at whichever parent is the target audience and starting with "...of course, we won't get into my issues of abandonment...but a lift to the DART station would be sooo helpful...I'm running late".

They are still living in the marital home until such time as we put it on the market, and given the state of Ireland's economy, the housing market, life in the fast lane and whether it rains next Sunday or not [o.k., only kidding with the last two] that will not be anytime soon.

They appear on odd occasions to stay over, and life is very entertaining when you are not sure which one is going to appear on the door step next, how long each visit will be...it can be anything from a fortnight to a night, and now that ED is coming along very nicely with her driving, we expect that we may see her more often. Or not. Parking might have been an issue in the MH [marital home] but it isn't here, but then OH's car is no longer occupying the drive at the MH, so when she gets her full licence I expect there will be permanent occupancy of the MH; that is until the next cold sets in, food shortages [i.e., accusations that YD hasn't filled the fridge this week] occur or a plain old cuddle and a chat with Mum and Dad appeals.

YD works close to home, ED free lances and has become noted as being a Fridge Raider. ED has deemed it YD's job to do the weekly grocery shopping. YD's opinion is "Get your own - I never know when you'll be home". Whatever you thought you had in your fridge, once ED has been through the house [MH or AH - ancestral home] you can put your money safely on it that you will have nothing left by the time the whirlwind that is my lovely ED has passed by.

YD has decided that the time has come for her to purchase her own car, or "the jalopy" as she refers to it. Oh God! I hope so, and soon. Mum's taxi has been in business since the first day of school, and I would love to retire. Just as I sit down to blog, eat a bite, have a natter with whomsoever has dropped in - the phone rings and "Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam, any chance of a lift" issues forth. The timing is perfect. ED wins the prize for the most calls; YD is more independent minded and likes to surprise us with her very welcome arrival.

I can spend hours alone wondering if the phone will ring and not a tinkle. Best Pal, Closest Cousin, Long Lost Schoolfriend may all ring, not to mention the funnies who want to know is this Mary they are speaking to, or Sheila, or the Irish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Butter and Bacon Butties" but the little bunnies will safely hoard their texts, or calls, until Good Old Mum or Good Old Dad is sitting down to watch the news, read the newspaper, catch up on the days doings with each other or even, God help us, eat a meal together.

Piece by piece I have been swapping furniture and bringing up more and more of my own, lovingly collected over nearly 30 years. Ornaments, pictures, you name it, they have been swapped with what I don't want to keep of Mums, and ED has taken the hump. Last Tuesday night I was informed that Gran's old dining table looks lonely sitting in the middle of the dining room all alone, and she is getting traumatised. Apparently she wonders each time she returns to the MH will her bed still be there. As she has taken over our old bedroom, she has nothing to worry about. Since we moved, in a rare display of mutual agreement they have decided on 3 months in the 'rents bed for you, and 3 months for me, turn and turn about. The 'rents shift whoever the occupant is out of it a couple of times a month. At this stage we nearly need permission to return to our old matrimonial bed. Oh well, I don't miss that spring that was starting to make itself felt last year; glad its on his side not mine too.

Still, despite the calls at "that moment" and the "issues of abandonment" [comment delivered to a guilt ridden absentee Mum with large smile] I look forward to the day I will have them both living here, the old MH gone [with some sort of profit to show for itself] and two new or nearly new cars parked out beside OD's and mine.

A tale of romance

2009-05-10T00:32:00.000+01:00

There was not, anywhere, the like of it to be seen in the townland of Ballinamuiceann Mór since Fin Carty's donkey broke out of the field one May night and over the cliff with him to the edge of the broad Atlantic waves. Mickey Reilly ran six miles into the town to tell Finbarr Carty that his ass was gone over a cliff and was rewarded by a cuff at the butt of his ear from Garda Shanagher for his troubles.

This was bigger though. Patsy McCabe, at the age of seventy two, father of ten fine children, six garsoons and four gartles, all of whom had done well in America and Australia, or so Biddy McCabe, their late Mother maintained 'til her last breath six years ago - Patsy had announced his intention of remarrying, and it was not to the Widow Walsh, a respectable seventy herself and a fine hault still, if Marty Finnerty said so himself; but to a lady of indeterminate years between 40 and 60, fresh faced and well kept. She had returned home from America, bought the cottage next door and had been helping Patsy with his few praties when he was of a mind to set them.

The shock in the parish was massive, Father O'Houlahan himself, no less, had come all the way from Gort na Sliabh on his bicycle to exhort Patsy to give up that aul nonsense. Patsy would have none of it!

"What about your poor childer away in 'merica, an' foreign lands" wailed Angela Moloney, Spinster of that parish, aged 60 and hopeful still.

"What's to become of their 'nheritance?" she cried, her false teeth slipping as they always did, having been made for someone else who died and she got them at a good price.

"Lord God above woudja look down upon this madman and show him the error of his ways!" she exhorted the Lord. Patsy favoured her with a sour look.

