Cautious and The Rebel; Keep the Home Fires burning

The stunningly handsome “Dash”, hero of this garden and its environs, is a proud Dad.  The Rebel is a cute bundle of fox fur, cinnamon in colour, and he first came to our attention two weeks ago.  This means he is about seven weeks old, and is full of vim, vigour and mischief.  Daddy Dash has had to chase after him across the lawn, cuff him with a gentle paw and the prod of a nose in the side to return him to the den.  As he slowly loses his “cub” face and his “fox” face emerges from the fluff, I have a vision of him, red and white spotted kerchief tied to a stick thrown over his shoulder. Off with him on many great adventures.

Yesterday, as he sunned himself on what we now term the nursery rock; devious thoughts of escape no doubt running through his foxy brain, a second smaller cub tentatively put a paw and cute little face out of the den and came to join The Rebel.  I don’t know if The Rebel is dog or vixen yet.  We have named the sibling “Cautious”.

Cautious is much more nervous, and a short bark from Mother, Miss Pretty, had he/her race back into the shelter of the cotoneaster; meanwhile The Rebel groomed himself/herself meticulously, sneered over a small shoulder at Cautious, stretched in leisurely fashion and sauntered back to the den.  We await, with interest, the development of this stunning pair.  Cautious is more russet in colour and her/his face is still cub-like.  Both have inherited Daddy’s white tipped tail. 

Last year’s cubs, three of them, were not a success.  One died within weeks of showing himself, one left home for pastures new and the other emigrated for a while to a nearby hill and returned with mange.  Copious quantities of blue mouldy bread thrown out to him appears to have cured the mange.  Nothing like raw penicillin to do the job.  He is horrible to behold in looks, but at least his fur has regrown.  We haven’t seen him around for the past few weeks and I think Daddy Dash has warned him off.  There is no doubting Dash is a protective father, he ran into the midst of fourteen Grey Crows the other day when he thought they had The Rebel in their sights.

 

In WWII, or The Emergency as it was referred to here, the Luftwaffe was industrious in its determination to sink the mail boats coming across from England, and to that end Dublin Bay was targeted on a regular basis.  The North Strand area of Dublin took a direct hit and much damage was done.  With typical Irish phlegmatism the attitude was one of “arrah sure! It could have been worse!” amongst Dubliners. 

My Mother used to tell me of nights when my Grandmother would take my Uncle and Mum out of the house and away across the fields to the shelter of a cowshed.  My Grandmother was terrified that the planes flying overhead would drop a bomb by mistake, as they flew overhead, on their way to bomb the mail boats. 

One evening last week I thought of my Grandmother as many planes flew in over the house.  Irish citizens were returning from all over the world to cast their vote in the Marriage Equality referendum.  At one stage last Thursday night one could be forgiven for thinking there was an armada of airplanes overhead.

I moved a garden chair to a newly cleared part of the garden which has a view over the Bay.  Inspired to do so by having to stand in a bitter wind [this is May right?] admiring the Queen Elizabeth 2 in all her stately nautical glory recently.  As she lay at anchor in the Bay, every available hill, road with a view and even some private lanes, were traversed in order to catch the best photo.  One lady arrived at my gate and asked could she go up onto our roof, was there any part of it flat enough for her to stand on and take a “leeeetle picky”.  Her resemblance to Miss Map notwithstanding, I declined access – we don’t have a flat roof – and she told me she was very disappointed in me.  People never cease to amaze me.

My newly placed chair is in a cleft in the rocks, sheltered from wind and sun, cosy and an old childhood haunt.  In our youth, my pals and I hid here while we decided who was a Cowboy, which of us were Red Indians and whether we were cattle rustling, robbing the stage coach, or even rescuing the stage coach from “The Baddies”.

In the intervening years since The Lone Ranger, Wild Mikey and The Sun up Kid and I moseyed along to our hidey hole, a rowan tree has taken root at the entrance to our special area.  In full bloom at the moment, it has a smell reminiscent of almonds and horse stables.  If we get any sort of a summer without snow in it, the lap top and I shall be seeking inspiration out there.  Flask of tea and ice top buns, gluten free naturally, will be the order of the day.

