I remember very well Christmas when I was 8 years old, it was bitterly cold and for weeks there had been heavy frost lying on the ground, it just seemed to build up in layers. Naturally, as children, we were delighted as a nearby pond was frozen solid and we - had we known about them - imagined ourselves to be the Torville & Dean of the early 60's.
At the school Christmas concert I got roped into playing the part of a Policeman, a desperate teacher, anxious to ensure that the whole class got a part, decided that I should arrest one of the three Wise men. There were 33 in our class that year, the stage was a good size but holding 33 all staring reverently [Mother Superior's beady eye being upon us] at the Baby in the Manger was not what the stage was built for.
When it came time to arrest the Wise Man, [probably for the illegal importation of Gold or Frankinsense] I rose nervously, teetered along the edge of the stage, put my hand on his shoulder, overbalanced reaching across the classmate playing the donkey and cartwheeled off the stage, bringing two wise men, [neither the guilty party] and a stuffed sheep [don't ask!].
Therein ended my acting career. By mid-March Miss Byrne had forgiven me, by June Mother Superior could greet me in the corridor with my given name and not a disdainful "Oh yes, you're the one that disturbed Baby Jesus by falling off the stage, aren't you?].
Good comes out of bad somehow, and Mum [bright red in face] won a Turkey, probably a consolation prize for her turkey of an actress daughter. Two days before Christmas Eve we went to our local town to pick up the bird. There he was. A large, irate, bronze Turkey, fully feathered and gobbingly - well - gobby! That bird could gobble for Ireland. Mum's face was a picture, this was obviously a conspiracy on someones part, revenge for daughter's fall from the stage!
So, what did we do? Well, we walked Henry [he had a Henry face] up the main street to where the car was parked, eventually managed to get him in the boot of the car, brought him home, and upon arrival cautiously opened the boot of the car. I think he may have overheard Dad comment on his fate if he had misbehaved in an anti-social manner in the boot, because as soon as the lid opened even a little bit, fourteen pounds of bronze turkey flew from the boot, up the garden in a charge that would have done the Light Brigade proud, straight up the hill, and for the next fortnight we could hear his gobbling call, taunting us.
That was a really tasty chicken we had for Christmas dinner that year. Henry? Well, he gobbled until February and then went silent. Around St Valentine's Day there was a well fed looking fox in the garden. Of course, he could have fattened himself on the rabbits that graze on the hill, couldn't he?
Happy Christmas to you all!
(c) copyright belongs to IE
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.
24 December 2008
06 November 2008
The Monk's Tale
As a child, coming up the lane to our house was always a spooky experience; not the sort of Spooks you see on BBC on a Monday night, but the spine shivering type. There were chestnut trees [over eighty years old] meeting overhead. In daylight hours this gave the lane the appearance of a grand cathedral when the trees were in full bloom.
Come the autumn and the branches reaching to heaven like arthritic fingers, all the conkers long gone - smashed in the many enjoyable childhood competitions of conker bashing - and the place took on a different feel altogether. Coming up to Hallow’een and should you be the proud possessor of long straight hair, you were guaranteed to come up the lane with new found curls.
The house behind the big stone wall was built on the site of a Monastery which was razed to the ground by King Henry’s forces at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries - or so local legend has it. This may be true, certainly there was some edifice there, long gone in memory.
As we walked up the lane home, we happy band of five, tired and muddy after a day spent roaming across hills and through local forestry, we always raced up the last part of the lane. Two of us never felt anything, except to complain that one part of the lane was icy cold and to laugh at the other three members of our merry gang. We on the other hand were sure that there was some evil menace lurking just behind our left shoulders always urging us to run as fast as we could and to get out of the lane and up into our respective front gardens.
As I grew older I retained this sensation, most of the others either forgot or grew out of it, except for one of the lads. One evening, when we were suffering a power-out, Mum and I started chatting about local history.
I told her about the sensation in the lane, fully expecting to either be laughed at or told “Don’t be silly, there is no such thing as…” but no. Unexpectedly she looked at me intently and told me that my Grandfather, her father, had always said the exact same thing. I scoffed and told her not to be trying to make me nervy coming up the lane. No, she was in earnest. One of twelve, he and another brother had always had this sensation and Peter had gone to some lengths to find out why this feeling would come over certain people in this part of the lane.
Rolling on to a night in my mid twenties, my cousin and I were coming home one July evening from a dance. Strictly sober, it having been one of those dances where minerals only were served, Lee asked me if I would hurry up. I asked her why and she replied she thought we were being followed. I asked her how she felt and she described, exactly, the same sensations that my Grandfather and I [her Great Grand Uncle] had felt.