It was the talk of ten parishes for weeks. Surprisingly no one knew when the Banns were to be read out, and all were puzzled what would become of Patsy's six acres by the side of Sliabh Cruad.

"Tá cuas i' mo chraoi" snivelled Fidelma Maher - another Spinster of the Parish, 65 years old and no acreage but a fine housekeeper and a tidy cottage.

"Arrah g'way ouha dat" snorted Patsy derisively, "yah haven't a heart to have a hollow in - you've a hole where yer heart should be".

Letters were sent off to America to Finola, Siobhán, Maireaid, and Saoirse and to Australia where Patsy's three surviving sons, Peadar, Seanie, and Seamus lived. Micheál, Tomás and Liam had perished in a car accident two years previously.

Biddy's cousin Fidelma wrote to the Bishop about it, calling him to name Patsy's intended from the pulpit. The Bishop received a letter from Siobhán in New York.

The news that the Bishop, himself, no less, was to say Mass the third Sunday of the month went 'round the Parish like a tornado. Heads were put together and tongues wagged in Regan's Bar as to what he would say to this outrageous match. Sure didn't the Lord know that the strap was only after Patsy for the six acres, oh! there'd be fine words indeed from the Bishop, he's flay her alive, all were sure.

Sunday dawned and there wasn't a seat to be had in the Church. Father O'Houlihan gleefully rubbed his hands together; the collection would be mighty this day, that is if the Bishop didn't take the most of it for himself, he thought.

Solemly and with immense dignity the Bishop ascended into the pulpit; there was a sharp intake of breath as he laid a page on the velvet cushion in front of him, God Above, this was mighty altogether, thought Maude Moone, who'd had an eye on the six acres, oh and Patsy's welfare of course, naturally, since Biddy had died.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here today my children" began the Bishop quietly. A rotund, red faced, bald man who had risen to his present position by being adept at church politics.

A sure sign he'd be roarin' before the sermon was finished whispered Maisie McLohan to Polly Ferriter.

"...to discuss the sanctity of marriage, the love of good neighbours for the elderly and eschewing venial thoughts" he continued.

"You!" he pointed a roving finger at the congregation, "have been guilty of immoral thoughts! of envy, greed and the Lord alone only knows what else! Abomination is too mild a word to use for each and every one of you" he thundered.

The collective intake of breath and its expulsed gasp from the congregation almost rattled the windows.

"Let me read you a letter; sit up Billy Lynch boy, I can see you at the back of the church" he roared. "The letter begins...Dear Bishop..." .

An hour later a stupefied congregation staggered out of the Church. Who'd've thought it. According to Siobhán McCabe's letter, Catriona McCarthy [actually 56] had done well in America and had sold her business for a million dollars. A friend of Saoirse's, she had, with Patsy and his children's agreement bought the old home cottage and the six acres at the side of Sliabh Cruadh. She had paid a handsome sum to them too. In the course of her days helping Patsy with his planting love had also grown. Not the mad passion of youth, nor the love of a Spinster needing security for her old age, but a deep friendship, a sense of companionship and caring. All of Patsy's children were thrilled that, in this year of 1966, Patsy would have companionship and care and they would be home to celebrate the magic day themselves.

The Bishop had not spared his tongue the joy of a good strong sermon about thinking ill of people and now the question in nearly everybody's mind was "would there be an invitation in the post to the wedding feast at Harty's Hotel?"

Maude Moone resolved to make a trip to Knock Shrine on the day of the wedding. She couldn't bear the thought of six acres slipping away like that.

Mapping the morning

2009-05-05T14:38:00.000+01:00

Tragedy struck this morning; I have been working my way through my much thumbed and totally beloved series of Mapp & Lucia books, spurred on by a gift from Y.D., for Mother's day, of a set of dvd's from the T.V., series. Horror of horror's the spine cracked, and the pages of Miss Mapp scattered to the four corners of the study.

Yes, I admit, I was "skiving" it was raining [those misty showers that soak you] and I had come in from the garden, comforted myself with a cuppa, and decided to wait out this current shower with a ramble through Miss Mapp when disaster struck. Two hours later and copious lengths of sello-tape and she is restored, stiffly. Relief has set in. I ADORE E F Benson, and to loose one of my moth-eaten copies would be heart breaking...yes, I could e-bay and amazon and all that jazz, but if, like me, you are a true book worm - you know that the original copy is always the best.

Is there anything nicer than those first moments, you install yourself in a favourite chair, in a quiet corner. Tenderly opening the cover of the newly acquired book, the fresh feel of it, the crisp smell of newly printed pages...it is one of life's wonderful comforts, a joy to the soul. I pity anybody who does not get a kick out of "new book symdrome"...OH is one such; we are total opposites. He reads the newspapers to inform himself, will sort through autobiographies of John Wayne and others, but sit down and get lost within the pages he will not do it! He's the action man to my curled up with a good book persona.

