One From 12 Years Ago Featuring Father Vincent Davey

This post refers to events that happened in the late 1960s so almost ancient history. Father Davey, the Parish Priest of Antrim during my childhood, was quite the character, a sportsman, missionary and community worker. He got on so well with the people of Antrim that he was sometimes referred to as the Protestant Priest. He was also the first dead person I ever laid eyes on when his body lay 'in state' in St Comgall's in 1970.

And so, on to the recycled post.

In A Graveyard

So that is St Patrick's Day and Mother's Day over for another year. We had a few friends around last night and the talk came round to parading. Swisser complained that she had been held up earlier by an Orange parade and Bert and me had a little disagreement when I opined that I thought Orange Men only paraded on St Patrick's Day for complete twistedness and he opined that I was a sectarian bigot.

Usually on Mother's Day it slips my mind that I am a mother and have been so for 37 years. It always seemed far more important that I was a daughter and I had a mother. I visited her grave today and left a little posy that I plucked from my garden. Hannah went with me. I took her photograph by the grave and afterwards I said, “Were you smiling in that picture?” and she said, “Yes. Everybody puts on a solemn face by a grave. I didn't want to.” I've never been in St Comgall's cemetery with Hannah alone and we walked around and I told her stories about the people I knew who were buried there.

There was an Aunt who died of cancer when I was a teenager. She had the most beautiful smile and she loved to laugh. Her daughter was seven years older than me and she had a really quirky sense of humour. One day I went to visit my Aunt and my cousin was there as well. She came out with some remark (I forget it now) that I found so funny that I laughed until I wet myself. My Aunt was tickled pink at this disaster and she laughed until tears ran down her face. She died not long after this.

I knew so many stories about people who were buried there. There wasn't the time to tell her all of them but I did tell her one about Father Vincent Davey who was Parish Priest in Antrim when I was a girl. In those days the Parish Priest was a figure of authority and although Father Davey seemed to be a jovial sort of man, we children were taught to fear him. Father Davey had been a missionary priest in Nigeria from 1922-1932 and was still devoted to that cause. He was very skilled at raising funds or, to put it another way, squeezing money out of his parishioners. As I remember, the bulk of his sermons were fund-raising drives and exhortations for money. Still the people of the Parish would far rather have given their money to the Missions or the Parish than to the Government.

I would have been around fifteen and becoming very wilful and defiant and my parents were despairing of me. Matty had the bright idea of sending me in to Father Davey for a good talking to and I was given the busfare to Antrim and instructed to go and see him. I can't have been that bad a girl or I wouldn't have went near the Parochial House but anyway I stood at that bus stop and I got on that bus and I was trembling with fear and I'm sure there are people who've gone to the scaffold who were not as afraid as me.

I got off the bus at the Chapel Corner and presented myself at the Parochial House. I knocked the door and, after what seemed like a long time, it was opened by the old dragon of a housekeeper. She looked down at me with great disdain. “Yes. What do you want?” I quaked and said in a very tiny voice. “I'm here to see Father Davey.” She went off and a few minutes later he appeared at the door. I must have interrupted his meal for he was wiping his mouth. He was pink and shiny and not terribly cross looking at all. I said, “My mammy sent...” He stopped me, looked at me benignly and he said, “Now – you're to be a good girl, say your prayers, work hard at school and do what your Mammy and Daddy tell you,” and with that he smiled at me and closed the door. I was delighted to have got off so lightly and made my way home with a far lighter heart.

I did not make Matty much wiser as to what had passed between me and the Parish Priest and I'm afraid that I did not take his advice to heart for I did not say my prayers, nor did I work hard at school or do what my parents told me. But I probably should have.

Missing the Northern Lights

 I woke up on Saturday morning, early as usual, let the dogs out, made coffee, then went to my desk and completed Wordle in four tries. As always, I opened Twitter/X and posted my results so that a fellow Wordler west of Dingle might see it. I think he and I are the only two folks left in the world who still do this. But what else had he posted? Only the Aurora Borealis over Mount Brandon! I was delighted for him and just a little envious.

I sipped my coffee and noodled over to the WhatsApp family group. And there was another photograph of the Aurora. This time it was Leitrim Sister who’d caught it in the bog. Wow! Aren’t they lucky dogs in 26 I thought to myself. I carried on scrolling. What’s this. The Northern Lights in Crumlin? County Antrim! Where I live. This was my niece Neesh who’d seen the amazing light show. Her photos were the best too. I might have to steal one. Or two.

Photos by Naoise

Next to Facebook to see whose been looking at Nelly’s Garden and what do I find. Vee’s brother Geordie, over at Cardonaghy, only a few fields away from here, okay more than a few, I went on Google Maps and counted them, fifteen fields away but that takes into account that the fields around here are quite small. Anyway, I digress, Geordie too had photos of the Aurora and there’s me slept through the whole thing. Raging!

At least I had Evie’s concert to take my mind off it. This took place at Wellington Church near Galgorm. I passed Geordie’s house on the way and there he was, the lucky beggar, sitting sunning himself at his front door. Evie’s concert was wonderful. I did not take any photographs and was cross with all the people who did as they kept obstructing my view of Evie and her cello. The crossness did not last as the concert was so good. I was feeling happy on the way home and when I passed Geordie’s house we waved at each other. No hard feelings about missing the Aurora.

