It has been a busy week, extra days at work, hospital visit for a check up and the wonderful news that I have lost 15lbs:3ozs and kept it down; major high. All in all I was glad to see the end of the week and looked forward to Friday immensely. Friends came for supper, and my great plan to dine al fresco came to naught - the mist rolled in from the sea, and you couldn't even see the garden gate! The upside and the downside of a heat wave. Brilliant temperatures, and rolling sea-fog. So, windows opened to the sound of the fog horns from the Bay, we dined indoors and had a hoot. Good company is a blessing from God and before we knew it the hours from eight to three in the morning had flown by and we never felt their passing.
I was up bright and early, despite the lateness of the hour when we retired, and after watching Edward Petherbridge as Lord Peter Wimsey in "Gaudy Night" [Dorothy L Sayers}, I was busy catching up on laundry and other household chores. There is something very satisfying about seeing a clothesline blowing in the breeze full of fresh clean linen. I brought the laptop into the garden in the afternoon, and after a refreshing cuppa decided to blog from the garden...however, the best laid plans of mice, men and this blogger are always a floating issue. Not one but two daughters decided to arrive - just in case you were lonely Mam. Mentally I wailed that I wanted to grab this rare opportunity to sit in brilliant sunshine, shaded by an umbrella advertising a nation's favourite drink (!) and blog about the collar doves racing each other around the leylandii in next doors garden, the enormous bumble-bee that had a face off with a dunnock on a cherry tree branch...and yet I was delighted that they had come to see me. Who knows, this time next year we might all be leading different lives, so grab your graces when they come as my paternal Grandmother used to exclaim - and rightly so.
The ladies stayed to dinner, OH headed off to work and I cleaned up...God bless the dishwasher, a mother's greatest asset. We did manage to dine al fresco this time and it was heavenly. The Collar doves cooed, the Dunnocks sang their cheery song and a nosey Robin decided that this al fresco lark was wonderful, all those crumbs, and look, some generous human has decided to throw me tid-bits. All quiet at eight o'clock I rambled down the garden and sat under an elderberry tree. We have recently reclaimed this area from the gorse and general scrub and I love it. As a child we used to have picnic tea's out here. We had the idea, my childhood friends and I, that we were the Secret Seven, The Famous Five, and we would head off with bottles of cold tea, apples, cold sausage sandwiches and a slice of gur cake each. An old blanket thrown down and we would idle the hours planning what we would do, when we grew up; we solved mysteries. Big mysteries such as Why Did Beatrix Potter write about rabbits in her garden when we didn't have any in ours. I wonder did we ever think that a preponderance of foxes might have had something to do with this lack of bunny habitation? We trawled through Bunty, Judy, The Beano, The Dandy, The Hotspur and other publications, "swappies" was the order of the day, and we swapped for all we were worth. The Wolf of Kabul was my particular favourite. Oh yes, you guess correctly, I was a tomboy. Happier hanging out of a tree than playing with tea sets. If Mum could see me now, afternoon tea on the lawn with the pals during the week. She did say it would happen, I laughed...I can hear a ghostly chuckle even now. You haven't lived until you have bitten into a batch loaf bread sausage sandwich and a green apple and washed it down with cold tea from a Fanta bottle. Sheer heaven.
I digress, typical me, I sat under the elderberry until the sun sank in the west. One thing to be said for the Eya...whatsit volcano, the sunsets are pure Turner and breath-taking. I sat on in the dusk until every last bird had gone to sleep. The song Thrush had entertained me with his "Dia Dhuit" [deeya-gwit] obviously an Irish singing bird, the layering started after that with the blackbird up in the Douglas Fir seranading the sunset and the robins, dunnocks and indeed the bullfinches adding their chorus to it. The Sunset Opera, fabulous!