When we got into the house, I told her the story, backed up by Mum. After a while she stopped shivering and said that her own Mother, [Grand niece to both Peter and my Grandfather] had always said that she felt queasy going up the lane of a dark night.
The Chestnut trees have been cut, and are long gone, the lane is a much brighter place today, you can actually see the stars above on a clear night, but the Monk is still there urging us to hurry. All the old villagers are agreed that he is not intent on harming anyone on the lane, but is trying to get them out of the way of King Henry’s men to safety. Maybe he lost his own life trying to save someone, or maybe he failed in the attempt and is still trying. Whatever his story is, may he rest in peace.
copyright belongs to irish eyes
Come the autumn and the branches reaching to heaven like arthritic fingers, all the conkers long gone - smashed in the many enjoyable childhood competitions of conker bashing - and the place took on a different feel altogether. Coming up to Hallow’een and should you be the proud possessor of long straight hair, you were guaranteed to come up the lane with new found curls.
The house behind the big stone wall was built on the site of a Monastery which was razed to the ground by King Henry’s forces at the time of the dissolution of the monasteries - or so local legend has it. This may be true, certainly there was some edifice there, long gone in memory.
As we walked up the lane home, we happy band of five, tired and muddy after a day spent roaming across hills and through local forestry, we always raced up the last part of the lane. Two of us never felt anything, except to complain that one part of the lane was icy cold and to laugh at the other three members of our merry gang. We on the other hand were sure that there was some evil menace lurking just behind our left shoulders always urging us to run as fast as we could and to get out of the lane and up into our respective front gardens.
As I grew older I retained this sensation, most of the others either forgot or grew out of it, except for one of the lads. One evening, when we were suffering a power-out, Mum and I started chatting about local history.
I told her about the sensation in the lane, fully expecting to either be laughed at or told “Don’t be silly, there is no such thing as…” but no. Unexpectedly she looked at me intently and told me that my Grandfather, her father, had always said the exact same thing. I scoffed and told her not to be trying to make me nervy coming up the lane. No, she was in earnest. One of twelve, he and another brother had always had this sensation and Peter had gone to some lengths to find out why this feeling would come over certain people in this part of the lane.
Rolling on to a night in my mid twenties, my cousin and I were coming home one July evening from a dance. Strictly sober, it having been one of those dances where minerals only were served, Lee asked me if I would hurry up. I asked her why and she replied she thought we were being followed. I asked her how she felt and she described, exactly, the same sensations that my Grandfather and I [her Great Grand Uncle] had felt.
When we got into the house, I told her the story, backed up by Mum. After a while she stopped shivering and said that her own Mother, [Grand niece to both Peter and my Grandfather] had always said that she felt queasy going up the lane of a dark night.
The Chestnut trees have been cut, and are long gone, the lane is a much brighter place today, you can actually see the stars above on a clear night, but the Monk is still there urging us to hurry. All the old villagers are agreed that he is not intent on harming anyone on the lane, but is trying to get them out of the way of King Henry’s men to safety. Maybe he lost his own life trying to save someone, or maybe he failed in the attempt and is still trying. Whatever his story is, may he rest in peace.
copyright belongs to irish eyes
01 November 2008
NIGHT OF THE DANCING FOXES
On a warm moon lit night recently I couldn’t sleep; at three in the morning I was sitting at the kitchen worktop, with the light of the moon streaming in through the window sipping a cup of tea.
I was debating whether I would indulge myself with some toast, knowing that sleep would not be easy coming. It was one of the nights we all get, where the brain is overactive and the neatly made bed on my side had become a tossed morass - himself slumbering the sleep of the just, a gentle snore intruding on the stillness of the night every now and again.
As I moved to open the bread bin a movement in the moonlit garden caught my eye. I stood still, not sure if we had an intruder lurking behind the bush, and ready to grab the cordless phone; a cloud passed over and the garden darkened.
As it cleared, I saw that the Vixen who inhabits the end of the garden was slowly making her way down towards the house. Sinuously moving from side to side, her nose investigating all the interesting possibilities that make life worthwhile to a fox. Suddenly she stopped, raised her head and turned towards what was formerly my Mother’s hen run, now a long deserted support for a clematis of gargantuan proportions.
Delicately lifting one front paw, she slowly retreated up the incline and as she did so I watched as the Dog fox came into view from behind the Chrysanthemums in one of the flowerbeds. Just as slowly as the lady he place one paw deliberately in front of the other. She stopped all movement and he advanced towards her cautiously.