I thoroughly enjoyed my May Bank Holiday Monday this year. Up early to drop E.D into Dublin, we drove up North Great Georges Street in Dublin 1; Georgian houses in faded beauty. I once attended business college here; in those days the street was like a downtrodden Molly Malone, drooping over her wheelbarrow. Sadly the street now seems to have attracted "budget accommodation", which is nice for those travelling on a shoestring budget, but it is as if the Celtic Tiger missed the street. Everywhere else endured re-juvenation, mock-Georgian cheek by jowl with vividly painted "modern take" on what passes for someone's idea of Georgian. South of the Liffey there is more a sense of refurbishment of the existing buildings, the north/south divide of the city alive as ever it was.

In my youth on my way to the college, I walked up Gardiner Street each morning in hail, rain or snow. There seemed to be very few sunny days, and if there were, the high old Georgian tenements certainly made certain that the sun was locked out. Add to that the problem of smog and it was usually a case of head down and dash up the street.

In those days Gardiner Street had little to recommend it; it was positively Dickensian in appearance, and my fanciful late teenage mind often wondered what lurked behind the cracked and broken doors. Windows often stuffed with cloth or newspaper. There seemed to be few children around in the evenings when I raced back down again to catch my train. The great escape, getting out of Dodge as quickly as possible.

Those were the days when horses pulling drays could still, on occasion, be found. The whole area reeked of poverty and slums, and yet I loved it...it was dear old dirty Dublin and the stench on a warm day emanating from the Liffey could knock you off your feet. The stench from the tenements did. Almost.

In the intervening years city planners have swept away these last vestiges of an Empire's rule in Ireland, replacing it in more recently prosperous years with an attempt of 'glamourisation'. Blocks of apartments which, for some reason, never quite caught the Southside glamour. Dust and dirt off the streets makes an unappealing cover, a ghostly reminder of the dust and dirt that once covered their predecessors.

The vibrancy of Temple Bar never seemed to make it this far up through the city. Yet once again yesterday morning it awakened that old love and sympathy for it in my heart, just as it did in my youth.

After leaving the city we headed out for the great retail parks of Blanchardstown. A visit to Home Stores was called for. Since I have given Mum's tiny kitchen a makeover, a few bright and shiny pieces of stainless steel are called for. Apart from their obvious uses they reflect the newly rediscovered sunlight in the kitchen. We have been busy cutting down the trees that had grown up since I left here to take up residence in the marital home. They had totally blocked out the light, even the birds weren't tempted to nest among their thick branches. Now all is light even on a misty May morning. It is amazing how much light a stainless steel collander bounces around a small kitchen.

There is something soul-less about these retail parks. They are convenient yes, and you can literally get anything from a needle to an anchor, but you still cannot beat a quiet browse around those rapidly vanishing local providers wherein you had a gossip with the staff, a laugh, and even if you paid a pound more, it was always worth it in the end.

Sunday morning, so good to me

2009-05-03T12:02:00.000+01:00

Sunday morning and it is May bank holiday week end. I spent Friday night promising myself that I would not get out of the bed until at least 10.a.m., on Saturday morning; and then I remembered that the architect was coming to measure up the place so that plans could be drawn up for my new kitchen - and I fairly hopped up like a twenty-something in excitement. At 6a.m.

By twelve he was done, and on the road back home, so filled with restlessness I hopped into the car and away with me to West Wicklow to a friend who "ruralised" with hubby number 2 about six years ago. They bought a beautiful stone cottage on a hillside, surrounded by forest on three sides and a vista in front, to die for. I haven't seen them for two years, with all that has happened in the past year, time has flown by. Following my phone call to see if they would be "at home" to visitors and an afirmative, it was lovely to be out on the open road.

Things, I am sad to say, are not as rosy in the garden as they were. The recession is biting, he is on a three day week and her firm closed last month. Around my own age [the sweet side of 21+++] they are mortgage free, the family is scattered to the four corners of the earth and they have a thriving vegetable garden [walled] and sufficient hens and ducks to give them enough surplus eggs to sell in a local shop. She is a prodigious jam maker and her chutney is legendary - so on the self sufficiency basis they are doing o.k.

We sat in a sheltered part of her garden and discussed three day weeks and what they meant to our respective OH's at this time of life. We blatantly decided that we were old enough to have survived the 70's [trying to save to get married during hard times and oil crises], the 80's [trying to rear children and financial gloom] and how the the 90's and early celtic tiger fuelled 00's had passed us by without making any radical changes to our lifestyle, so unless all goes totally to hell in a handcart, we might even survive this latest episode.

They sold their house at the top end of the boom - we didn't and the difference in prices between the years is amazing; still, can't complain, being mortgage free in these days of the complaining banks is a luxury. My heart goes out to those now suffering the new disease called "negative equity". The new game show is "guess the drop in value of your three bed semi-d". So there you go.

After a lovely afternoon exchanging gossip, I drifted back home on an M50 that was surprisingly traffic light for a bank holiday week end [more evidence of recession methinks] and settled down with OH and ED for a quiet night in with a nice glass or so of Merlot.

