About Me

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Typical Piscean, dreamer, story teller in the tradition of my country, I love to write. I'm not sure that I'm any good at it, but getting the words down has its reward.

02 November 2011

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.


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?


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!