Slither Again

 This is a summer activity.

Most evenings - especially damp ones with a light mizzle of rain - I step outside to see what the molluscs are up to. I must look like a crazy woman: torch in hand, stepping so carefully, peering into every corner.

It’s strange to realise that I’ve gone from being a person revolted by slugs and snails to someone who’s maybe just a little bit obsessed with them.

The obsession began a few summers ago and has only grown since.

Last year, I started marking some garden snails with dots of correction fluid. Then I felt bad about it - was I interfering, harming them somehow? But this year, I’ve found quite a few of my marked snails still going strong, and still inhabiting the same corners of the garden as before.

This one has decided tansy is not to its taste.

In the dark, I have to be so careful where I tread - there’s nothing more awful than accidentally crushing the shell of a garden snail. If that happens - and it rarely does, because I watch my step -the snail faces a prolonged and painful death. It’s kinder, then, to end things quickly and stamp out its life. Maybe I’m a little bit (a lot?) mad, because doing that to a snail makes me really sad. Even though they devoured all my cosmos seedlings and have done great harm to my Vancouver lupins*.

Young garden snail. At this stage, its shell is very delicate. My 'dangerous' size sixes are only for comparison. 

*I’ve had the Vancouver lupins (Lupinus polyphyllus ) ever since I visited Eamon in his home city in 2013. I collected the original seeds in the grounds of the University of British Columbia.

This is what my Vancouver lupins were like six years ago.

And this is what they are like now.

More Fire

Aftermath of last Sunday's fire

Last Sunday evening, I was getting ready for bed when I heard loud cracking and banging noises. My first thought was:

What on earth is Bert doing in the kitchen? Slamming doors and crashing about again?

But the noise wasn’t coming from inside the house. Could it be fireworks over at Galgorm Manor again? It sounded much closer than that.

When I stepped outside, I realised just how close it really was.

The house next door was ablaze. Flames shot twenty feet into the air, windows cracked, and roof tiles exploded. Thankfully, it was a calm night, so there was little danger of embers drifting over to our place.

I called the fire brigade, and they arrived within twenty minutes. It was close to 2 a.m. before the fire was finally under control.

It’s not the first fire on that site. Nineteen years ago the garage went on fire. I believe that one was accidental – someone careless with something flammable, though I cannot be certain. The garage contained a quantity of paint tins and a gas tank so there was plenty of fuel for that fire. Like last week, the fire brigade got here within twenty minutes and spent two hours dousing the flames.

The aftermath of the 2006 fire

In Bert’s lifetime, there have been three incidents of fire at that site. The first was the most tragic. It would have been sometime in the 1960s. Clint was at primary school, and he remembers it clearly - no surprise, as it was his grandmother who died in that fire.

It was a shocking thing. All that remained of her were her lower legs and feet, still in her carpet slippers. She must have fallen into or near an open fire. There was no damage to the structure of the building, just a greasy, sooty deposit all over the walls and windows.

When I told that story to my friend Vee after this latest fire, she went a bit pale. Said she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She’s not usually one for superstition, but that unnerved her. Both Vee and Bert said that the site must be cursed.

According to the Fire Service, last Sunday’s fire was set deliberately. The police are looking for an arsonist but it is highly unlikely they’ll ever find anyone.

Ballymena Riots 2025

So, Ballymena is at it again. And this time, far too close to where my family live.

Once more, we’re in ‘whatever you say, say nothing’ territory. A passing comment to a neighbour about the hate and madness of it all, and you might catch a look that tells you they’re not quite on the same page - some sympathy for the protestors, plenty of hostility toward the ‘foreigners’.

It’s racism, plain and simple. It’s hate and it’s stupidity squared.

I once believed, naively perhaps, that my Irish grandchildren would grow up in a time of peace and civility. Instead, just around the corner from where they live, masked thugs have spent the past two nights rampaging through the streets, attacking police, wrecking property and burning families out of their homes.

They claim it’s a response to a horrific assault on a young woman. But how does terrorising innocent families deliver justice?

My heart goes out to her. She deserves justice, compassion, and the full support of the community - not this chaos done in her name.

They are racists, plain and simple, with their hatred and ignorance on full display.

Twenty Years Later

 Today is the twentieth anniversary our father's death. This photograph, featuring Daddy and his granddaughter Katy is a particular favourite of mine. It was taken by my sister Tricia, one of a series of black and white pictures she took of him as he went about the farm. The pictures are from the mid-eighties. He would have been in his sixties then, probably around the same age that Bert is now. 

