One From 13 Years Ago

 So this is what I was up to 13 years ago today! I've returned several times since then. But really, I should go every year as long as I'm fit, especially now that I can travel there for free. 

A Visit To Rathlin

For many years now I've been meaning to visit Rathlin Island. But somehow the months slipped away and it was winter and then I'd have to defer it for another year.

But this year I was determined to get there. Swisser was up at the weekend and I asked her to come with me. She had been many times before but was more than happy to go again.

We went over on the old ferry. There weren't that many people on it and I'd say about half of them were members of the PSNI. Swisser and I were intrigued. We wondered if there was a serious crime wave on the island and the police were going in mob-handed to sort it out. There was a Massey Ferguson tractor and bush-whacker on board as well as the police Land Rover and an unaccompanied trailer load of building blocks. When we got to the island the crew asked the police to take the trailer off the boat and they happily obliged. It looked odd to see a police vehicle hauling building materials but Rathlin seems to be that sort of place. People just do what has to be done.

We set off walking to visit the RSPB bird sanctuary. It was a fair walk on a hot day but glorious. There is no intensive agriculture on the island and consequently the meadows and verges are teeming with the flowers and wildlife that I remember from fifty years ago. We saw harebells, wild angelica, meadowsweet, a variety of thyme and all the meadow grasses and flowers that are rarely seen at home.

I enjoyed the reserve. Although there were lots of other visitors the ambience was pretty wonderful. Just people of all ages delighting in the spectacular views of the colonies of birds. We saw guillemots, razorbills, fulmars, puffins, cormorants and many other seabirds. The guides were helpful and informative. I'd recommend this to anyone with even the slightest interest in wildlife.

Of course by this time my big silly face was as red as a tomato from the sun, so we decided to take the Puffin bus back to the harbour. That too was an experience. The driver was packing punctured bicycles into the back compartment, rescuing cyclists, everyone who got on had to clamber over a dog called Theo and no one minded and meanwhile the Puffin driver had us all in stitches with his banter and nonsense. He gave a running commentary of the history of the island and a bit of current affairs as well. We got dropped off at a little bay where grey seals were enjoying the sun at the edge of the water.

We weren't the only ones either. I'm sure there must have been twenty other people, most of them children, observing the seals. The animals did not seem too perturbed. I got the impression they are well used to it.

We never did find out exactly what the police were up to (even though we asked them) but I don't think it involved anything worrying for they all looked pretty happy and were enjoying the views, taking photographs of each other and they seemed to like the bird sanctuary. It will ever remain one of life's mysteries for me.

We took the new fast ferry back which was smooth and speedy but not nearly as much fun as heading over with tractors, trailers and the polis.

I can't wait to return to explore the rest of the island although I'll be lucky ever to hit on such a beautiful, beautiful day.

And I can't believe I waited so long to visit somewhere practically on my doorstep yet one of the locals told me that there are many people in Ballycastle who have never visited the island. Imagine!

Third Generation, Boy One

Our family, the one Seamus and Matty started, is big on girls, and short on boys. The parents had five daughters, two sons, six granddaughters, two grandsons and, so far, eight great-granddaughters and three great-grandsons. That works out at three times as many girls. 

The story goes (probably made up) that Seamus and Matty wanted two of each. And started off with two girls. Time for the boys. First another girl. Then along came Eamon, blessed with three older sisters. Matty and Seamus press on for the boy, two more girls, then came Joseph, blessed with five older sisters, lucky boy.

The next generation consisted of six girls and two boys and three of those girls were mine. The generation after that, eight girls and three boys. Boy one in that generation is James, my only beautiful grandson who is nine years old today. 

Happy birthday James, we love you dearly.

Both pictures featuring James taken by Zoe.

Long-eared Owls

There are many things I could write about this evening. There always is, despite me being in the twilight of my years. And being in the twilight of one's years means that one finds oneself having many funerals to attend as one's peers are, as daughter one exclaimed, 'dropping like flies'.