There were high hopes that it would be visible later that night which is why I found myself standing in a silage field with the Haribos at 11 o’clock, way past my bedtime. Ditto Zoe and the girls. Dave is a night owl so was normal for him although he’d be more likely to be on the sofa than a field at that time of the evening. It was not to be. At the crucial time the sky clouded over and there were no Northern Lights for us.

I was back down the lane, past the silage field today, all by myself, headphones on, plugged into a podcast, fast forwarding to episode 8 to hear my own voice in my ears. This from was the interview I gave at the BBC back in March.* I was slightly in dread of hearing myself but it was OK.

Later on, I listened to the entire series and I'd recommend it to anyone interested in the history of the Northern Ireland conflict.

* Ganching and I were both invited to take part in a BBC Ulster programme about the UWC Worker’s Strike.

The Things I Learn From Books

 

Don't even ask me where I picked this one up, for I don't recall. This week it went into the reading basket, as I always want at least four of the twelve to be non-fiction. I read the introduction this morning and know I will love this book.

The new thing I learned was on the first page. Welwitschia mirabilis, a plant found in the Namib Desert, never grows more than its first two seedling leaves, leaves which grow to an immense length and which can live for thousands of years. How amazing is that? 

Welwitschia is named after an Austrian botanist, Friedrich Welwitsch, who was the first to describe the plant in 1859. The 'mirabilis' means marvellous, amazing. Latin may not be spoken much today but, thanks to Linnaeus, all plant people have a bit of it, even me. 

Some folk think that Welwitschia is an ugly plant and yet some people still want to grow it for themselves. I checked eBay for availability and a company is selling 10 seeds for £47.99. I'm not going to bother though as the company is in China and I couldn't be certain that I wouldn't end up  with some other plant. Also, I don't even have a heated conservatory. Coming from a desert I'm sure the plants wouldn't appreciate the climate in Cullybackey.

Still, I would like to see Welwitschia in real life. Preferably without visiting Namibia or Angola. Nothing against those countries except they're a bit far away. I must have missed it when I visited Hortus Botanicus in Amsterdam for, according to Flickr, it was there in 2012. Unless it perished before I got there.

This illustration would suggest that Welwitschia has more than two leaves but over the decades the desert winds shred them so that there appear to be many more. Then, over the centuries the ends of the leaves disintegrate and blow away. Truly amazing.  Another thing. They can be eaten*. I wouldn't. 

*Indigenous people eat the cone of this plant by eating it raw or baking it in hot ashes. One of its names, onyanga, translates to 'onion of the desert'. (Wikipedia)

The Twelve, May 2024

 

It's been five years since I began reading multiple books simultaneously and, since then, I have read approximately 224 books. There may be a few I still need to record. To be honest, I've been slacking. That works out at less than four a month and at that rate, should I live to be eighty years old, I'll only be able to read another 448 books. Some of  which are yet to be written. Recommendations, please.

Hagseed is my favourite of the current batch, with the Michael Lewis and the McNamara a close second. The Sheri Fink I've been dragging through and the J.M. Coetzee (his first book) has been a struggle. I've just completed The Vietnam Project and will be moving on to The Murderous Boer (my words, not his). I've barely started the Feeney, the Chidgey and the Shafak. All three seem promising and, coincidentally, two of them feature magpies. 

The following is a list of the 224 books I've read or am currently reading. Only look at it if you can be bothered. I won't mind.

Ballykeel

 We went to live in Ballykeel 2 sometime in the mid-eighties. It was predominantly a Protestant estate with few Catholic families living there. The people in our square were friendly enough. The neighbour on one side was housework mad, her home and children were spotless. She washed her wheelie bin inside and out every single week. She cleared up after every meal and straight away set the table for the next one. Every night at eleven o’clock sharp the hoover came out. Bert and I used to lie in bed and laugh about it. Being newly partnered up we had far better things to be at than vacuuming floors.

Dotty’s vacuum cleaner was not the only thing that disturbed our nights. One night I heard the clink of glass coming from outside and peeked through the window. There were young fellows all over the place, masked with scarves and balaclavas, for those were pre-hoodie days. They were gathering up armfuls of empty milk bottles from all our doorsteps. Soon after the RUC were in the estate and the young fellows were pitching petrol bombs at them. This was what the empty bottles were for. There was a tremendous commotion just outside our house and I had to look out. The other next door neighbour’s son (not Dotty’s) was being pursued by two burly members of the DMSU and I heard them shouting, “Come here ye wee bastard!” He made it to his mother’s house and I don’t know whether they trailed him out of it or not but if they did there was damn all they could do about it for he was only about fifteen at the time. This young boy never spoke to me because he knew I was Catholic. That was the thing about Ballykeel 2 – the older people were friendly enough, the young girls and the children were fine with us but teenage boys rarely spoke to us. They were too hard and too loyal to take to do with one of the other sort. That wee hard boy had a cross to bear himself for his mother had foolishly landed him with a Fenian name. He insisted he was ‘Raymond’ to his friends, but when his name appeared in the papers, which it did with some regularity when he got a bit older, he was ‘Eamon’.