This morning back out at nine, papers in hand, breakfast on the back patio, tempramental sunshine, fog horns in the distance, birdsong aplenty and the smells of lilac, apple blossom wafting past, enhanced by gillyflowers [wallflowers]. The tulips I planted last autumn are eyecatching and the front lawn is showered like a bride with the confetti of cherry blossom. I have lilac all around the house in vases, even an old tea-pot. There is something very gentle about lilac, relaxing. The phone rings and I am too lazy to answer it; who would want to break the magic spell a springtime garden binds us with. I am far more interested in watching a ladybird explore a leaf!
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.
23 May 2010
16 May 2010
The darling spuds of May
So here we are in the month of May, April seems to have flown by so fast that I nearly missed it. I have been busy "collecting" builders; at last, two years down the line the "extension project" has moved up to getting prices. So far two have impressed me, one floored me with his"...it might be better if you knocked the old house down and rebuilt completely..." but I think the Euro signs floating about behind the pupils of his dimly lit eyes alerted me to "Builder In Crisis Needs Cash". He got a short visit, sweet smile and a "be in touch" NOT! I have a few more I want to investigate before I finally decide. One has really impressed me, he has a great reputation, is salvage/period of house/eco friendly and, providing his submission is reasonable may well win the day. Fingers crossed. Meanwhile ED and YD are enjoying life as parental tenants in the old marital home, rent free and utilities to be paid for only. I sense a restlessness in YD and I think she is now ready to move back in with the 'rents as soon as her bedroom is built. Happy days.
Speaking of YD, we had a great night last night. She came to stay for the week-end; so a bottle of Merlot, Chicken Balls, Fillet Beef with Mushroom and Prawn Crackers later we watched "It's Complicated" and then sat and chatted - between drifting out to examine what was on offer when the outside light went on. The Bracken Fox was seriously distressed last night. His behaviour was odd to say the least. He spent over half an hour walking around the cottoneaster bush, spraying, muzzling at it and walking around between two other bushes, marking territory. We later discovered that there was a gang of "gurriers", to use the old Dublinism, up on the hill drinking, shouting and roaring and generally acting in time dishonoured anti-social behaviour. Since the Local Council decided, in its total lack of wisdom, to put in nature trails through the gorse, we are beleagured with youths spending time on the hill with "nefarious intent".
We have cleared more scrub from the garden and this has provided the birdlife with a new supermarket. We have five robins, no less, hanging around this part of the garden and I have termed them The Round Robin Society (!) they are like brown puffballs of feathers with a red daub. Feeding is rich here in this garden with the newly reclaimed land. The lilac and the cherry trees are in full bloom, and the tulips, a disaster last spring, are a joy to behold. Bit by bit OH is putting his stamp on the garden while keeping Mum's area's well tended and I am putting my stamp on the house.
I decided last year that I would put in shelving and a press in each alcove beside the fireplace in the sitting room. OH persuaded me to use a "local man" from his home-place and, reluctantly, I did. Marital harmony and all that don't you know. Well, six months later and they are up, exactly what I designed, and painted brilliant white by OH. They add light to the room and everybody is taken with the Art Deco doors [a pattern I copied off a dvd of Lord Peter Wimsey tales] and I am struggling to come to terms with what Yer Man charged. Let us just say that I had had a generous budget in mind, very generous indeed, and let us just say that Yer Man was even more generous - still, they are bespoke and solely mine...but...€'s later and I still get a cold chill. It has made me very cautious and although one of the builders I am getting a quote from is the son of the man who built this extension - in which I am presently sitting - I will not be racing to throw my money away on sentiment.
I spent our cold and icy winter looking forward to spending lazy afternoons in the Maytime garden, afternoon teas with friends - you have the picture in your mind, and this cold weather is killing off all those lovely daydreams, it's tea in the dining room looking out at the sunshine, and a warm jacket on when gardening. We are delighted with our new veggie garden, all right, his vegetables - my herbs, and growth has been spectacular with the potatoes rocketing up. He has taken to planting potatoes in unexpected and newly cleared areas of the garden, so it will be an interesting summer.