There was a first this week, two funerals in one day. J died last Thursday, and the funeral was to be the following Tuesday. A lovely person, when she was well a frequent visitor to our home, always a lady. She had been unwell for a long time. Then on Sunday the news that R had died. We'd known him for decades, me first for when I met R, Bert would still have been at school.

His funeral was also planned for Tuesday. Both services would be held at the same funeral parlour two hours apart. The first service (R) was non-religious, a first for me. Likely a first for many who attended, as our part of the world still clings to the notion that funerals must involve a minister, priest or pastor. Awkward when the recently departed has had no truck with religion. R had the courage of his convictions and dispensed with all that. 

I'm sure I was not the only one there who was heartened by his send-off. And encouraged. I could not help but think that anyone there who did not actually know the man would have been left wishing that they had.

J's service was more traditional, which was fitting as she was a person of faith. And funerals are deeply personal, both for the departed and those that remain.

Then today, I heard of another approach, a person who chose not to have a funeral. Again, their personal choice. Hard though, on those left behind, without that closure. 

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Bert's going to a wedding on Saturday. I was asked too, despite having requested to be excused. I declined, Bert will go for both of us and I will drive him there, and may well have to collect him too.

When I made my excuses to the groom he said,

No pressure. Whatever suits you. But, seeing as you're not going would you be OK looking after our dogs?

What could I say? Yes, no bother at all.

Tonight, after the funerals, before the wedding, I delighted myself by going outside and noting all the different areas where young long-eared owls were calling for food. There were at least four of them, some only yards from our door. That's the joy of living surrounded by trees.

My Lord Bertram

Bert and I watched a silly and enjoyable show on Amazon Prime, My Lady Jane. It's set in Tudor England and is an alternative historical drama featuring the Nine Days Queen, Lady Jane Grey. It also features shapeshifters. In My Lady Jane, almost every other person can become an animal at will. Always the same animal which is unfortunate if one is only a tiny mouse or an insect but rather useful if one is a large brown bear.

One important character becomes a horse. For some unexplained reason, he cannot change at will but transforms into equine form at dawn, becoming human again as night falls. 

When we'd finished watching the show I said to Bert,

I'd love you to be like him - the horse guy.

He said,

Because he's so good-looking and fit?

No, not that. It would be great if you could turn into a horse every morning and gallop around the fields all day, just stopping to eat grass. Then when it got dark you'd be you again and we could eat dinner and settle down to watch something silly together. I'd love that. You'd be out from underneath my feet all day and we'd save a fortune on groceries. 

The Twelve, July 2024

 

Another six books have been completed since I last posted.

Two by Tana French, The Secret Place and The Likeness. They were enjoyable although both were far too clever for their own good. As crime fiction should be. I think that itch has been dealt with for a while although I do have a Denise Mina waiting in the wings.

And speaking of crime - I'll Be Gone  In The Dark by Michelle McNamara, a true account of the search for a serial rapist and killer in California. I liked it. Very well written. McNamara died before it was published and I found myself more interested in her than the killer who, like most of his ilk, was mediocre and underwhelming.

I raced through Pet. Five stars. I want to read everything Catherine Chidgey has written and I am grateful to my Irish/Kiwi cousin for the recommendation.

Then I completed reading According to Queeney by Beryl Bainbridge. It didn't grip me as much as some of Bainbridge's other books. Still a decent read. And, at times, bloody comical. I shall read it again when I'm eighty.

I picked up a copy of The Seventh Son by Sebastian Faulks somewhere last week. Tesco charity bookshelves, Oxfam? Cannot remember. Read it in four days. (Remember I'm also reading eleven other books concurrently.) Could not put it down. There were some of the same themes as Human Traces but it was much more accessible. An exhilarating and enjoyable read that left me thinking about what it is to be a human being. I loved it.

Not reading but I did start listening to All Quiet On The Western Front. I will never be able to gather strawberries again without recalling the suffering of horses on the battlefield. I know the men suffered too but there must be something less harrowing to listen to whilst gardening. 

Dealing With The Past

A post from 13 years ago.

IDLE THOUGHTS

The alarm goes off at 7am and I hit the snooze button.