The picture above brought back some memories. It was taken on a hot, hot day in midsummer. The man on the right was a quiet wee widower who gave nobody any bother. That young lad leaning on my bin? I cannot remember who he was at all. Hannah is to the left of the picture sucking her thumb, a great hobby of hers in those days and many a day since. The picture is in rough shape but there is something about it that I like. Most of those houses are gone now, bulldozed to the ground by the NIHE.  In the background, you can see Crebilly Chapel looking down over that big Protestant estate.

We left Ballykeel after an incendiary device was placed on my doorstep. The police were keen to prosecute the person responsible and went out of their way to move us to a safer area. This process took five months during which time I lived among my Ballykeel neighbours and came to no further harm. We moved to Dunclug, which was, at that time, a pleasant estate. Its dark days were yet to come.

Many years later whilst working in the hostel we had a couple of Ballykeel men come in to give the place a lick of paint. They were connected to an organisation with Ulster in its name and were carrying out work for the community.

I asked one of them, “Tell me this. Are there any Catholics living in Ballykeel now?” His reply, a trifle indignant, “Indeed there are! We take very good care of our Catholics in Ballykeel!” I didn’t like to say that no one took much care of my kids when they were getting verbally abused on their way to and from school. Maybe it was their kids who were doing it.

 In case you were wondering…

NIHE – Northern Ireland Housing Executive. Province-wide housing authority established in the early seventies. It was a reaction to the civil disturbances in the country in the sixties many of which related to the unfair distribution of public housing run by the local councils. It soaked up a lot of my peers who graduated from the University of Ulster in the seventies.

RUC – Royal Ulster Constabulary. Has since been rebranded Police Service of Northern Ireland. It was perceived as ‘a Protestant Force for a Protestant People’ but by the time the eighties came around nobody liked them. Hence the rebranding.

DMSU – Divisional Mobile Support Units. These were very scarey policemen brought out to riot situations. They were very well-armed and wore full face visors which made them scarier still. They were often hyped-up to the max and not to be messed with.

Fenian – used by Protestants as a derogatory term for Catholics, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fenian

More Apple Dumpling

I am finding it hard to settle to fresh blogging. So back to the trusty stopgap - a recycled post. This one is almost 20 years old. Some things have changed since I wrote it, some things haven't. Swisser is still annoying me, and I have not gotten any fatter. The big change is that Matty's not here any more. She will be gone thirteen years tomorrow.

Apple Dumpling

Mother and I went to the Hospice shop in Magherafelt yesterday where I picked up a denim skirt and pink stripy cheesecloth blouse both size 20. That shop is damn good as there is little competition in the area and there are lots of rich people (good quality cast offs) about. There are also loads of large well-fed people too as there were plenty of XL sizes. I am building up an extensive wardrobe of size 20 (and above) garments since getting amazingly fat. Sometimes I console myself that I’ve only gone up one dress size and that I was only kidding myself I was size 16 anyway.

Whilst putting on the denim skirt this morning I noticed that my waist appears to have risen. Let me explain. You know ladies that a huge amount of us wear the wrong bra size and that the starting point of measuring up for the proper size is underneath the bosom. Well that is where my waist has crept up to. My under-bust measurement and my waist are the same and in the same place. Nelly is now the shape of an apple with little arms and legs sticking out – and is that a cherry on the top?

A wise woman once told me that I shouldn’t worry about putting on weight as a result of stopping smoking. She said that after about a year the weight would go down again. Oh God I hope she is right.

Then another wise woman told me that a menopausal woman turns into an apple with little arms and legs sticking out, and then she gets diabetes. Thanks for that Swisser.

On Reading & Cooking

I finished two books this morning. The first was In the Castle of My Skin by George Lamming which I immediately wanted to reread. That is a rare feeling for me but I felt as if there was something there that I really needed to understand better. I will read it again.

The second book was Elisabeth Strout's Amy & Isabelle, a recommendation from London Sister. This one I didn't feel inclined to reread it but it did make me want to read another Strout. World Books on eBay here I come.

And speaking of World Books - I recently bought a pre-owned copy of Bee Wison's The Secret of Cooking. I paid top dollar for it, only a few quid less than a new copy and was very disappointed to discover that the previous owner had left some cooking splodges on it, in the form of stuck-together pages.  Of course, this meant that the book obviously encouraged cooking and if it had cost me a fiver I wouldn't have cared.  World Books were great about it and gave me a full refund which I have already spent on buying even more books from them. 

Tonight I made Mushroom Noodles with Peanut Dressing from Bee Wilson's book and it was superb. Probably the best salad dressing I've ever made in my life. It was the very definition of umami. Cannot wait to make it again. 

The Jeep has been in for a service this past day and a half. I've missed it. This must be how Vee feels all the time. No wheels. The car came back today and I was straight into town to buy all the special ingredients for the Mushroom Noodles etc. It was pension day yesterday and I longed to spend but had no wheels. I cracked around nine pm and replenished my spices from my online spice supplier. And I bought a book from World Books, The Trees by Percival Everett recommended by The Guardian and Ganching. I will probably buy Everett's James tomorrow if I can persuade Vee to Waterstone's.

