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.
Random thoughts from a roving mind!
About Me
- Irish Eyes
- 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.
27 January 2010
22 December 2009
Santa is coming
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.
"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.
02 December 2009
December daze
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.
23 November 2009
Weather Reporting
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.
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.
04 November 2009
Of Village life
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.
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.
15 October 2009
A Night at the Opera and the rest of it
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.
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.
08 October 2009
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!!
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!!
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