7:05am RINGGG! I'm wondering what to do about the vintage Orange Order collarette in the attic. I hit the snooze button.

7:10am RINGGG! Trying to figure out the names of Adam Lambsbreath's cows in Cold Comfort Farm. Let me see - there's Pointless, Aimless, Feckless and what is the other one called? I hit the snooze button.

7:15am RINGGG! Pondering the minister's reading at yesterday's funeral service. Dorcas/Tabitha. Would those be good names for girl twins? Technically they are the same name just as Zoe and Eve are. I hit the snooze button.

7:20am RINGGGG!!!! There's this clairvoyant in Randalstown I'm going to later. She channels through an eel. Holy shit! I'm dreaming! Time to get up.

An unpublished one from 9 years ago

Every couple of years I clear the attic but this clearing has to the best one yet. I do have sticking places. Anything that came from Matty's house and all that old loyal orders paraphernalia that belonged to Bert's uncles. What happened to Johnny's stuff? He must have returned it to the lodge when it was dissolved. Uncle Andy died in harness or should that be in collarette?

Banjo Man came in and I was telling him about my efforts to declutter,

I don't know what I'm going to do with all that old loyal orders stuff.

Would somebody not want it? The lodge maybe, part of their history?

All those lodges are no more.

What about Ploppy Pants?

Not his thing. He's independent.

Doesn't seem right to throw it out. I know its not our culture but...

I know. Showing respect and all that..

Or...

What?

You could just burn it.

The Present Day

So what did I do? I packed up Andy's white gloves, apron and collarette and donated them to a charity shop in Harryville. The lady in charge was delighted as she had a customer who collected that kind of memorabilia.

Showing respect and all that. We still have several framed certificates in the attic. They are rather large and the frames are in poor condition. I expect we'll leave them for the next generation to worry about.

A Week In Pictures

 

Above, are my latest purchases from our local Oxfam shop. To be added to the To Read pile. The Richard Flanagan is for Bert. Its subject matter might be too harrowing for me.

The two youngest members of our animal family. They have a peculiar relationship. One minute it's all lovey-dovey, the next... battle royal. Earlier today Chico was trailing Woody around the kitchen floor by the throat. Woody seemed to be taking masochistic delight in it. As I said, peculiar.

Thanks to a few pleasant blue sky days, I was enjoying the garden again. 

After a couple of years in the wilderness, things were taking shape. Even Bert was showing an interest. 

But today. Horrible. Wind, blustery rain, everything being blown about. What I'd give for even three pleasant days in a row.

Which doesn't put the snails off. I've just pulled five of them away from my newly planted nasturtiums. The two pictured are engaging in snail foreplay.  

I am literally experiencing empty nest syndrome. Since my last post the spotted flycatchers have flown away. They are still around, somewhere. I saw them a couple of times but oh how I miss hearing them cheeping and watching the parents fly to and fro answering their pleas for food.

They were not the only ones crying to be fed. A couple of nights ago, after I'd gone to bed, Bert strolled towards the lane. He heard the young owls calling and because he could hear them (he's pretty deaf) knew they were close. He must have disturbed them as they left their perch and flew over his head followed by a parent. I was so jealous when he told me this.

The next night I went to the same spot. I heard the young owls squeaking and then the answering call of the adult long-eared owl. That sounded like a gruff bark. Perhaps that call was meant as a warning. I didn't get to see the owls but was pleased to hear them.

Our snails weren't the only creatures caught in the sexual act.

Lilioceris lilii (Scarlet lily beetle) found fornicating on lilies. 

I've learned a lot about these little pests this past week. They're not native to these islands and have only been around since the 1990s. They have a high sex drive, and lay hundreds of eggs, they squeak when threatened and their grubs hide in squelchy blobs of their own black excrement. They also perform back flips when disturbed, land on their backs and hope not to be spotted as they present their black undersides.

The grubs which survive me will, when fully fed, hide in the soil and emerge next spring and so it begins for another year.

Nice sharp shadows on one of the sunnier days this past week. More of that, please.