PS This post should be more accurately be titled On Reading & Cooking & Drinking Wine for there was a really good offer in Tescos this evening.

Watching Blue Lights and Baby Reindeer. Gardening? Afraid not. It's far too cold and wet. Worst Spring in 70 years.

Catching Up

 

Who is that fellow sitting (some time ago) with all those young women? These days he is a retired solicitor, and two of the women are his sisters. I'm the one in the middle wearing a red dressing gown, my favourite outfit back in the day. I'm sitting next to my youngest sister who was always up for a night out. One girl I don't remember but the friend who took the original photograph will know for she knows everybody and everything.

These past couple of months have found me reconnecting with old friends.  First, it was Vee who I've been taking out a bit for she had to give up driving for a while. We get our goods in, go visit garden centres, cemeteries and coffee shops. We even went to Ikea! Just like regular old ladies. I'm finding it all most enjoyable. There was a lot of catching up and lots of stories to be told. 

Then about a week and a half ago I got a call from another old friend Cici. I'd bumped into her about a month before and we'd exchanged numbers. It was the usual thing. Must get together, the sort of thing that is often said and then not acted upon. But I was delighted to hear from her. She suggested meeting up with her and another friend two days hence. I was so excited. Thought about what I was going to wear even! Obviously not the red dressing gown for even though I still have it it doesn't fit too well these days. Our mutual friend, Ari - I've known her since she was twelve. She was London Sister's friend in first year at grammar school but after LS left town we became closer. 

As life goes on we take different paths, meet other friends, develop new interests and I hadn't seen Ari in nineteen years. I was nervous. I needn't have been. The craic was mighty, the catching up began. We had all changed so much yet it seemed we hadn't changed at all.  There will be a next time. I'm looking forward to it.

Cici took the original photograph and Ari is sitting next to me. It must have been taken in the latter half of the 1970s. Cici will know, she knows everything.  

Durty Danny

This past couple of years have seen us get two kittens and a pup. This has been cheering and has brought a bit of youthful high spirits to the house. This is all very well except that ten years from now they are going to catch up with us in decrepitude and it seems unfair, it's already unfair to foist our old selves on young animals. We might be wiser these days but we're nowhere near as much fun and Cleo hasn't had a tenth of the experiences that Danny and Rosie had being the beloved dogs of far younger people.

Danny travelled. He was never away from beaches, was all around Ireland, and even went to Manchester to visit Katy when she was at Uni. He loved the Dingle peninsula and had great times in Sligo and Galway. He was part of the County Antrim rave scene and attended many open-air music gatherings of an informal sort. We were party animals and so was he. Rosie might not have been as sociable or as far-travelled but she enjoyed her outings too as did Paddy. 

It helped that Nellybert were outrageously irresponsible. We let the dogs loose and assumed that all would be well. Once, at the Omagh Bluegrass Festival, we lost Danny and Rosie. We were staying (big crowd of us) in two holiday cottages. The two dogs were soon found, at a barbecue, to which they had not been invited. Danny was damnable for joining other people's picnics and barbecues and somehow he always got away with it. As did we.

One of Danny's more memorable trips was to Galway City. We had rooms somewhere and Danny was to sleep in the van. No bother to him as the van was his second home. Before we turned in for the night we took him for a walk. On a lead, but he was OK about it. A small van passed us with one of the back doors open. Something flew out. Partially cooked chicken pieces. Danny started to munch.  He ate as much as he could and then gathered in his mouth what he could carry back to the van. I told you we were irresponsible. We retired to our lodgings which were cheap but not cheerful. There is nothing cheerful about slugs crawling up the bathroom tiles. 

The next morning our darling dog was still alive, very much so but for the entirety of that day, the farts coming out of him were abominable. Served us right. 

And that was just one of Danny's many adventures. Poor Cleo is already over a year old and hasn't gone a step further than Waterfoot Beach. No off-lead adventures for her either as we are responsible pet-owners now. About time.

Cleo at Waterfoot

A Late Start

Blogging-wise April has got off to a slow start - all the usual excuses. Firstly, I was too busy, secondly, too tired. 

Katy and family arrived on the second day of the month, on a visit that was far too short yet very sweet. 

I managed to get a stinking cold which set in when the fam went back to Norfolk, so that's all I'm fit for tonight apart from posting the following pictures.

Mermez

There were no beans on toast this Easter. No chocolate either. I had a toasted cinnamon bagel for breakfast,  a soft-boiled egg for lunch and Tunisian mermez for dinner. Until today I'd never heard of mermez, which is a simple lamb and chick pea stew. A good friend gave me a middle-eastern cookbook and a selection of spices (best Easter present ever) and I selected mermez because I had all the ingredients already.The curly parsley and onions were our own, home-grown, the lamb was in the freezer and the rest was store cupboard. It was delicious. 

Despite the lack of chocolate I have had a very good Easter Sunday. There was also a lack of religiosity, no harm although I did have to argue some sense into a young friend who found himself perturbed by the Ramadan lights celebration in London. His argument, that we are a Christian country, why are they doing this at Easter?. Mine. Perhaps historically, we are a Christian society, but we celebrate diversity, we try to be an open-minded and inclusive people. Also my argument - why are you allowing right-wing, populist platforms telling you what to think? 