Suddenly she leapt into the air, half twisting as she returned to the mossy grass, he pounced towards her and they began to dance sideways around each other. For what seemed like hours, but in reality were merely minutes they danced a minuet around each other. I stood entranced, at the back of my mind was the thought that surely this should be a foxtrot!
As swiftly and as lightly as a butterfly, she suddenly raced up the garden towards the big granite rock at the top of it. Leaping on it she started to preen herself, snapping at the dog fox; if the lady was going to succumb, she was not going to do it easily. Faint heart never won fair fox was obviously her motto.
I contemplated trying gently to open a window to listen to her calls, but the moment I put hand to window catch she suddenly decided it was time to dance again and she whirled down off the rock, raced right through the garden and into the flowerbed leaving a bewildered male looking after her in the moonlight. If I had been closer to him I am sure that his face would have registered total resignation and the thought obviously in his head was “Women!” However, nothing loathe, he followed her to the flowerbed and soon they were tumbling head over paw between the dahlia’s and the fuchsia.
A long twenty minutes later during which I had begun to think about returning to bed, he slowly appeared from behind the fuchsias and trotted off nonchalantly heading down by the side the house. As he passed, the outside light came on. He froze momentarily, well used to it yet, despite his recent night of passion, still alert.
At a more leisurely pace, Madam Fox moved out to sit beside the hen run and groom herself meticulously. She was serenely beautiful, and sated looking. She groomed from tip of brush to nose and when satisfied that she was the Coco Chanel of the Vulpes world, she trotted off up the garden, behind the Lilac bushes, over the big rock. There she paused, highlighted by the moon, looked back over her shoulder straight towards me, and I would swear she grinned a foxy grin at me.
copyright belongs to Irish Eyes.
I was debating whether I would indulge myself with some toast, knowing that sleep would not be easy coming. It was one of the nights we all get, where the brain is overactive and the neatly made bed on my side had become a tossed morass - himself slumbering the sleep of the just, a gentle snore intruding on the stillness of the night every now and again.
As I moved to open the bread bin a movement in the moonlit garden caught my eye. I stood still, not sure if we had an intruder lurking behind the bush, and ready to grab the cordless phone; a cloud passed over and the garden darkened.
As it cleared, I saw that the Vixen who inhabits the end of the garden was slowly making her way down towards the house. Sinuously moving from side to side, her nose investigating all the interesting possibilities that make life worthwhile to a fox. Suddenly she stopped, raised her head and turned towards what was formerly my Mother’s hen run, now a long deserted support for a clematis of gargantuan proportions.
Delicately lifting one front paw, she slowly retreated up the incline and as she did so I watched as the Dog fox came into view from behind the Chrysanthemums in one of the flowerbeds. Just as slowly as the lady he place one paw deliberately in front of the other. She stopped all movement and he advanced towards her cautiously.
Suddenly she leapt into the air, half twisting as she returned to the mossy grass, he pounced towards her and they began to dance sideways around each other. For what seemed like hours, but in reality were merely minutes they danced a minuet around each other. I stood entranced, at the back of my mind was the thought that surely this should be a foxtrot!
As swiftly and as lightly as a butterfly, she suddenly raced up the garden towards the big granite rock at the top of it. Leaping on it she started to preen herself, snapping at the dog fox; if the lady was going to succumb, she was not going to do it easily. Faint heart never won fair fox was obviously her motto.
I contemplated trying gently to open a window to listen to her calls, but the moment I put hand to window catch she suddenly decided it was time to dance again and she whirled down off the rock, raced right through the garden and into the flowerbed leaving a bewildered male looking after her in the moonlight. If I had been closer to him I am sure that his face would have registered total resignation and the thought obviously in his head was “Women!” However, nothing loathe, he followed her to the flowerbed and soon they were tumbling head over paw between the dahlia’s and the fuchsia.
A long twenty minutes later during which I had begun to think about returning to bed, he slowly appeared from behind the fuchsias and trotted off nonchalantly heading down by the side the house. As he passed, the outside light came on. He froze momentarily, well used to it yet, despite his recent night of passion, still alert.
At a more leisurely pace, Madam Fox moved out to sit beside the hen run and groom herself meticulously. She was serenely beautiful, and sated looking. She groomed from tip of brush to nose and when satisfied that she was the Coco Chanel of the Vulpes world, she trotted off up the garden, behind the Lilac bushes, over the big rock. There she paused, highlighted by the moon, looked back over her shoulder straight towards me, and I would swear she grinned a foxy grin at me.
copyright belongs to Irish Eyes.
19 October 2008
Autumn - in Ireland
There is a bleak icy wind blowing from the north, the sun shines palely in an arctic sky. On the lawn five magpies dance on the freshly cut grass seeking whatever lurks below the soil that might provide them with a tasty tidbit. They turn their head sideways, listen intently and then pounce.