Mum's thinking post

Escape to the Country

We lived in County Wicklow for 28 of our 35 years and I have always loved its gentle rolling hills, reminiscent of Shropshire.  The fact that I can trace back a couple of generations to South Wicklow probably tips the balance a wee bit as well.

Himself’s car was in need of some beauty treatment.   A leaking oil valve, (or whatever they call it), tyre realignment (sounds painful) and a general wash, wax and all that rigmarole was called for.  I drove down behind him to the dealer’s maintenance garage in Wicklow town.    We then headed off down-country along back lanes.  Avoiding knocking down low flying swallows, blackbirds incandescent with rage that their branch had been taken over by a self serving rook.  We meandered around bends in the road enchanted by the richness of the may blossom, the bright yellow of the gorse and the sound of birdsong along the route.

We were debating where we would have our lunch.  We’re not Foodies as such, we just like plain, old fashioned home style cooking.  We haven’t traversed these back roads for about two years and it was reassuring to find them as lovely as ever.  Would we drop into the Bee Hive just outside Wicklow town on the road to Arklow?  Perhaps we might call into Lil Doyles’ restaurant and I could indulge myself with one of their light, fluffy mushroom omelettes?  I’m watching “Pie in the Sky” at the moment, and Henry Crabbe’s obsession with the omelette parfait was probably influential in that choice.  We could keep going and head for Gorey in Co. Wexford and the Ashdown Hotel where gluten free good Irish cooking is a way of life.

Let me wax lyrical about the Ashdown for the moment.  It is, in fact, a new build…well relatively so.  It was built at the end of the ‘90’s with a heavy nod to Arts & Crafts style intermingled with witty pictures on the walls.  My favourite is one of a fisherman with rod and line, at sea just off a coastline, in a large copper saucepan.  The staff are pleasant and self-effacing in that they help you out without making a Drama and Occasion of it.  It amuses me to think that in one hundred years’ time, if it is still standing, people will say with a wise look on their face “Oh yes, it’s an historic building, built in the 90’s y’know, last century”.  To me, built in the 90’s conjures up the 1890’s and my Grandmothers (both) who were born in 1897 and 1900 respectively.

However, I digress. As we rounded a bend in the road just before The Bee Hive we almost knocked down a nice young man.  A nice young man in high viz jacket, standing at the junction of, well, the makings of a new motorway to Rosslare.  The Bee Hive, now lurking in a hollow near the access road, is closed for business at present.  We pressed on. 

Lil Doyles’ Pub & Restaurant looks like it may never open again as it sits cheek by jowl with an enormous bridge, the motorway glowering over the restaurant.  I’m not often rendered speechless, according to Himself, but not even a squeak was possible. 

In fear and trepidation we headed on for Gorey.  Suspicions were high that a new shopping mall might now exist in the Ivy Leaf bar and restaurant.  The forecourt, scene of many a happy wedding picture and selfie, would this be a drive in MacDonald’s? We were so obsessed with the fate of the Ashdown that we forwent the pleasure of our usual trip out to Courttown to see what was going on.

As they say in all the best dramatic novels…”A large Phew was emitted”, Oh! All right, so they don’t go quite that far, but we did emit a loud “Thank God”.  There she stood, in full May sunshine and glory, as a Bride and Groom descended from a 1920’s cream Rolls Royce, welcome shining out of every window.  Suffice it to say that cauliflower in a light creamy sauce, herby roast beef [from Redmond’s farm] and gravy, rich  like a melted Galaxy bar, steamed mixed vegetable al dente, and the fluffiest mashed potato and we were purring like tabbies.  I think I heard C. I. Henry Crabbe purring as well.

We won’t go into the cost of the beauty treatment for Himself’s beloved motor vehicle, but let us just say that when he arrived home after me he didn’t give it its customary little pat and say “Atta girl”.  No, something like “piece of wrap, or snap” or something that rhymes with that was uttered in a very low tone.  Not to worry, he’ll recover.  She’ll have her rear seats out by tomorrow and the lawn mower, strimmer and all that stuff will be brought out to sister in laws garden to do the needful there.  Dolores will ride again, smelling of phew de petrol.