I tried and will keep on trying. 

 Looking forward very much to seeing my Katkin and her beloveds on Tuesday. Beyond excited.

Busy Busy Busy

I've been getting ready for the visit of the Norfolkians - bedrooms to prepare, shopping to fetch, food to fix and general decluttering. I'll never get it finished. And now I've went and gone and broke my fire. Bang goes my dream of sitting with Katy in my cosy, private, secret sitting room sipping wine and watching Netflix. After the children have gone to bed of course.

The fire isn't irretrievably broken - it is just a bad crack in the glass door but it is a bank holiday weekend and the fire door shop will be closed, maybe for the entire week. 

Despite this I'm looking forward to seeing my Norfolk family and I have actually managed to prepare two evening meals in advance with another to go on Monday. One is a beef stew and the other a chicken curry. Monday's meal will be a vegetarian chilli.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. I don't know what we'll have for dinner - maybe beans on toast. I quite fancy that.

The Thompson Twins

 Pippin and Woody

A few days ago Woody had a big adventure. He returned to Portglenone, the town where he was first rescued by Ben and Sara. Busy shopping streets are no place for lost baby kittens. He was much safer at the vets. Except the part where she removed his testicles but I don't think he noticed. We collected him just after lunchtime and although he'd lunched at the vet's surgery he straight away had another large meal. After that he went outside to explore his favourite places and then had a wrestling match with Chico. His day continued as usual with play fights with Pippin and Cleo, a big supper and the usual bedtime.

Next day I was going into town and spotted a leaflet lying in the car, so picked it up and read it. 

Woody's Aftercare. Woody has had a big operation, the removal of both testicles. He has had anaesthesia and may be lethargic and sleepy. Small meals may be offered if he seems hungry. Rest and quiet times are important for Woody's recovery. The wound... etc. etc.

Oh dear. I forgot to read the after care leaflet. Bad cat carer. Still, he's OK. The operation didn't take a fizz out of him.

We call Pippin and Woody the Thompson Twins they both came to us from Sara T whose surname is... you guessed it.

And as Nellybert often say to each other, Sara does exceedingly good kittens.

 She's good with dogs as well.

A Man Who Loves Kittens

I have been watching a thriller about FLDS folk in Utah. In this show  there are people portrayed who believe than the Heavenly Father speaks to them directly. Apparently one just opens one's heart and listens.

I tried this and received the following message which I intend to put into practice.

Be Nicer To Bert

How could anyone not be nice to a man who loves kittens?

And cats.

And dogs.

Pig Dreaming Again

 

I was going to write a post about unreliable memories but it turns out I am too tired. Instead here is a recycled post about dreaming and remembering that is, I think, mostly true...

I dreamed I stole a little pig that wore clothes. Not on his nether regions of course as that would be impractical, just a little jacket and a scarf. Bit Beatrix Pottery.

Anyway, I felt very guilty that I'd stolen this pig and decided to return him to his owner Mrs Hanna, the farmer's wife who in real life always baked cakes using Stork. Coincidentally Mrs Hanna was also the mother of a teacher at Cullybackey High who was there in Bert's time and was violent and slightly insane. Or so they said.

The Hannas were a nice respectable Protestant family who lived next door to us in Cannonstown. I have some very good memories of them and some not so good.

I remember Mrs Hanna being very kind. And George, her husband was the first person who showed me the stars above and told me about the constellations. I've gazed skywards ever since.

Their youngest son Alan would invite me over to watch children's programmes on their black and white television for at that time we did not have a TV. The only programme I can remember seeing was Captain Pugwash. Those were good memories.

Then there was the time I took their grandson Samuel Alexander for a walk. I'm not sure where but it wouldn't have been too far away. But it must have been very muddy because Samuel Alexander got his bright white socks and his shiny black shoes completely filthy. George was very cross with me. I was devastated as he'd never been cross before. I realise now that he was probably going to get into trouble with his son and daughter-in-law.

Mrs Hanna had a fruit garden full of currant bushes and gooseberries which she used for jam-making. She used to give my sister and me ripe gooseberries and I thought they were delicious. Once the family had planned a day to Portrush and I, ever wicked, said to my sister that we should go to Mrs Hanna's garden and pick gooseberries. We did and ate the fruit off the bushes. The next day we had upset stomachs and Mammy mentioned this to Mrs Hanna. She said,

That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.

I was mortified. It turned out that only the men of the family had gone to Portrush. Mrs Hanna watched from her kitchen window as Jean and I stole her fruit.

I was very, very young when I first encountered the future teacher. Maybe three or four and despite his chosen career path I don't think he had a lot of time for children. I was annoying, kept knocking the front door and he came out and chased me down the path. I thought it must be a game and called him a bugger, a word I was trying out for the first time. Where I heard it, I don't know, as my parents did not swear. Well, maybe Daddy did, among other men but not in front of children. Mrs Hanna told my mother who brought me home and smacked me around the legs, very hard. I was heartbroken as I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong. But I had. I had embarrassed her in front of her respectable neighbours.