Mme Pounce is coming for her holidays for the June Bank Holiday. I put a barring order in place on her coming here in case she attacked the bird life. With all the changes in the garden in the past two years we took some losses with avian tenants; I am keen to reestablish the numbers of birds and apart from Ginger Tom from over the cliff, they are thriving. He has a penchant for Fresh Blue Tit avec Feathers. Miserable Moggy. He is a great pal of Mme Pounce, and together they make an effective hunting team. I am not keen on giving hostages to felines.
Speaking of YD, we had a great night last night. She came to stay for the week-end; so a bottle of Merlot, Chicken Balls, Fillet Beef with Mushroom and Prawn Crackers later we watched "It's Complicated" and then sat and chatted - between drifting out to examine what was on offer when the outside light went on. The Bracken Fox was seriously distressed last night. His behaviour was odd to say the least. He spent over half an hour walking around the cottoneaster bush, spraying, muzzling at it and walking around between two other bushes, marking territory. We later discovered that there was a gang of "gurriers", to use the old Dublinism, up on the hill drinking, shouting and roaring and generally acting in time dishonoured anti-social behaviour. Since the Local Council decided, in its total lack of wisdom, to put in nature trails through the gorse, we are beleagured with youths spending time on the hill with "nefarious intent".
We have cleared more scrub from the garden and this has provided the birdlife with a new supermarket. We have five robins, no less, hanging around this part of the garden and I have termed them The Round Robin Society (!) they are like brown puffballs of feathers with a red daub. Feeding is rich here in this garden with the newly reclaimed land. The lilac and the cherry trees are in full bloom, and the tulips, a disaster last spring, are a joy to behold. Bit by bit OH is putting his stamp on the garden while keeping Mum's area's well tended and I am putting my stamp on the house.
I decided last year that I would put in shelving and a press in each alcove beside the fireplace in the sitting room. OH persuaded me to use a "local man" from his home-place and, reluctantly, I did. Marital harmony and all that don't you know. Well, six months later and they are up, exactly what I designed, and painted brilliant white by OH. They add light to the room and everybody is taken with the Art Deco doors [a pattern I copied off a dvd of Lord Peter Wimsey tales] and I am struggling to come to terms with what Yer Man charged. Let us just say that I had had a generous budget in mind, very generous indeed, and let us just say that Yer Man was even more generous - still, they are bespoke and solely mine...but...€'s later and I still get a cold chill. It has made me very cautious and although one of the builders I am getting a quote from is the son of the man who built this extension - in which I am presently sitting - I will not be racing to throw my money away on sentiment.
I spent our cold and icy winter looking forward to spending lazy afternoons in the Maytime garden, afternoon teas with friends - you have the picture in your mind, and this cold weather is killing off all those lovely daydreams, it's tea in the dining room looking out at the sunshine, and a warm jacket on when gardening. We are delighted with our new veggie garden, all right, his vegetables - my herbs, and growth has been spectacular with the potatoes rocketing up. He has taken to planting potatoes in unexpected and newly cleared areas of the garden, so it will be an interesting summer.
Mme Pounce is coming for her holidays for the June Bank Holiday. I put a barring order in place on her coming here in case she attacked the bird life. With all the changes in the garden in the past two years we took some losses with avian tenants; I am keen to reestablish the numbers of birds and apart from Ginger Tom from over the cliff, they are thriving. He has a penchant for Fresh Blue Tit avec Feathers. Miserable Moggy. He is a great pal of Mme Pounce, and together they make an effective hunting team. I am not keen on giving hostages to felines.
31 March 2010
March - in like a lamb...out like a lion - this year
This has been a busy month for OH and I. On the 15th we celebrated our Pearl Wedding Anniversary, the 20th my OOth birthday and Dad and Mum's 40th and 2nd Anniversaries respectively on the 21st and 22nd. Time, as the saying goes is the great healer and time, or thirty years in this instance, is wonderful.