Six a.m., this morning, loud bang on bedroom door. I was foolish enough last night to decide that this morning would be THE BIG LIE IN, and E.D is calling for her Daddy to give her a lift for the early train. Still sleepy, it didn't occur to me to remind her that Ireland + Bank holiday week end + trains = when? Darling Dad, never one to let his precious girls down, staggered from the bed, and the upshot was a drive all the way into the city to deposit a grumbling E.D at her destination. Sleep gone at this stage, I decided to get up and have a nice traditional Full Irish breakfast on for him upon return. I don't "do" fries these days, but decided to make an exception.

All done and warming in the oven awaiting his return and just the eggs to do, I sat looking out over what is to be new lawn. Two magpies companionably sauntered down this new territory [heretofore a briar patch minus rabbits] as a swallow impersonated Biggles in low flight and a quick swoop over the wall at the end of the garden. Through the open window the woodpigeons in the Lawsonii cooed softly and a blackbird was singing in competition with a dunnock.

Suddenly silence, and the two magpies shot into the air as if from a cannon; out from the tussocks by the elderberry trees and gorse patch came the Silver Vixen. She stood stretching herself and yawning. The russet gold of her fur caught in the early morning sunlight, the wind from the south west fanning the neck fur into a sort of ruff, making her look regal. She walked slowly across the newly opened space and disappeared down the glen among the newly appeared fern shoots. Queen of her land, she feared nothing. At her passing the chorus started again.

By ten o'clock, dishes chortling away in the dishwasher, I was off for a walk down a nearby lane and there, sitting on a rock high above me sat the reigning queen. There might be a recession, but there is none in the beauty that surrounds me.

I have been tagged by Frances!

2009-04-28T18:59:00.000+01:00

So, I have been tagged by Frances, and here goes!
Current Obsession? Getting my new dishwasher plumbed in

Whats for dinner? Pork Chops, Mushy Peas and creamed potato

Last thing I bought? Don't get me started! A dishwasher, five weeks ago and have spent last five weeks washing delph and mentally beheading the item who said he would come and plumb it in. Allegedly he is due tomorrow!

Listening to Back Street Boy's "I like it that way" [dishwashing that is!]

Favourite holiday spots, Tralee, Tralee, Tralee, oh and Tralee, also Galway, anywhere in Ireland, all of England, Hawaii, San Fransisco, Italy [have to be dragged out of Rome and Siena] and did I mention Tralee, Co Kerry? Land of Tir n'Óg [see J Exmoor's list]

Reading E F Benson's Mapp & Lucia at present, YD gave me dvd set of the series - and as Maxwell Smart used to say to 99 "...and loving it!"

Portly [!] Idiocyncratic [OH said leave out the cyncratic and finish with t, HUH! Honest, Piscean [to the bone]

Do I talk to myself? ----arrah! sure who else would listen to me if I didn't!

Guilty pleasure...hmmm, have to think about that one...garlic chips [french fries]

Who makes me laugh til I weep? OH, some of the comments he comes out with are so 'dry' but apt that I have to sit down in weakness when he starts me laughing.

First Spring thing? The clock going back and the first daffodils, buds appearing...

Planning to travel to...Tralee, Co Kerry...I need a spiritual break this year.

Best thing ate/drank? Glass of merlot last night while indulging a good long gossip with a pal

Flower of the moment; The purple tulips I planted last autumn have come up and they are fabulous!

Favourite film? With Frances on this one, Thin Man, Marx Bros, Bas Rathbone, any of the old Black & Whites, ultimate favourite? Casablanca...play it again Sam!

Care to share some wisdom?
There are no problems only answers, you just have to take time out for a few minutes and look for the solution. [Terry Reilly R.I.P 2.4.1986 friend of mine]

Would you rather walk, run or ride?
Walk, anytime, but since I got my new car...hmmm!

So that's that - I am now tagging Snailbeachshepardess, Blossom Cottage, Cait, Lampworkbeader, Celtic Heart, Fennie, Elizabethm, Pipany, Un Peu Loufoque and @themill...if I have double tagged anybody, my apologies.

Sunshine in my Garden makes me happy

2009-04-20T21:18:00.000+01:00

I am probably going to be accused of being fox-obsessed, but these mornings it is very hard not to be. Since my last blog, there has been an increase in Vulpes vulpes' activity in the garden. On Saturday night, the outside light came on around midnight, just as I was trailing off to bed, exhausted from a day preparing for the morrow's lunch for twelve family members. It was the Silver Vixen, plump and well cared for, and why wouldn't she be. The word recycling in this household includes fox; well, leftovers are thrown out, and chicken bones are always very welcome. It has a knock on effect, according to my neighbour. Apparently since OH and I moved back here, his Buff Orpingtons, Silky Bantam [the one that thinks it is a cat] and two Rhode Island's are nowhere near as traumatised by the sight of a Silver Fox slavering over their shed, drooling as she mentally concocts such delicacies as Poulet avec Feathers, or whatever.

