God's Kingdom

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!

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

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

1. not vote for him because he's not with YOUR Party;
2. 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;
3. 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;
4. Set the dog on him;
5. 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

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

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

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

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.