In loving memory of our beloved Cáit O’Connor who left us this week.

May her spirit fly in the sunlight above the Blasket Islands of Kerry

And may her soul sit at the right hand of God. Ar dheis De a anamh dilis.  Sleep the long peaceful sleep mo chara.

Wasn't I right about Galway? The night the hotel fire alarm went off; so when did night attire become a fashion statement?

Ah yes! My powers of deduction are marvellous; Himself decided last yesterday that it would be too cold to travel to Galway and has decided two weeks time would be ideal.  I am positive the fact that he bought a new lawnmower had absolutely nothing to do with this decision, equally I am positive that there are pigs flying in the sky overhead.  Hmmmm!

So, over breakfast this morning, and  a plate of the full Irish breakfast and a large cup or three of tea, we reminisced on our three day sojourn in Galway in March and the excitement of our second night.  Before you get carried away in your imagination, grab a cup of something, pull up a chair and hear how it went.

Every now and again Himself and I take ourselves off for a couple of nights away.  Our favourite is Galway which is a mere two hours down a very boring motorway to heaven.  We usually arrive around two in the afternoon, throw our bags in our room and head out for Lettermullen, which we love, or maybe on out to Clifden.  This year, being early March, we wandered around Bearna which is not too far from the city.  Neither of us feel the pull to wander around cities, preferring the call of the seagull and the feel of the breeze from the Atlantic on our faces.

On Wednesday night, after a day touring around to Maam Cross, Oughterard, Oranmore, and a gorgeous meal in Blazers restaurant in the hotel, we retired around eleven to the biggest bed I have ever seen, it was more like the pitch at Old Trafford.

Two hours after mid-night and we are sleeping the sleep of the contented when an almighty wail raises us from our slumber.  Himself hopped out of the bed with an alacrity in a late 60 year old that was worthy of a fifteen year old. I sat up, swept my watch and phone into my handbag, grabbed my coat and we headed for the meeting point as advised in a notice on the back of the bedroom door.

As we headed out into the corridor the door of the room across from us opened a little and a lady put her head out as asked us what was all the caterwauling about.  "It's the fire alarm" I explained, "we have to go to the rally-point downstairs, so don't take the lift". The lift only holds about five comfortably anyway, so that's a no go for a start in an emergency.  

We were quite cool, calm and collected in ourselves. One American gentleman was seriously disgruntled, complaining that he had seen a note in the lift about a "practice emergency exit in case of fire" and he was "damwell gonna ring someone" to complain about the hour chosen for a practice emergency exit.  However, as we got further down the stairs, the smell of smoke got stronger and by now some people were starting to panic and try to race down the stairs.

Outside the wind was howling and the rain was lashing against the doors of the hotel.  The night manager, Franz, met us in the foyer and advised that "there has been a small fire in the laundry which is now out. The fire brigade are here, they have it under control, and as soon as they are satisfied that everything is safe and well, you will be free to return to your rooms.  In the meantime, please remain here in the foyer and I will keep you advised on what is the current situation".  

There was a babble of excited conversation in the hall, Mr "Damwell" was huffing and puffing that we should all be outside and the French lady from the room across from us was telling everyone that "I thought those people in the room across from me were going out for a walk, she had her coat and shoes on". 

Of course I had my coat and shoes on, and a very snazzy set of tartan pyjama's [if I do say so myself] underneath the coat.  No self respecting Irishwoman would forget her handbag and good coat no matter what the emergency was.  Besides, no self respecting Irishwoman would risk death by pneumonia standing outside in the cold while the hotel burned down.  Priorities, as my Grandmother used to say, must be observed, and a good coat is a good coat.

An English couple from Shropshire were sitting beside us, as well as a couple from Cork.  The lady from Cork cornered the night manager and asked him would it be possible to get a pot of tea for six while we were waiting to go back to our room.  Understandably he asked if we would mind waiting until things were a little less frenetic for him, and he would look after us then.  Mme. Across-The-Hall's jaw dropped and she turned to the woman beside her and said "I have always heard the Irish were mad, now I know they are".  As the lady from Shropshire said, with a huge grin on her face, "tea is always appropriate on occasions like this".  Mme A-T-H was left speechless.