Sunday morning I opened the dining room curtains to watch her wend her way to her den, which I have my eye on, with a large rat gripped firmly in her jaws. She's earning her living then! Yesterday afternoon, the inlaws, outlaws and attendant offspring sat 'round the dining room table. Suddenly little Odhrán gave a shout - Mam, look, it's a, it's a...fox, he squeaked. Instant rush of city dwelling members of the family to the window, instant disappearance of fox who had been sunning herself on the rocks, in this instance it was the Bracken fox. By dusk, those who had lingered on, otherwise known as those without offspring, or whose offspring have fled the nest, were enjoying a glass of Chardonnay, watching the sun set over Dublin Bay when the neighbourhood Barn Owl swooped up and over the dining room roof.

"My God" cried Trish, "what the hell was that?",
"Oh!, just the garden Barn Owl" said YD casually.
"You have a Barn Owl in the Garden? For real?" squawked Mags, always one to squawk in amazement according to Therese her sibling - these two do NOT get on, and, as I nodded my head in assent, it suddenly hit me that this was "AN EPISODE" in Mags' life as a former neighbour liked to term such moments.

I have never taken the wildlife in the garden for granted; be it the Badger, Barn Owl, Fox, or on occasion when the grass tussocks have been trimmed and there is something resembling a lawn, the rabbits. The cry of the curlew over the hill, the swoop of swallow like a squadron of Spitfire pilots, chasing the tasty morsel of fly and gnat - the lower they fly the worse the weather next day will be. That was a belief firmly held by my Mother, and she was seldom proved wrong.

When we were children, in the summer, we were always fascinated how she, and next doors Mum always knew that we wouldn't be disporting ourselves on the local beach the following day; we were sure they knew magic, was it the seaweed they both had hanging outside from the gutter? Damp and rain would follow the next day, crispy dry and sunny days ahead? No, years later when I had ED and YD Mum let me into her secret, it was the flight of the swallows. High for good weather, soaring on thermals because that's where the fly was, low to the ground for wet, and it never failed.

Back to work today after two weeks hols for Easter; this was the break I had been waiting for - and, needless to remark, the best laid plans of mice, men and IE went seriously astray. This morning I lugged myself out of the bed at seven, staggered into the kitchen, now resplendent with new linoleum on the floor, cream painted units, and a new fridge instead of dark brown wooden cabinetry, and dark brown wood effect linoleum on the floor of last year, and pulled up the blind. There, calmly walking across the lawn were seven magpies. Sauntering casually, pecking holes in OH's beautifully mown velvety lawn, I envied them, oh not the lawn pecking, but being able to stay in the fresh air, and not be stuck in an office. Still and all, we are lucky, the Boss gave us an early evening off as things were still quiet after the recess, and I headed home thanking God for the longer days. After a quick bite to eat [we'll be on leftovers for the next three days with all the dieting fads of yesterday] it was out to the garden in wellies, and some rockery restoration for me.

I have an ambition. It is to restore the rockery my Dad created six months before he died. Nasturtiums were his favourite and I have planted the seeds for their homecoming. Thanks to wonderful pictures of Auricula's at a certain venue lately, I have become attracted to these pretty and long lasting lovelies. Pink and Orange grace the place - they are a joy to behold and brighten up otherwise dull areas.

And so to bed; to be awakened in the morning by the Great Tit's call of "didja, didja" and the Bullfinches as they work their way around the apple blossom; the tree is old and this year I think the harvest will be poor, the blossoms are disappearing at a great rate. I am so up to date with my housework, I am ahead of the posse on the laundry and I am reeling in shock at the thought that, tomorrow I shall be a lady of leisure. Now, let me think...relax in garden and weed a bit? Shopping trip for a few little bits and bobs for the house? Lie in? Read a book? Oh God! the possibilities are endless and it seems like months since I have had time to do such things. Blog? Definitely!

Rainy days and lazy thoughts

2009-04-16T13:48:00.000+01:00

It is April, and it is the month when life is beginning to unfurl. Last week there were hardly any leaves on the Elderberry and on the Cherry Blossom trees, this week the Cock and Hen Bullfinches are taking it in turn to - as I like to put it - prune the buds off the trees. Despite their depradations it would appear that this will be a fecund year for elderberries, [lovely Autumn jellies to come], and masses of confetti like blooms spread over the lawn. I can hear OH now, already bemoaning the "mess" on his velvet lawns, newly mown with pride. Amazing what a new lawn mower can achieve.

E.D and I were having a cuppa in the dining room last week on Good Friday when across the garden flew what, at first, I took to be a Sparrowhawk, but under closer inspection before she turned to land, turned out to be a Cuckoo. The first sighting in years, in my childhood they were prolific, April airs abounded with their gleeful call, boasting how they had ousted chicks from nests and installed their own eggs. Many's the Dunnock Mother that had to have psychiatric attention when the eggs hatched and to her horror the never closed beak of her newborn demanded more and more food, and grew to three times her size. She, naturally, in line with the Motherhood rules, blamed it on His side...she always knew her Mother-in-Law was a cuckoo! Mme Cuckoo this time was off to evict nests in next door's gorse.