The very worst memory was the day they killed the pigs. I don't even know why I was there. The most horrific part was how they screamed when they were being brought to the killing place. I cannot bear to write the details of what happened next but it is imprinted in my memory and will be forever.

I was seven when we left Cannonstown for the Murphystown Road. It was only a few field lengths away but I never saw much of Mrs Hanna after that. Her oldest son, the very handsome Josie, used to do contract work for local farmers and would be around our place occasionally. I had a big crush on him when I was about thirteen. The Hannas are all gone now, every one of them.

In my dream, when I took the stolen piglet back to Mrs Hanna, she listened to my apology in her quiet and familiar way then she said,

You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.

The Reading List

How long is it since I started reading multiple books? I need to look this up. Thankfully it will have been recorded in Nelly's Garden.

[checks blog]

Aha! I first mentioned it EXACTLY five years ago. This is why I blog.

On Friday, March 08, 2019, I posted this, 

For several months now I've been reading 10-12 books simultaneously. I was inspired to do this by Will Self, who in answer to the question,

What are you reading currently?

Replied, 

Before I read digitally, I’d be reading perhaps 10 books simultaneously – but now I read as many as 50 at once...

I still don't read digitally and I've never went as far as fifty books. That would be beyond me. Also, I.ve never read Will Self. So far, never felt the need.

I have kept a list of most of the books I've read this past five years and it numbers 199 which does not seem a lot. Forty books a year. At that rate if I live to be 90 (which I'd quite like to) I'll only be able to read another 800 books. Some of those will be re-reads and some still to be written. 

My current favourite reads are The Bee Sting and The Age of Innocence. 

All-time favourites Louise Kennedy - Trespasses and Claire Keegan - Foster. Recent favourites Wally Lamb - I Know This Much Is True and Barbara Kingsover - Demon Copperhead. 

The Rest of the Week

 On Tuesday I cooked dinner for the Haribos. Lasagna and lemon drizzle cake for afters. I expected the lemon drizzle cake to be a doddle as I'd made two on the Saturday for Banjo Man's birthday. The first of those was a disaster, baked in the mini-oven, it was burnt black on top and uncooked in the middle. I pur it down to having oilified the butter before I mixed it. The second cake, baked in the big oven was perfect.

Haribos for dinner on Tuesday night. I made a lasagna and another lemon drizzle cake and this time, not having liquefied the butter it went into the mini oven. Ten minutes later, smoke everywhere, cake burnt black on top, uncooked below. I complained to Bert,

That oven is overheating. Something must have gone wrong with the thermostat. I'm going to dump it.

He went to check it. Told me,

You know what? You had it turned to the grill option. 

I scraped off the black top and finished baking it and it turned out fine. With extra lemon syrup and Bert's amazing custard it went down a treat. No more grilling cakes for me. 

It was up extra early on Wednesday morning . I was taking the eight o'clock train to Belfast as I had an appointment at the BBC. Afterwards I went to the Palm House, the Tropical Ravine and the Museum. I was disappointed to see that the dizygotheca elegantissima was gone from the Palm House. Maybe the PSNI had it under investigation? 

Thursday was Martha day. No Evie as she was at her after-school music practice. I hardly saw Martha that evening as she preferred hanging out with Chico. I don't blame her. Chico is much more fun than Granny.

Did something happen on Friday? I don't remember. The only thing I can recall is a phone call from Vancouver Brother. He and his beloved are holidaying in Puerto Vallarta, staying in a gorgeous pink hotel. 

Then on Saturday we went to a birthday party. Excellent food and the best craic. Today, Sunday Hannah and I went to St Georges Market and took Chico for his first train ride. He seemed to enjoy it all except for the pink double deckers racing past. In all his little life (3 months) he never saw the like before.

I'll be back in Belfast tomorrow as I am taking an old friend (Vee) to Ikea. Wish me well. 

My Monday

There were a lot of people and dogs in this house over the weekend so, when I heard that I would not be expected to do anything or go anywhere today, I was pleased. Maybe catch up on my reading?

Despite all the extra dogs and people on Saturday and Sunday I managed to finish two books.  Saturday's last chapters was Paul Lynch, Prophet Song and on Sunday morning, while Jazzer deep-cleaned my kitchen, I returned to bed and read the final pages of Demon Copperhead. I've been alternating those two for the last week. The Paul Lynch was an unsettling read but, in the end, worth it. Demon Copperhead was hugely enjoyable. It will be Zoe's next, then Bert, then Bilrus who really disliked Prophet Song. I know he'll like the Kingsolver as he once said that John Steinbeck's East of Eden was the best novel he'd ever read.

I am still doing that 12 books at a time thing so the Lynch was replaced by Beryl Bainbridge's According to Queeney and the Kingsolver by another Kingsolver, Animal Dreams. I expect to find them both good.