Thirty years ago, when I walked up the aisle to exchange vows with OH in our local parish church, the fifteenth of March was a bitterly cold day. A vicious day with sleet and ice in the rain. On the following day we headed off to Tralee for our Honeymoon to a warmer climate down south in Kerry while family and friends trod their way through snow in Dublin to their varying destinations. Upon our return to Co. Wicklow the new bride started married life with a huge fry-up which was nearly more of a necessity than a 'big breakfast'. The house was cold, his relations who had been staying there over the week end of the wedding had departed on the Monday morning and had 'thoughtfully' put the central heating off.
We returned late on Saturday night to frozen pipes, a snowed up driveway, and a house that bore close resemblence to a freezer. I still shudder to think what the story would have been had we been away for two weeks. Mum, snowed up here on this hill, wasn't able to get out to check on the house before our return; it sat there freezing miserably and, no doubt wondering what the new broom in the form of the new bride would do to it. Thirty years on and no longer living there, if I could take it - lock, stock and every brick, bit and bob of it - and put it on to this house as an attachment, I would have perfection. Just as we had it entirely the way we wanted it, life stepped in and changed our direction.
We celebrated our Pearl with the girls, I cooked a meal for the four of us - the days of dining out in fancy restaurants are not a priority now. Between the gluten intolerance and the diabetes, I am happier to do the needful myself - the dishwasher does the really hard work. It was a lovely evening and I sat back after dessert looking at the three people, oh yes! I had better add Mme Pounce too, that shape my world. I have much to be grateful for.
We departed, as they say in travel terms, bright and early on the sixteenth for the Kingdom of Kerry and my beloved town of Tralee. The recession has bitten hard across the country; as we travelled down to Tralee I could see the for sale signs and the whited out windows of failed business in the small towns and business where, last June they were still thriving. In any given town in Ireland this year there is at least one business going to the wall each week. The Banks have much to answer for, but they don't - they just look for more taxpayers money to keep them in the style they imagine they are entitled to. There are go-slow's in Government departments, the public service and the field of education. The saying "somebody should do something about it"... "Somebody" is like Romantic Ireland, it's with O'Leary in his grave...and not the modern famous airline O'Leary at that.
The break was just what we needed. On St Patricks' day we were up bright and early and after a huge breakfast we headed out to visit my Grandparents grave, followed by early Mass in my beloved Grandfather's favourite church The Dominican's. OH was amazed by the turn out. Churches seldom get that full in Dublin nowadays. There were green jumpers, jackets, ties, scarves, and breast pocket loads of shamrock aplenty.
Seasoned travellers in the Kingdom, we made up our own packed lunch and headed down Princes Street and out towards Blennerville. The day was with us as they say in that neck of the woods, and the temperatures were 17-20 degrees. The sun shone on the Sliabh Mish mountains and we had the Conor Pass, in all its narrow glory, to ourselves. Out past Dingle, awash with few tourists and more locals awaiting their St Paddy's day parade, and on towards my beloved Slea Head.
There is much to view, and a different season gives a different perspective. Everything etched in stark lines, hedges brown and burnt with the hard winter's snow and frost, cut hard back in complete contrast to Summers softer floral dress of Fuschia and Monbretia. There is a gaunt architectural beauty to the bare trees, lifting their arms to Heaven as if pleading with God for compassion; given that Easter is just around the corner - there is added significance to the beauty.
Fox coat coloured leaves of Monbretia line the roads, a proud pheasant browses for delicacies beneath the gorse. Blackback gulls soar above the ocean wave, cormorants sit ladylike on the rocks, wings outstretched. In a small field above the rocky cliffs a few native black Kerry cows, dainty and as pretty as a Jersey herd, cling to the hillside grazing on the salt blasted grass; their meat tastier because of the wild herbs growing there. We round a bend and there, to the mewing of the seagulls lie Ná Blascóid, half hidden in the mist that rolls in across the broad Atlantic. I am in Heaven. The magic of the Blasket Islands never ceases to enrapture me.