March has been a busy month, cutting fire breaks, carefully checking each 12' high gorse bush [it has been a long time since the last fire] to ensure that there were no residents of this gorse tenement. Unfortunately, the local council have not been so diligent, and have used a JCB to cut a swathe across some local heathland. As a result we are overrun with residents seeking housing. The population of the three neighbouring gardens has grown tenfold, recession hits more than one walk of life it seems.

Jenny Wren was disgruntled at first when we started on the tussocks of grass wherein she used to drop down, seeking whatever grubs that lurked among them, but with the cleared ground has come an easier harvest and she has stopped her "tsk-tsk-tsking". Portly woodpigeons, like wealthy bankers, ponderously plod across the velvet lawn, and the Magpies have been nipping dead pieces of ivy twig to build their nests, planning permission granted or not, building in the bird world is not at a standstill. Last years outcast has survived the winter, albeit with pinky hued feathers rather than his siblings pristine white; they appear to have either accepted him or are too busy nest building to bother with him.

Maybe they admire his tenacity. There is something sad though in the way he has built a haphazard nest in the blue cedar, twigs awry, and no female will entertain his amorous advances. He sits in the evenings at the peak of the tree muttering to himself, and answers me when I say "what's afoot Mag?". I get "no, no, upty, der, der, der" in return...as soon as the Oxford Dictionary of Magpie monotone conversation comes out I shall buy a copy and we shall have heavy discourse on life, and the pursuit of a mate.

The Silver and her daughter The Bracken foxes are busy. Silver has cubs I think. There is heavy duty work going on bringing home leftover chicken carcases, I have long ago abandoned putting such into dustbins, it is annoying to have bin lids clanging in the wee hours, so I leave them out at the end of the garden. Afterall, it is recycling after a fashion. They keep the vermin down. A morsel of mouse makes an appetiser for a chicken meal.

The old mangy dog fox is back. He is not the fine fellow who courted the Silver in the Autumn but rather a sickly specimen with ragged coat, dull and unkempt, his brush is gone - in place of a fine outstanding brush his resembles a blade of grass with the seed removed. He sits high on the hill amongst the uncut gorse and watches for whatever it is he watches. I have called the relevant people to come and try to capture him; he is a health hazard to his clan and to all domestic dogs and cats. I am informed that if I could tell them what time he will be around they will send someone up, have you met a fox lately who sticks rigidly to a timetable? No, nor me either.

All I can hope for is that he will go away again, he arrives for a couple of weeks every year and then disappears. I suspect TB, he crosses the garden in broad daylight and stands looking at the house. It is as if thinking is too much of a burden for his brain to bear. Half of me is hugely sympathetic, the other half is afraid of what damage he might do and how his illness might impinge on my beautiful Silver and Bracken vixens. Those ladies of lush coats [cubs have not taken their toll on a harassed Mum yet]. Mme Pounce visited for Easter week end and to her disgust was quarantined for her own good. I didn't need any dictionary to understand that language!

The Siskins have arrived, as have the Swallows. Easter weather was crisp but sunny and wonderful in sheltered spots. Beneath the blue Cedar violets and anenomies and grape hyacinths abound. Red tulips grace the lawn amidst the daffodils who are fast coming to the end of their reign for this Spring.

Work continues apace on my Father's rockery which we re-discovered after cutting down Lawsonii which had grown right up to the kitchen window. The kitchen is now a haven of bright sunrays, a makeover with paint which we had to hand from the old house, and new lino on the floor. If kitchen's could preen, this poor, sad and neglected lady would positively dance like a peacock.

I stood looking down the garden on Easter Monday and wondered what Mum would have made of all the changes, hoping she would be proud and pleased. The biggest is yet to come, an extension to house a family sized kitchen and an extra bedroom. I may have inherited over a year ago, but she still reigns and for that I am thankful.

(c)Copyright belongs to Irish Eyes

A childhood Christmas memory

2008-12-24T17:12:00.000Z

I remember very well Christmas when I was 8 years old, it was bitterly cold and for weeks there had been heavy frost lying on the ground, it just seemed to build up in layers. Naturally, as children, we were delighted as a nearby pond was frozen solid and we - had we known about them - imagined ourselves to be the Torville & Dean of the early 60's.

At the school Christmas concert I got roped into playing the part of a Policeman, a desperate teacher, anxious to ensure that the whole class got a part, decided that I should arrest one of the three Wise men. There were 33 in our class that year, the stage was a good size but holding 33 all staring reverently [Mother Superior's beady eye being upon us] at the Baby in the Manger was not what the stage was built for.

When it came time to arrest the Wise Man, [probably for the illegal importation of Gold or Frankinsense] I rose nervously, teetered along the edge of the stage, put my hand on his shoulder, overbalanced reaching across the classmate playing the donkey and cartwheeled off the stage, bringing two wise men, [neither the guilty party] and a stuffed sheep [don't ask!].