An hour later, the Fire Chief came into the foyer to tell us that all was well, the fire was completely out and that a dryer had overheated thus causing the fire.  We were good to go if we wanted to return to our rooms.  Mr Damwell decided to give Franz a piece of his mind, but the rest of the guests wandered slowly back upstairs to their beds.  Few took the lift.  The Shropshire lady and I chatted as we strolled along the corridor to our respective rooms, and she was full of praise for how quickly the Fire Brigade had arrived.  As I pointed out to her, the Fire Station was, luckily, only down the road.  Mme Across-the-Hall was asking someone "what sort of trousers are those on the lady with her coat and shoes on"  Apparently she didn't think they were very chique.  Tell that, Madame, to my daughter who gave them to me for Christmas...

Breakfast, the next morning, was abuzz with greetings amongst the guests and chatter about the night's excitement.  

There's nothing like a good old fire alarm to enliven up your night.

Internet access; Poldark and Galway

It shocked me to realise that it has been such a long time since I last blogged.  Apart from the fact that the study was freezing, to put it mildly, during the winter and that was with the central heating on full blast...time and a dodgy internet access that came and went just frustrated my attempts to sit down and merrily bang away at the keyboard.  Hopefully I can get back to doing something that I really do enjoy.

You'll have noticed, by now, my picture at the top of the page of Smerwick at Slea Head on the Dingle Peninsula, Co. Kerry.  I was watching Poldark, along with about 400 zillion other fans, last night and I thought "Okay, Wow, pure Turner!".  Inspired by the HD picture of the Cornish coast, I decided to put up our own Kerry coast.  

 Having watched the original "Poldark" with Robin Ellis in it, and standing on a bookshelf close by are Winston Graham's "Poldark" books, I have to say that I am really loving this 2015 version even though I get a niggle of "oh! yet another gallop from Nampara to Trenwith via Wheal Leisure" now and again.  Cornwall is so beautiful it would be lovely to see a bit more in the next series. The gallops serve to mark the passing of time at least, and those sunsets are something else.

The trip to Galway.  The one that almost, but not quite, indeed very nearly happened last summer, is, allegedly and according to Himself, to happen tomorrow.

We were heading off two weeks ago but his lawnmower died and he went into mourning for it and we spent that assigned day looking for a replacement.  It hasn't been made yet, the shop hasn't been built; the grass is looking fetching with all the cowslips that have appeared on the lawn in the interim.

Last week I woke up with the mother and father of a sinus infection, so I'm responsible for that failed trip.  If we get to Galway for lunch tomorrow it will be [a] a miracle; [b] better be warmer on the Atlantic Coast than the Irish Sea coast and [c] a total shock to my system.  I have taken to marking these prospective Galway trips into my diary with "believe it when I get there" written under it.

We had a lovely three day break there in March.  The weather was idyllic, we took our usual meandering drive around the coastline, had a picnic in Lettermullen, [see previous blogs for pictures] and generally had a wonderful time.  Our waistlines suffered from the fact that we punished ourselves by eating in the hotel - "Blazers" restaurant is to blame if the skirt feels tighter.  On the "being good" side we did take lovely leisurely strolls along the promenade in Salthill.  There is nothing like a good gale off the Atlantic to clear away the cobwebs.  The good food must have acted as ballast.  Said she tongue in cheek.

We are watching the progress of the English election campaign here with interest.  We have a General Election coming up next year.  The dear Government are starting to sweeten the voters with goodies; apparently the recession has receeded, we're on the up and wowee!  Tell that to those who are still struggling with mortgages and those with special needs in schools and hospitals.  We shall see!

So, this time tomorrow, I should be sitting in a restaurant in Galway, enjoying lunch and listening to the sound of a gentle Atlantic breeze waft past.

Believe it when I see it.

I'll keep you posted.

Tis Christmas time in Ireland, and the wreath is on the door.