Two Robins, one pair of the six that live locally, have an argument on the lawn in front of the dining room window. Territorial as ever, with the cutback of grisellinia hedge and a couple of bushes territorial nesting sites are at a premium and those fancy new nest box things, one from Arklow and one from Somerset have to be examined and decided upon yet. Upwardly mobile has a different meaning in Robin-speak.
Two coal tits have decided that their favourite film is The Blue Max; they perform aerial battle around the cherry tree to decide which one of them will land and feast on the peanuts in the holder. As battle continues, one of the Magpies dangles precariously from a branch and plucks peanuts out. Velociraptors of old would admire their cunning. They look like something out of a Dinosaur film as they calculate their mode of acquisition. Funny how it looks like they calculate while other birds consider.
Last night as I closed the curtains a fox jumped up on the garden wall, totally at ease in her surroundings. She paused a moment and caught sight of me in the moonlight that was shining through the window. Her head lifted, her nose sought my scent, but behind the glass window, I was no worry to her.
The Badger snuffled his way through a flowerbed outside the study window on Friday night. He is attracted by the intermittent treats of left over chicken carcases that I leave out for him, and it is a bad night for him when the fox gets there first. He must content himself with a trawl through the flowers for morsels of slug, and whatever has fallen from the bird table.
Winter has shown her nose this morning; the icy wind felt as if it were cutting me in half as I stood at the clothesline. On the bramble bushes black berries have hardened, no longer the sweet and juicy attractive berry plucked in September to add to a dish of ice cream, make up into jam or add to apples for a tasty fruit pie. The mix of unripened fruit in greens and reds on the bush with the hardened black berries makes an attractive picture in the autumnal sunshine.
Overhead the Merlin hovers, her eyes firmly fixed upon a prey that may, or may not be aware of the danger above. She halts her hover and moves away over the fields to once again hover and swoop, this time successfully - something small like a vole has run out of luck.
In the wintry sunshine fuchsias, remind me of summer. Not that we had much of a summer this year. Like the global recession, global weather was on a major downturn. Yesterday, Saturday was a golden autumn day, today is more like that which we see in January. The forecast for the weekend is promising; hopefully it will be a golden week. We could do with the balm which such days bring to our spirits.
copyright belongs to Irih Eyes.
Two Robins, one pair of the six that live locally, have an argument on the lawn in front of the dining room window. Territorial as ever, with the cutback of grisellinia hedge and a couple of bushes territorial nesting sites are at a premium and those fancy new nest box things, one from Arklow and one from Somerset have to be examined and decided upon yet. Upwardly mobile has a different meaning in Robin-speak.
Two coal tits have decided that their favourite film is The Blue Max; they perform aerial battle around the cherry tree to decide which one of them will land and feast on the peanuts in the holder. As battle continues, one of the Magpies dangles precariously from a branch and plucks peanuts out. Velociraptors of old would admire their cunning. They look like something out of a Dinosaur film as they calculate their mode of acquisition. Funny how it looks like they calculate while other birds consider.
Last night as I closed the curtains a fox jumped up on the garden wall, totally at ease in her surroundings. She paused a moment and caught sight of me in the moonlight that was shining through the window. Her head lifted, her nose sought my scent, but behind the glass window, I was no worry to her.
The Badger snuffled his way through a flowerbed outside the study window on Friday night. He is attracted by the intermittent treats of left over chicken carcases that I leave out for him, and it is a bad night for him when the fox gets there first. He must content himself with a trawl through the flowers for morsels of slug, and whatever has fallen from the bird table.
Winter has shown her nose this morning; the icy wind felt as if it were cutting me in half as I stood at the clothesline. On the bramble bushes black berries have hardened, no longer the sweet and juicy attractive berry plucked in September to add to a dish of ice cream, make up into jam or add to apples for a tasty fruit pie. The mix of unripened fruit in greens and reds on the bush with the hardened black berries makes an attractive picture in the autumnal sunshine.
Overhead the Merlin hovers, her eyes firmly fixed upon a prey that may, or may not be aware of the danger above. She halts her hover and moves away over the fields to once again hover and swoop, this time successfully - something small like a vole has run out of luck.
In the wintry sunshine fuchsias, remind me of summer. Not that we had much of a summer this year. Like the global recession, global weather was on a major downturn. Yesterday, Saturday was a golden autumn day, today is more like that which we see in January. The forecast for the weekend is promising; hopefully it will be a golden week. We could do with the balm which such days bring to our spirits.
copyright belongs to Irih Eyes.
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