It is St Patrick's Day and I am in the best place to feel my native Irishness. Road signs of Gó máll [slow down] pronounced guh mowl, or Tóg bóg é - take it slowly [tog, as in toga, tog bug ay]. Ireland, Mother Ireland loose not your native tongue. OH romantically informs me that I look like an overgrown snowdrop - white shirt, green jumper and brown trousers. Thank you darling, you'll always keep me grounded anyhow!
We pull into the parking area at Dún Chaoin, watching the waves roll into the shore and cliff, a surfer's dream, turquoise and white and inky blue out into the depths. We sit awhile in companionable silence. Small holiday cottages align the road, houses that once were family homes to people who once lived on the islands, Peig Sayers among them. My mind is focussed sharply on their lives, fraught with hardship, surviving wild winters of gale and cold. They were fine hardy people God bless their like. We pic-nic'd overlooking Smerwick and its dragon backed cliffs. I always think of the film Reign of Fire when I see them.
On Thursday the morning's rain gave way at mid-day and we headed out for Mount Brandon and then up to Ballyheigue. A sadness came over me, or maybe the Irish word uaignais [loneliness] came over me. For most of my life there was a wish to live in this wonderful county hidden deep in my heart. Time and it's attendants have changed that for me. I have come home in more ways than one to my hill where I grew up, the Kingdom will always be Paradise, but for visiting rather than putting down my own roots there.
I am a 'jug' collector, Shannonbridge Pottery to be exact. Lovely floral jugs of all sizes and a trip up Rock Street to Loramar and it's lovely chatelaine is a must. She gives wonderful discounts, and I am in need of restraint before I purchase all her stock. She remembers me everytime I go in to her, even if there is a gap of a couple of years since my last visit. She is the heart of the rowl as Dubliners say, her warm welcome is the quintessential "Ireland of the Thousand Welcomes". In Kellihers at the bottom of The Rock [Rock St.,] I come across a willow pattern pepper and salt set, a man and woman in oriental dress. At a mere €9 it will grace my table on special occasions. It always fascinates me that in Kerry the name Kelliher is spelt with an 'i' and in Cork with an 'e' as in Kelleher. Prefer the 'i' myself.
Friday and homeward bound but not before we lunch in Cork with Dad's only surviving sister. She is now 80 and I adore her. We have always been close, and it pains my heart to see how frail she has become in the past year. When she is gone that is it, I have no one to say "do you remember when" to about my family childhood days. God spare her the years, may she see her century. I am overjoyed to learn that she will be in Dublin the following week for her Grand-daughter's concert, I immediately grab my chance for more time with her. Last Wednesday I picked her up from my cousin's house and we had afternoon tea before a cozy fire and she travelled down memory lane with me. Those were golden hours and I treasure them.
04 March 2010
Tagged about my Bag...or should that read...
Bags! for I am a bagaholic. OH is oftimes heard to wail "NOT ANOTHER BAG FOR GOD'S SAKE...MORE COWS HAVE DIED TO PROVIDE YOU WITH ANOTHER BAG!" Well not quite. I love a good handbag and on a recent visit to T K Maxx with YD who was in search for her first 'good handbag' I had to hold his hand and repeatedly assure him that no, I was not purchasing, it was strictly YD's hunt. But I did eye up a really nice tan leather...
Contents?
Well, one good thing about me is that the contents never vary. The bags will change with the outfit...without being ocd about things I am usually co-ordinated in my outfits [well, it is a good excuse for a new bag isn't it?] but the contents religiously stay the same.
Here goes>>>
Diabetes monitor bag - a necessity and a "never go without"
6 pens as in 1 fountain and 5 good 'biro's'...I am not into the advertising kind, I love the type that looks like a fountain pen...and that is my other great obsession...pens! Some women cannot live without their Jimmy Choos, yours truly cannot live without ink.