It's the shortest day today, and in a few days time we will celebrate Christmas.  For the past two weeks I have been fighting one of those viral doses that prowls the land, like wolves seeking prey.  As we head towards The Big Day, I am relieved to be 95%, as the statisticians would put it, recovered, and getting stronger everyday.  

My best friend is in hospital.  We both came down with a "bug" at the same time, whereas I have fought the dose and conquered it, she has had a rising temperature for the past week which rages through her at night.  The hospital staff are baffled.  This year she won't be at home surrounded by her children, grand-children and newborn first great-grand child. Please God they will find out what is causing these raging temperatures and she will be back where she belongs before long.   

Of all times of the year, Christmas is the most special; it is the one at which we all hope to be surrounded by those we love.  My eldest will be 30 on Tuesday, and I find myself thinking back to that sunny, frostily bitter Sunday morning thirty years ago when she first entered this world.  We had lost our little boy, and I didn't think, as I was thirty years old, that I would be lucky enough to have another child.  But the luck of the Irish held she arrived and two years later, her sister was born.  I always think of our eldest as the greatest Christmas present life could ever give me; her sister is the icing on the cake, and I frequently thank a merciful God for them.

On our first Christmas back here, I debated for most of the autumn would I decorate or not.  Would I even bother with Christmas? Without Mum, the house felt as if the roof had fallen off.  In the long run, I decided that decorating would be just what she would order.  My heart wasn't in it, but I decided to keep things minimal and the fireplace was the only area I put up a few decorations.  It is an Irish tradition not to decorate or send Christmas cards for the first Christmas after suffering a death in the family.  

In the long run, I was very glad I did make the effort.  Turkey, Ham and all the trimmings - it not only cheered us up, but we felt the presence of Mum and Dad with us.  Despite the best efforts of my sister in law to make it a solemn occasion by frequently announcing "I can't believe she is dead", the rest of us shared many a laugh remembering good Christmas's together with Mum.  

This was Mum's favourite picture.  It reminded her of her childhood here on what was a dairy farm, and of the cattle coming home at milking time.  I found it in a wall-paper shop in Tralee thirty years ago and brought it back to our old house.  When Christmas time came, I took it out of the attic and wrapped it up.  Her face when she saw it, and the joy across her face, was worth more than all the gold in the world to me.  It still commands pride of place, but I have moved it to the dining room from where she had displayed it.

Himself won a crib in a raffle when he was a young boy.  The original stable has disintegrated over the past 50 years, but the figurines are still going strong.  The donkey is missing the tip of an ear, the angel is wingless, Joseph needs a bit of propping up, but we still set up the crib. Youngest gets the job of putting in the Baby Jesus on Christmas morning, and even if I do say so myself, the crib looks pretty good.  Ten years ago Himself rebuilt it with some pieces of tongue-and-groove wood, and beautifully turned mahogany shelf supports from an old dresser that had succumbed to woodworm.  The supports were worm free, so they were "re-loved", "up-cycled" or whatever you want to call it yourself.

This year we will celebrate Christmas together.  My late friend's Mum is out of hospital and is being taken into respite care on 23rd, locally.  She tells me that it is the thought of coming to join us on Christmas day is what kept her going.  At 90 years of age, she is is one tough trooper, and I think it is more this tenacity that kept her going. It will make my Christmas to see her sitting at the top of the table.  My sister in law is also joining us.  Hopefully Carol, my pal, will be restored to the bosom of her family for Christmas too.  Keep your fingers crossed for her please.

This year I am going for a vintage look.  Himself loves hangers, loops, lights, lights, and more lights.  Usually I let him fire away with his decorating.  I "do" the tree up by tradition.  This year I persuaded him to let me recreate - as it is my 60th year- the decorations of my childhood.  

So, in keeping with tradition there is a red and green and gold theme going on.  Holly and trailing ivy are placed strategically around the place in red vases, the tree is red, green and gold also - those pink plastic baubles we were given a year or two ago are back in the attic.  The air is redolent with the smell of cinnamon and spices, and as luck would have it, most of our Christmas cards are very traditional this year.  

