Autumn Glory

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!!

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!

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!

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!

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

Five Favourite Songs;

1. Flowers in the rain [forget the bands name but think 60's era]
2. Scarborough Fair - Simon & Garfunkle [used to sing this in the folk group I was a member of back in the days of folk Masses.
3. At Vinegar Hill O'er the pleasant Slaney...good old fashioned rebellious ballad.
4. Such a perfect day [I'm glad I spent it with you...] love this song - sums up - well, perfect days perfectly.
5. 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

1. Watership Down [the original]...still get glisteny eyes when I hear "Bright Eyes"
2. Ryan's Daughter, what's not to like? Robert Mitchum, The Kerry scenary, and an ill-cast Christopher Jones!
3. 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!
4. Rear Window - Jimmy Stewart - never get tired of this film!
5. 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...

1. "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.
2. "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.
3. "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.
4. "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.
5. "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?

1. O.H., [should have been a politican with that one eh? ]
2. Robert Mitchum
3. Clarke Gable
4. Chris Jones [when I was 15]
5. 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!

1. 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.
2. 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.
3. 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.
4. 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 :-}
5. 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

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.