A notebook; for taking down shorthand [or my version of it] notes on whatever catches my fancy. I'm also a doodler when having to sit in waiting rooms, so out comes the pad and I doodle away the time. It is a leftover habit to have a notebook in-bag from the hectic days of being secretary of more committee's than I care to remember.
Cheque book - with dust attached to each page...
Linen handkerchief - last of six beauties bought in Killarney a long time ago;
packet of tissues - the eucalyptus type.
The latest book I am reading [usually] - Jeffrey Deaver is in there at the moment.
Comb.
Purse. Resident moths included.
Small bottle perfume.
Mini-manicure set - or as ED calls it "Mum's McGyver kit".
Bar of chocolate for emergencies as in when levels drop.
Apple in plastic bag usually for when I go out and am not sure when I shall be home, so if I get a 'drop' there is one hours 'lift' in an apple - the healthier option than the chocolate but not as long lasting.
Diary - size can vary - as I buy what takes my fancy when they come out, but this year I have upgraded myself and am keeping all and sundry on the final component of MY BAG...
...Mobile phone - my contact with the outside world, I am an unstoppable texter, it organises my life, my contacts and a few committee's I am on as well.
So there you have it, my handbag, always capacious, always with me and the last daughter that referred to me as The Baglady is nursing a shock from the evil look the baglady sent her!
Contents?
Well, one good thing about me is that the contents never vary. The bags will change with the outfit...without being ocd about things I am usually co-ordinated in my outfits [well, it is a good excuse for a new bag isn't it?] but the contents religiously stay the same.
Here goes>>>
Diabetes monitor bag - a necessity and a "never go without"
6 pens as in 1 fountain and 5 good 'biro's'...I am not into the advertising kind, I love the type that looks like a fountain pen...and that is my other great obsession...pens! Some women cannot live without their Jimmy Choos, yours truly cannot live without ink.
A notebook; for taking down shorthand [or my version of it] notes on whatever catches my fancy. I'm also a doodler when having to sit in waiting rooms, so out comes the pad and I doodle away the time. It is a leftover habit to have a notebook in-bag from the hectic days of being secretary of more committee's than I care to remember.
Cheque book - with dust attached to each page...
Linen handkerchief - last of six beauties bought in Killarney a long time ago;
packet of tissues - the eucalyptus type.
The latest book I am reading [usually] - Jeffrey Deaver is in there at the moment.
Comb.
Purse. Resident moths included.
Small bottle perfume.
Mini-manicure set - or as ED calls it "Mum's McGyver kit".
Bar of chocolate for emergencies as in when levels drop.
Apple in plastic bag usually for when I go out and am not sure when I shall be home, so if I get a 'drop' there is one hours 'lift' in an apple - the healthier option than the chocolate but not as long lasting.
Diary - size can vary - as I buy what takes my fancy when they come out, but this year I have upgraded myself and am keeping all and sundry on the final component of MY BAG...
...Mobile phone - my contact with the outside world, I am an unstoppable texter, it organises my life, my contacts and a few committee's I am on as well.
So there you have it, my handbag, always capacious, always with me and the last daughter that referred to me as The Baglady is nursing a shock from the evil look the baglady sent her!
17 February 2010
Garden foxes and the History Society
An army of grey clouds march in serried ranks across a mauve blue sky, chased by a giant snow white cloud shaped like a dinosaur. Behind the hill grim pewter coloured clouds lurk menacingly. A cargo ship wends it way through safe channels towards the mouth of the River Liffey. Dublin Port silts up with monotonous regularity - dredging is a profitable business in this old town and in these recessionary times.
On the horizon the Mourne Mountains lie mistily foretelling bad weather,so close as to make me feel I could reach out and touch them. High overhead, lit by the Westering sun, a Sparrowhawk hovers. A wily Magpie forrages in the stalky shade of a Cotoneaster. Joined by a Comrade they shoot up into its protection as the hawk swoops down towards them. You can almost hear them sing "you can't catch me I'm part of the Union" - the collective of Magpies that scream warnings at each other while fighting at the same time over a crust of bread.