A combination of Downton Abbey and WW1 1914 has hit a lot of imaginations this year, I think.  If this is so, then I am loving it.  The house looks extra cosy and friendly and when Eldest returned home after being away for a few days, she skipped [aged 29] around the house like a little child who had just bumped into Santa.  "I love it" she said - and on that basis I am hoping that this could be the new decorating tradition for our home.

I remember Christmas when I was three.  I remember Dad carrying me up the hall on his shoulders, I remember opening the door to the sitting room, the tree, 6' in height, the red, gold and green baubles.  Dan, our black Labrador sitting in front of the fire, and there, under the Christmas tree...my first dolls pram and the little doll who came to be called Barbara.  Mum had knitted an entire matinee ensemble for her, she knitted a blanket for the pram, and old linen napkins were made into pillow cases.  An old linen table cloth was cut in two, edged, and made into two sheets for the pram. Barbara and I paraded around the garden for many a year until Santa brought a new, shinier, bigger pram four years later.

Nóllaig Shóna dhaiobh a dhuine uaisle!

That history thingy, a month that flew by and...

It has been a busy month, and I can't believe that we are now a month, give or take a day or two, off Christmas. Eeeek! 

This was Christmas 2010.

Christmas night 2011

This was October this year and it would suit me thoroughly if Christmas day looked something like this, even including the heron who was hell bent on cleaning out the pond at the foot of the garden!

Our village history exhibition takes place next week end, Grande Opening on Friday night, regrettably all flights to Bermuda were fully booked so it looks like we "Old Uns" will have to turn up.  We're on duty Friday night and Sunday morning.

It has been a rocky ride for the past six months.  Huge credit is due to the lady who is getting it all onto boards and into leaflets.  She has been adopted by us "Old Uns" for her attention to detail, sheer hard work and despite her weariness, never-ending sense of humour. We have taken her to our hearts.  She moved into the village two years ago and this has been, she tells me, the most joyous and wonderful way to get to know everyone here.

Things have not gone smoothly, despite the fact that we have bent over backwards to assist those who are not  living here  as long as we are, with our collective 300+ years. One thing that has aroused my blood pressure is the insistence, from a newcomer, that there must be some scandal to whet the appetites of those who will visit the exhibition.  If there is, we know it and we know it belongs where it is, in the past.  Does the world need to know that Myler's dog took a lump out of the Raider Kavanagh's heifers leg?  I don't think so.

I have been busy all month between visiting my late friend's Mum in the local hospital.  Three days after her 90th birthday this lovely lady took a very nasty fall.  That was on the 19th, and she is still in hospital and likely to remain so for another few weeks. 

 My aunt, who was widowed in September, is now living in the next town having moved from Kerry to live with her son at his insistence.  She is missing her husband of 57 years and her friends, we are both agreed though that this has been a wonderful opportunity for her and I to spend more time together.  She comes up to me for lunch on a Wednesday and we never notice the hours flying by.  She is my last connection with my parents.  My Father's youngest sister and my favourite aunt.  I have learned much about my Father and his youth in these past few weeks.  It has been a wonderful journey.

On Wednesday night Himself and I took ourselves off to a local hall to watch an amateur dramatic production of John B Keane's "The Year of the Hiker".  I am a huge fan of this wonderfully witty writer from Listowel, Co. Kerry.  "Big Maggie", "The Matchmaker", "Sive", "The Chastitute" and who can forget the film of his book "The Field" starring the incomparable Richard Harris, John Hurt and Sean Bean.  

Maurice Walsh, another Listowel man who wrote "Blackcock's Feather", "The Road to nowhere" and "While Rivers Run" catches my heart and my breath with his way with words.  Bryan McMahon - again from Listowel and his "The Honey Spike", John Millington Synge's "The Playboy of the Western World" and "Riders to the Sea" all captured my imagination when I was growing up. 

Maurice Walsh wrote the original story "The Quiet Man"  which went on to become the film which threw John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara together, not forgetting Barry Fitzgerald and a cast which brought a magic to this film.

Péig Sayers from Dun Chaoin on the Dingle peninsula wrote of her life there and on the Blasket Islands, and it was mandatory reading when I was in school.  The class groaned when the book landed on our desks, but to me it was manna from heaven.  Of all places on God's earth, the Dingle Peninsula in Co. Kerry is my soul home.  I could ask for nothing better as part of my education.  Time for another picture of....