As it happened I did not read much today (so far). Instead, I cleaned floors. Unbelievable how much filth seven dogs, ten people and two sprogs can tramp into a house and Jazzer's deep clean did not make it to the floors. Then we watched an episode of Kin and another of The Way. Inbetween times I drank a lot of tea and followed Vancouver Brother's flight from Van to Puerto Vallarta on flightradar. They* are within minutes of landing and I believe they'll make it safely to the ground.** 

At the Dark Hedges. Photo by Zoe

*Vancouver Brother's pronouns are he/him not they/them. He is travelling with his beloved.   

**I woke this morning having just dreamed that I heard Vancouver brother calling my name. This unsettled me and I became convinced that this meant he was in some kind of trouble. I messaged him some time later and he replied that he was OK, sitting on a plane and heading to Mexico.

The Wooden Gate

Once again I am attempting to sort out a huge cache of photographs, my own, my mother's and Pearlie's. This evokes a great deal of nostalgia. Sometimes it's not the photographs of people that do this, but places and things.

I have always liked these pictures...

...of a little wooden gate in my parent's garden that led on to the Drumkeeran Road which was rarely used. Looking at the picture it's hard to imagine that it was yards from a busy dual carriageway.

Then there is this one.

Probably taken by one of my sisters in the year before Mammy died. Perhaps someone can enlighten me. There was a period of heavy snow that year and I remember our cousin John came out with his backhoe to clear a path for the carers to come in. Our mother was so fortunate in having wonderful neighbours who thought the world of her.

So today, whilst going through her photographs, I found this one. It was taken when our parent's house was fairly new and the evergreen hedge not yet planted. The sign shows that the dualling of the A26 had reached Tannaghmore but the farmhouse in front of the garage is still there. I don't know who the little girl is but she might be one of the McGills.  She looks to be around two years of age so that would help to date the photograph.

And who made the gate?

In Which I Try Out AI

But let me be clear. I'm trying out Artificial Intelligence not Insemination.

"In the tranquil village of Cullybackey, where the scent of herbs mingled with the laughter of children at play, there lived a woman named Nelly – a guardian of the earth and a lover of all things green. With her hands as skilled as a surgeon's and her heart as tender as a mother's, Nelly tended to her garden with care and devotion, her fingers dancing among the leaves and petals like a symphony conductor guiding an orchestra."

So went the opening paragraph of one of my first and, probably, only attempt at trying out a free version of Ch@tgpt. I don't know what the app was channelling. Maybe Martha Finley? Nadine Dorries?

So I won't be doing that again.

On to the important news of the day. Our pup, Cleo is a year old day. She shares her birthday with her many siblings, also Francis Galton, Johann Strauss, Araucaria (still missed), David Austin, June Brown, Iain Banks, John McEnroe, and The Weeknd. An eclectic crew you'll agree.

Cleo had a lovely day tussling with her young friends Chico and Woody, playing with her red Kongs and chewing her favourite busted tennis ball and, because it was a special day, she got five chips from Frews in Ahoghill.

One From 19 Years Ago

I posted the following piece back when our lovely Matty was still in the land of the living. It was nineteen years ago. We were still living down the road and in the process of having this house renovated.

I spend a fair bit of my time sailing Matty around the country and recently I've been coming to the conclusion that hanging out with the very old is a lot like hanging out with the very young.

Here's some of the stuff I used to have to do for Zoe, Katy and Hannah when they were little ones.

• Hold on to them in town for fear they might run into the traffic.
• Monitor their unsuitable conversations with complete strangers.
• Encourage them to eat nourishing food.
• Leave them at home if I was going to do some serious shopping.

Now take that last point. Last Wednesday I visited a plumbing supplies shop in Kilrea and Matty came too. Now when the shopowner realised that I needed a lot of stuff for the new house he went into selling overdrive. After about two minutes I got awfully bored as he was speaking Plumberese and I don't understand Plumberese except for the odd word like pipe or tap. Now normally I'm awfully good at cutting these conversations short, usually by being very blunt. On this occasion I put it to him that I didn't understand a word he was talking about and that I was just here to look at the pretty baths and basins and that Bert would be along shortly to talk technicalities with him. But because I was also keeping an eye out for Matty I couldn't concentrate properly on getting away. Meanwhile Matty was becoming very restless indeed. Just like a toddler who hates this boring shop and wants to go somewhere more interesting instead. She was at her usual tricks. Wandering around aimlessly whilst sighing heavily, looking as if she might collapse if somebody didn't come and take her to a charity shop this minute and I swear I think I saw her, out of the corner of my eye, kicking one of the baths.

When I wrote this I did not have grandchildren. That was still five years in the future but since they've been around I've had the whole taking small kids shopping experience all over again. And yes, I stand by what I said then. Shopping with the elderly is not unlike shopping with little ones. Except, maybe, if a little one falls over they get picked up, dusted down, given sweeties and all is well. If an oldie falls it's ambulance time and a day and a half in Accident and Emergency. Thankfully that never happened with Matty and fingers crossed, it won't happen to me. For it's only a year or two to when it will be Miss Martha keeping me from walking into the traffic.

Conversations with Bert

The first thing Bert said to me when he came down this morning was,

How did Ivan Kroll die?

I say,

Who the fuck is Ivan Kroll?

I'm thinking, knowing his interests,

(a) some Nazi

(b) Eastern European politician 

(c) why is he asking me?