Therein ended my acting career. By mid-March Miss Byrne had forgiven me, by June Mother Superior could greet me in the corridor with my given name and not a disdainful "Oh yes, you're the one that disturbed Baby Jesus by falling off the stage, aren't you?].

Good comes out of bad somehow, and Mum [bright red in face] won a Turkey, probably a consolation prize for her turkey of an actress daughter. Two days before Christmas Eve we went to our local town to pick up the bird. There he was. A large, irate, bronze Turkey, fully feathered and gobbingly - well - gobby! That bird could gobble for Ireland. Mum's face was a picture, this was obviously a conspiracy on someones part, revenge for daughter's fall from the stage!

So, what did we do? Well, we walked Henry [he had a Henry face] up the main street to where the car was parked, eventually managed to get him in the boot of the car, brought him home, and upon arrival cautiously opened the boot of the car. I think he may have overheard Dad comment on his fate if he had misbehaved in an anti-social manner in the boot, because as soon as the lid opened even a little bit, fourteen pounds of bronze turkey flew from the boot, up the garden in a charge that would have done the Light Brigade proud, straight up the hill, and for the next fortnight we could hear his gobbling call, taunting us.

That was a really tasty chicken we had for Christmas dinner that year. Henry? Well, he gobbled until February and then went silent. Around St Valentine's Day there was a well fed looking fox in the garden. Of course, he could have fattened himself on the rabbits that graze on the hill, couldn't he?

Happy Christmas to you all!

(c) copyright belongs to IE

The Monk's Tale

2008-11-06T16:51:00.000Z

As a child, coming up the lane to our house was always a spooky experience; not the sort of Spooks you see on BBC on a Monday night, but the spine shivering type. There were chestnut trees [over eighty years old] meeting overhead. In daylight hours this gave the lane the appearance of a grand cathedral when the trees were in full bloom.

Come the autumn and the branches reaching to heaven like arthritic fingers, all the conkers long gone - smashed in the many enjoyable childhood competitions of conker bashing - and the place took on a different feel altogether. Coming up to Hallow’een and should you be the proud possessor of long straight hair, you were guaranteed to come up the lane with new found curls.

The house behind the big stone wall was built on the site of a Monastery which was razed to the ground by King Henry’s forces at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries - or so local legend has it. This may be true, certainly there was some edifice there, long gone in memory.

As we walked up the lane home, we happy band of five, tired and muddy after a day spent roaming across hills and through local forestry, we always raced up the last part of the lane. Two of us never felt anything, except to complain that one part of the lane was icy cold and to laugh at the other three members of our merry gang. We on the other hand were sure that there was some evil menace lurking just behind our left shoulders always urging us to run as fast as we could and to get out of the lane and up into our respective front gardens.

As I grew older I retained this sensation, most of the others either forgot or grew out of it, except for one of the lads. One evening, when we were suffering a power-out, Mum and I started chatting about local history.

I told her about the sensation in the lane, fully expecting to either be laughed at or told “Don’t be silly, there is no such thing as…” but no. Unexpectedly she looked at me intently and told me that my Grandfather, her father, had always said the exact same thing. I scoffed and told her not to be trying to make me nervy coming up the lane. No, she was in earnest. One of twelve, he and another brother had always had this sensation and Peter had gone to some lengths to find out why this feeling would come over certain people in this part of the lane.

Rolling on to a night in my mid twenties, my cousin and I were coming home one July evening from a dance. Strictly sober, it having been one of those dances where minerals only were served, Lee asked me if I would hurry up. I asked her why and she replied she thought we were being followed. I asked her how she felt and she described, exactly, the same sensations that my Grandfather and I [her Great Grand Uncle] had felt.

When we got into the house, I told her the story, backed up by Mum. After a while she stopped shivering and said that her own Mother, [Grand niece to both Peter and my Grandfather] had always said that she felt queasy going up the lane of a dark night.

The Chestnut trees have been cut, and are long gone, the lane is a much brighter place today, you can actually see the stars above on a clear night, but the Monk is still there urging us to hurry. All the old villagers are agreed that he is not intent on harming anyone on the lane, but is trying to get them out of the way of King Henry’s men to safety. Maybe he lost his own life trying to save someone, or maybe he failed in the attempt and is still trying. Whatever his story is, may he rest in peace.
copyright belongs to irish eyes

NIGHT OF THE DANCING FOXES

2008-11-01T13:26:00.000Z

On a warm moon lit night recently I couldn’t sleep; at three in the morning I was sitting at the kitchen worktop, with the light of the moon streaming in through the window sipping a cup of tea.

I was debating whether I would indulge myself with some toast, knowing that sleep would not be easy coming. It was one of the nights we all get, where the brain is overactive and the neatly made bed on my side had become a tossed morass - himself slumbering the sleep of the just, a gentle snore intruding on the stillness of the night every now and again.

As I moved to open the bread bin a movement in the moonlit garden caught my eye. I stood still, not sure if we had an intruder lurking behind the bush, and ready to grab the cordless phone; a cloud passed over and the garden darkened.