...Peig Sayers very own Blasket Island - Na Blascaoid Mhór.  I wonder if anyone could ever guess where I get my love of the spoken word and the magic of literature from? 

...my Kerry-born Father.

The production was amateur but nonetheless enjoyable for that.  I was in whoops of laughter listening to some of the actors attempting to mimic a Kerry accent, God love them, they hadn't a hope with their posh East Coast accents.  Still, nil desperandum, they played their parts well - and John B's wit carries in any one's accent.

It was lovely to head out to the car park and only have to drive a half mile home afterwards.  On bitter November nights, with the icy wind howling down the streets, I find it increasingly less tempting to travel into Dublin city to see a play.  This is when "home entertainment" comes into its own.  A comfortable car with a good heater is another plus point.

With all the activity for the history group, as Ruth - one of my fellow "Old Uns" - said, "I find myself frequently thinking about the life and times of my Great-Grandmother".  On Wednesday night I thought of my theatre-loving Grandparents who would have travelled to the same hall, on a similar night, in pony and trap.  Hardy people.

A ramble, a few photos for Cáit, and whatever else comes to mind...

For Cáit O'Connor

Know that your Kerry ancestry will always soar over the Dingle Peninsula and that you are in our prayers and thoughts every day.

The Connor Pass, Dingle, Co. Kerry

Back towards Feoghanagh and the Múrioc

From the early days of the 'Coo, there has been a link and friendship between Cáit and I because of our Kerry ancestry.  The landscape in the picture is what creates the inspiration in our hearts, our minds and, indeed, every waking step we take.  It would be hard not to love such countryside.  When I read Cáit's lovely blogs I hear her Kerry soul.

Ireland is a small island of  some 3.5 million people, approximately, nestling some 66 miles east of Wales, 22 off Scotland at its northerly top and its west coast makes it the last parish before Newfoundland.  Legend has it that St. Brendan the navigator, whose statue rises above the harbour at Fenit in Tralee Bay, discovered Newfoundland centuries before Columbus touched the shores of America.  Legend also has it that he reached there in a namhóg, the Kerry/Irish language name for a currach or oilskin craft.  Tim Severin made a journey in a similar craft some years ago to see if it were possible that Brendan had achieved what he set out to do.

To my mind it is not beyond the bounds of possibility.  If the Polynesians could spread out across the vast Pacific, and the Vikings reach down into Europe, I am sure that most seafaring nations went out into the wide blue yonder, and if some never came back, well, for there to be a legend, someone must have come home.  Unfortunately, back in the day they were probably treated as the village eejit, told to stop boasting and no doubt, the village wit informed them that they had only sailed twenty miles down the coast.  If they were Irish, I wouldn't chance a bet on it...the village wit is still alive and well in Ireland today.

I was showing the latest tranche of photographs to someone recently, and the comment was passed, "but every time you go to Kerry you go to Slea Head and you take the same pictures of the same islands and the same old same old..."  Well, yes, maybe I do.  But the lovely thing, as Himself says, is that no two view are ever the same.  The light is constantly changing, and the colours are so rich that I have been accused of  making major touch up jobs.  No, Kerry is Kerry and she is beautify personified.  Not that I am biased, says she tongue in cheek!

The bovine gentleman grazing on the salted grass overlooking Smerwick Harbour, Slea Head, wins a place here for one simple reason.  It has been years, and years, since I have seen a live bull outdoors grazing with his lady friends.  For many years the guy from the Department and his little bottle of tricks has done the job.  I notice that there is a return to basics beginning to appear.  Some of it is, no doubt, a matter of finance for the farmer, and in other instances the growing desire for organic food is driving the return to what nature and God intended.  Bring it on, I say.  Man may be clever in his own mind to invent things in a test tube and to clone...but you can't beat the natural agenda.  As my Grand aunt Julia used to say "God made things simple when he made men", contrary to what you might think, Julia was married and not the village spinster.  She just felt that women had a better way of doing things, with the help of God of course.