The Hawk recovers and spirals up highlighted by the waning sun, a few moments later a pigeon fancier's best bird will not return to its loft this night. Feathers trickle down to earth to be examined by the Magpie detectives. The Hawk flies to a nearby rock, prey secured. Food for energy to beat the drop in night time temperatures.
The dirty delph is stacked everywhere in the kitchen; the dishwasher clean and empty. I have no thought nor inclination to load it. I am on a mission. The day-trips have meant that I am not getting on with my housework in my usual way. I have a backlog of laundry and a steely determination that it will all be cleared today. I have a need to hover and gossip with OH in between loads. Admiring crocosmia and daisies is far more compelling than laundry loading.
A month ago I got my lengthening locks cut, best friends, OH on occasion, all encouraged me to grow my hair longer. A softer image suits you they chorused. Bah! humbug! I hated it, and since I made the decision to go au naturél and not get it coloured any more I hated it even more. The wispy young mistress of a sharpened scissors informed me with great authority that "aws Modom hos daysided to disponce with dee colour, Modom will need to fonk hit up" and before you could say "Croi na ngael" she had started to 'fonk' it from the back. Forty five euro for what? You couldn't fill a mouses pillow with the cuttings on the floor. Yesterday I purposefully marched into the salon Mum went to. There, surrounded by ladies of all ages, shapes and sizes and conversation aplenty, a lovely lady did the deed.
By one of those chances of fate, she was the same lady who as a 'young girl' had cut my hair thirty-four years ago for my wedding, long time no see. Down to business with her and I emerged with a Judi Dench style of silver threads upon a happy head. No, Judi isn't in any danger of having competition from me, but the hair style and length is similar. Or so I tell myself. End result? I am thrilled, feel forty years younger, happier and everyone is remarking on the pep in my step. Even Bf who threatened removal of friendship if hair was chopped is telling me how glad she is I took her advice. Yes dear. Fifteen euro dearer but worth every cent! The frump is vanquished.
There was war last night in the front garden. Sister in law was out for dinner on Sunday and I had cooked two beautiful chickens, one with lemon and the other with garlic. If someone tells you Foxes don't do garlic, don't listen. I threw the carcasses out onto the lawn, and sat at the window to wait.
Dash fox arrived first, sniffed daintily at everything, making up his mind as to what morsel he fancied first of all. Then, with appalling bad manners one of this years cubs dashed in, grabbed the biggest piece and off with her to the nearest gorse bush. Nothing loathe, Dash gave chase. As they stood screaming awful insults at each other, the other cub dashed in and cleared most of the leftovers.
I have joined a local history group; part of a Heritage scheme ongoing in this country at present. It's all about showing the history, from a local viewpoint, of your town, village, city and is part of the Tidy Towns scheme. My family is one of the oldest in this village, and there are five of us who can trace our roots back to 1856, in my case, and 1860 and so on for the other five. Three of us married out of the village, moving to other counties and, ironically, we all inherited our Mothers houses and returned to live here. I am the youngest, ironically, at 60, because my grandfather married late in life. The oldest member of our group was my Mothers closest friend, and her memories of life in the 30's. 40's and 50's is invaluable.
One of the side effects of being in the group is the shared memories, the collective historical facts, the tales we have learned at our respective Mothers knee. It has given us a rapport, and a sense of self and place that is awesome. The wider group who are involved in other areas of improving the appearance of the village are probably beginning to feel a little fed up with us. Most of them came to the village in more recent times, or their parents did and they are first generation compared to our fifth and sixth generations. When they call certain lanes by one name, we call them by another. It makes for delightful confusion on occasion. We have decided to remain together - we five - after the Grand Exhibition on the History of our Village has been held in October. We hope to meet up once a month to exchange histories, gossip and continue the good times and great laughter we're enjoying at the moment.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose,
There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below.
The Deserted Village
Oliver Goldsmith
27 January 2010
Mme Pounce and her festive season
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.
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.
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.
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