As it cleared, I saw that the Vixen who inhabits the end of the garden was slowly making her way down towards the house. Sinuously moving from side to side, her nose investigating all the interesting possibilities that make life worthwhile to a fox. Suddenly she stopped, raised her head and turned towards what was formerly my Mother’s hen run, now a long deserted support for a clematis of gargantuan proportions.

Delicately lifting one front paw, she slowly retreated up the incline and as she did so I watched as the Dog fox came into view from behind the Chrysanthemums in one of the flowerbeds. Just as slowly as the lady he place one paw deliberately in front of the other. She stopped all movement and he advanced towards her cautiously.

Suddenly she leapt into the air, half twisting as she returned to the mossy grass, he pounced towards her and they began to dance sideways around each other. For what seemed like hours, but in reality were merely minutes they danced a minuet around each other. I stood entranced, at the back of my mind was the thought that surely this should be a foxtrot!

As swiftly and as lightly as a butterfly, she suddenly raced up the garden towards the big granite rock at the top of it. Leaping on it she started to preen herself, snapping at the dog fox; if the lady was going to succumb, she was not going to do it easily. Faint heart never won fair fox was obviously her motto.

I contemplated trying gently to open a window to listen to her calls, but the moment I put hand to window catch she suddenly decided it was time to dance again and she whirled down off the rock, raced right through the garden and into the flowerbed leaving a bewildered male looking after her in the moonlight. If I had been closer to him I am sure that his face would have registered total resignation and the thought obviously in his head was “Women!” However, nothing loathe, he followed her to the flowerbed and soon they were tumbling head over paw between the dahlia’s and the fuchsia.

A long twenty minutes later during which I had begun to think about returning to bed, he slowly appeared from behind the fuchsias and trotted off nonchalantly heading down by the side the house. As he passed, the outside light came on. He froze momentarily, well used to it yet, despite his recent night of passion, still alert.

At a more leisurely pace, Madam Fox moved out to sit beside the hen run and groom herself meticulously. She was serenely beautiful, and sated looking. She groomed from tip of brush to nose and when satisfied that she was the Coco Chanel of the Vulpes world, she trotted off up the garden, behind the Lilac bushes, over the big rock. There she paused, highlighted by the moon, looked back over her shoulder straight towards me, and I would swear she grinned a foxy grin at me.
copyright belongs to Irish Eyes.

Autumn - in Ireland

2008-10-19T17:39:00.000+01:00

There is a bleak icy wind blowing from the north, the sun shines palely in an arctic sky. On the lawn five magpies dance on the freshly cut grass seeking whatever lurks below the soil that might provide them with a tasty tidbit. They turn their head sideways, listen intently and then pounce.

Two Robins, one pair of the six that live locally, have an argument on the lawn in front of the dining room window. Territorial as ever, with the cutback of grisellinia hedge and a couple of bushes territorial nesting sites are at a premium and those fancy new nest box things, one from Arklow and one from Somerset have to be examined and decided upon yet. Upwardly mobile has a different meaning in Robin-speak.

Two coal tits have decided that their favourite film is The Blue Max; they perform aerial battle around the cherry tree to decide which one of them will land and feast on the peanuts in the holder. As battle continues, one of the Magpies dangles precariously from a branch and plucks peanuts out. Velociraptors of old would admire their cunning. They look like something out of a Dinosaur film as they calculate their mode of acquisition. Funny how it looks like they calculate while other birds consider.

Last night as I closed the curtains a fox jumped up on the garden wall, totally at ease in her surroundings. She paused a moment and caught sight of me in the moonlight that was shining through the window. Her head lifted, her nose sought my scent, but behind the glass window, I was no worry to her.

The Badger snuffled his way through a flowerbed outside the study window on Friday night. He is attracted by the intermittent treats of left over chicken carcases that I leave out for him, and it is a bad night for him when the fox gets there first. He must content himself with a trawl through the flowers for morsels of slug, and whatever has fallen from the bird table.

Winter has shown her nose this morning; the icy wind felt as if it were cutting me in half as I stood at the clothesline. On the bramble bushes black berries have hardened, no longer the sweet and juicy attractive berry plucked in September to add to a dish of ice cream, make up into jam or add to apples for a tasty fruit pie. The mix of unripened fruit in greens and reds on the bush with the hardened black berries makes an attractive picture in the autumnal sunshine.

Overhead the Merlin hovers, her eyes firmly fixed upon a prey that may, or may not be aware of the danger above. She halts her hover and moves away over the fields to once again hover and swoop, this time successfully - something small like a vole has run out of luck.

In the wintry sunshine fuchsias, remind me of summer. Not that we had much of a summer this year. Like the global recession, global weather was on a major downturn. Yesterday, Saturday was a golden autumn day, today is more like that which we see in January. The forecast for the weekend is promising; hopefully it will be a golden week. We could do with the balm which such days bring to our spirits.
copyright belongs to Irih Eyes.