Seeing the bull reminded me of the time when, as Secretary of the residents association where we used to live, I had cause to go with a neighbour and a man from the local council into a field.  A field with goats in it.  Also in the company was a man from the Very Big Important Building Firm who hoped to build 600 houses, Tudor design, in the green fields behind us.  We, the residents, were not too enamoured of this.  A meeting of mutually interested parties was convened, and I suggested we meet in the field.  Like all good Irish women, there is a malicious streak in me.  I knew there were goats in the field, after all wasn't I looking at them grazing there every day from my kitchen window across the hedge?

Thursday came and promptly at three p.m., I watched the men arrive at the gate into the field from the bedroom window.  Calling for Mary, and suitably clad in wellies, rackety denim jeans, and a large stick to push back the briars, we headed off to meet them.  Let us call the Builder's man Bob, the guy from the Planning Department Dessie and the goats can name themselves.  Bob gave us a smarmy welcome, wet, limp handshake and proceeded to tell us about the "delights of having quality Tudor style housing which was guaranteed to raise the standard of our own houses and the value as well"...all in one breath.  I nudged Mary gently in the arm to silence the sarcasm I knew was forthcoming.  It could wait.  Dessie, anorak hanging askew, cigarette balanced delicately on lower lip, and notebook stuffed in pocket greeted us with a laconic "Hiiiiii  y'all".

Leading the way through the gate and heading for the gap in the hedge behind our houses, I tipped Mary off about the goats being just behind the hedge and told her not to worry about them. Mary was a Townie but trusted me and with serene dignity we sailed through the gap and on to where the des res Tudor homes were to be built.  Bob and Dessie followed, delicately picking their way in their best shoes through the mud.  A tear in his snazzy blue Merino wool suit from a briar caused Bob to give his considered opinion on fields in general.  All was well until the two lads looked behind them at the Billy goat grazing meditatively on new grown shoots of a gorse [furze] bush.  

Now, I am not sure if the oncoming Hallow'een season had any effect, the vertical pupil of a goat's eye, or just the billy himself, but suddenly the two poor lads seemed seized with concern for our welfare.  Yes, goats eyes can look vaguely sinister, and the chaps were very keen to return to the far side of the gate to discuss the housing matter.  Wide eyed and innocent Mary asked them how could you discuss the matter properly when you weren't looking at the problem directly.  Dessie ran a nicotine stained index finger around his none too white collar, coughed and squeaked that we should keep this meeting brief, important Council matters awaited his attention and...no joy from us.  

We pointed out that the field would only hold 150 houses at most, if the proposed homes were to be that upmarket, 600 would make them like a council estate.  Tudor, we hummed, well, there wasn't much in the line of traditional Tudor buildings in Ireland, wattle and daub maybe, but Tudor...apart from a few grand mansions, so what about something more historically correct?  Oh! of course we then pointed out that the field was an area of immense natural beauty with the mountain in the background.

Ten minutes into the meeting and Bob was ready to agree to anything.  If we had told him that rare bats flew around the place and that almost extinct butterflies were only to be found just here, he would have agreed.  As it was, drainage was the key weapon in our possession.  We pointed out that the field flooded badly every year in heavy rains and that, only for the bank and hedgerow, our 32 house estate would be swamped.  We remarked to each other, Mary and I, on the intelligence of the well known builder, fourteen years previously, in choosing the side of the hedge he did to build on.

Yes was the word flowing from the little man from the Builder.  He would, he assured us, make sure to bring our "most well considered relevant points to his bosses attention immediately".  Bob and Dessie performed well in the sprint across the field to the gate.  Mary and I strolled in leisurely fashion after them.  As they drove away in Bob's shiny new sporty looking car, we waved at them in friendly fashion.  "Now" said Mary "tell me why you weren't terrified like me of those blurry goats".  "Because they were our greatest asset" I replied "once you have a nanny goat at hand a billy is calm, and that lad has three!".

The field?  Oh! since that meeting in 1995 it still remains a home to billy and his ladies, blue butterflies, pipistrelle bats and a merry band of domestic cats gone feral.