He elaborates,

You know, that show we watched - Boy Swallows Universe.

Oh that Ivan Kroll. He died horribly. How can you not know that? We only finished watching it two weeks ago.

Truth be told, I had to look it up myself. I remembered the horrible bit and I remembered it was Gus. Other details escaped me.

OK. Gus pushed him through a glass clock in a tower and he landed on a limousine. Totally dead.

So who's Gus?

Later on Jazzer called while I was making dinner. She begins,

I know you'll want an update on Dora since Ben was talking to Bert...

Bert never said anything to me about Dora. Or Ben.

Oh well. We took her to the vet yesterday to have that lump investigated and it's OK. Nothing sinister, she had it removed and they are happy enough that it was benign. 

We talk on, supportive on my side, relieved on hers, jointly agree on husbands never telling us anything important. Call finishes.

I go in to speak to Bert and I am filled with wickedness. I say,

That was Jazzer on the phone. 

I sigh and continue,

Poor old Dora.

His face drops. I relent.

It's OK. She had her operation, she's fine, it's benign, she's going to be OK. Why didn't you tell me?

I forgot. You came in with the girls, they were fussing with Chico and Cleo. I just forgot. 

I'm putting it down to Bert's superior abilty in compartmentalisation. Worrying things are put in one box, trivia in another. Another example, we went out for lunch on Sunday with some good friends. While she and I were discussing psychopaths we have known and know, Bert and he were discussing who was Sheila Grant's first husband in Brookside. That's when I told him about IMDB.*

*Enzway - everybody knows it was Ricky Tomlinson.

One From 17 Years Ago

One of our regular guests. Chico is day care only, no overnight stays yet.

This blog will be twenty years old in August so, with all my archives to draw on I am recycling a post in which Bert, Young Rooney and myself, discussed Nellybert's fast-approaching old age. What has changed since then?

We have arrived at our old age and seem to be managing OK even though we didn't go down the paintballing or stables route. .

Like ourselves, Young Rooney is seventeen years older, he's married now with children. He's given up on horsey girls. So has Bert. I still run around in filthy jeans and body warmers. We sort of do boarding kennels but only for family and friends and their dogs get to sleep on our beds. And it's free.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

Farm Diversification

Young Rooney called in this afternoon and we got to bouncing a few ideas around. These mostly centred around what Nellybert's going to do to bring the dosh in for the old age. Neither of us has much in the way of pension plans. In fact I just cashed mine in and it's just about enough to pay off my credit card and buy some decent teeth. Young Rooney says,

You could rent out the ground.

Doing that. Money's crap.

You could plant trees.

Done that. Fifteen acres in trees already.

What about a garden centre? Bert could run it and you could do a tea shop. Sell your cheesecake.

We hate garden centres.

Lots of money to be made.

Huh!

Boarding kennels then?

Someone tried for boarding kennels before and the road put in against it.

Cattery?

Mmmm. Maybe.

Riding stables? Paintballing?

Nelly goes,

Paintballing? Lots of fit blokes running about? Mmm. Maybe.

Bert goes,

Riding stables? Lots of gorgeous lassies in jodphurs? Sounds OK. Far better than all those oul biddies that hang about garden centres.

Young Rooney goes,

Aye. Riding stables. Me and Loveheart'll be round here all the time. Loveheart says all those horsey girls are mad for it. He says it's all the bouncing about in saddles that gets them going.

Nelly says,

Yeah. And I can become one of those old eccentric horsey women running about in filthy jeans and bodywarmers with no time to go to the hairdresser.

Bert says,

Sure that's you now...

The News From Cully

 

Never mind the Windsors and their recent over-reported, who cares* hospital stays - our Judy, the old girl, has had dental surgery, the price of a week's holiday in Spain, but with complementary toenail trimming thrown in. She came through it courageously and is already showing signs of improved mood and zest for what remains of her life. Who needs a holiday in Benidorm anyway? I'm holding out for Seville.

*Who cares? If the reporting around King Charlie's prostrate treatment results in more men seeking help and more lives prolonged then I say - that's good.

I'm always ordering books of the internet but this week I thought I'd try a new seller. I was immediately drawn to this volume of short stories by H.E. Bates in an Etsy shop**. When I was in my late teens I was a big fan of short stories by the likes of Bates and Hardy. I remember staying up late reading in front of the old Rayburn , fire door open, and being overcome by carbon monoxide fumes. When I finally closed the book, but not the fire door, I climbed the rickety wooden stairs, entered the bedroom where my two youngest sisters were sleeping and there fainted to the floor, overcome not by the fumes of cheap coal but the sharp, fresh, cold air of that freezing room. There is a lot to be said for living in a draughty old farmhouse. I bought that book for the sheer nostalgia of it and I look forward to reading it again.

I'd recommend the seller. My book arrived promptly, beautifully wrapped and with a complimentary postcard. How did she know that I use literary postcards as bookmarks?

**Full disclosure. This Etsy shop belongs to my sister. But I'd still be recommending her even if I didn't know her personally. And because I know her I also know how much time and effort she puts into providing this service. 

Other news from Cully - Ben and Sara are camping in the woods tonight. It's February. I'm so proud of them. A well-reared pair.