I only noticed today that he is wearing a tie so it must have been taken on a  Sunday. His cardigan is half-decent looking too but those are definitely 'working' trousers. He wouldn't have risked his Chapel Sunday trousers out fothering cattle. 

Daddy and Bert at our old place.

Portrait of  Seamus by his granddaughter Naoise. 

Portrait of Seamus by his granddaughter Zoe. 

All the Sixes

 

Bert's birthday today. All the sixes!

After the family left I said to Bert,

The girls don't get nearly as excited about birthday cake and candles as they used to.

And it's true. They are teenagers now and are way too cool for candles and cake. But we still have the memories,

...and the photographs!

Happy birthday, Bert!

In Which I Ask ChatGPT Some Questions

 Who writes the blog Nelly's Garden?

ChatGPT said:

The blog Nelly's Garden is authored by a woman named Nelly, who has been sharing her life experiences and reflections since 2004. As of August 2024, she celebrated the 20th anniversary of her blog, noting that she might be "the oldest blogger in Cully" and perhaps even the only one, given the decline in personal blogging over the years. nellysgarden.blogspot.com

Nelly's writings encompass a wide range of topics, including gardening, family life, ageing, and personal anecdotes. She often shares stories about her daily activities, such as jury service, and her observations of nature, like the appearance of a blue butterfly in her garden. Her posts are characterized by a candid and humorous tone, providing readers with an intimate glimpse into her life and thoughts.

While specific details about Nelly's full name or background are not publicly disclosed, her blog serves as a personal journal that resonates with readers who appreciate authentic and heartfelt storytelling.

Who writes the blog Ganching?

ChatGPT said:

The blog Ganching, hosted at ganching.typepad.com, is authored by a writer who uses the pseudonym "Ganching." While the author's real name isn't publicly disclosed, insights from fellow bloggers suggest that she is an Irishwoman, likely from Northern Ireland, who now resides in London. secondat.blogspot.com

The blog features a blend of personal reflections, cultural commentary, and observations on daily life, often delivered with wit and a keen eye for detail. Topics range from travel experiences and book reviews to humorous anecdotes and musings on language. The author also shares her photography, adding a visual dimension to her narratives.

The term "ganching" itself is defined on the blog as:

1. To talk in a halting, agitated way

2. Talk stupidly

3. Of a dog snapping of the teeth

4. Of a horse biting

This playful definition sets the tone for the blog's content—conversational, candid, and occasionally self-deprecating.

While Ganching isn't updated as frequently as it once was, the archive remains a rich tapestry of stories and insights, offering readers a window into the author's experiences and perspectives.

 Do Nelly and Ganching know each other?

ChatGPT said:

Yes, Nelly (of Nelly’s Garden) and Ganching (of ganching.typepad.com) are not only acquainted but appear to share a close friendship. Their connection is evident through multiple references in Nelly’s blog.

For instance, in a post from October 2024 titled Family Time, Nelly writes:nellysgarden.blogspot.com

“These past few days, I have had the pleasure of Ganching and Kerry Sister's company. They took a house close to where we are, and we were together for part of every day.” nellysgarden.blogspot.com

Additionally, a 2019 entry mentions a visit to The Braid museum with Ganching and another friend:nellysgarden.blogspot.com

“The photo and words are by Leitrim Sister who visited the Braid a few weeks ago with myself and Ganching.” nellysgarden.blogspot.com

These instances suggest that Nelly and Ganching not only know each other but have shared experiences and mutual acquaintances, indicating a longstanding and meaningful friendship.

Who are Nellybert?

ChatGPT said:

"Nellybert" is the affectionate moniker that Nelly, the author of the blog Nelly's Garden, uses to refer to herself and her partner, Bert. This portmanteau combines their names, symbolizing their partnership both in life and in the narratives shared on her blog.

Throughout Nelly's Garden, Nelly frequently mentions Bert, offering glimpses into their daily lives and shared experiences. For instance, in a post from April 2025, she recounts Bert's observation regarding her jury service:

"So why didn’t I? Bert says it’s fear of missing out. Maybe he’s right." nellysgarden.blogspot.com

Additionally, a 2006 blog entry titled "Overheard At Nellybert's" provides a humorous anecdote from their household, further illustrating their close-knit relationship:nellysgarden.blogspot.com

"Ben Banjo! Please tell me that's not your sister's knickers you're wearing!" nellysgarden.blogspot.com

These references showcase the warmth and camaraderie that define Nelly and Bert's relationship, making "Nellybert" a fitting representation of their shared life.

Which is Nelly's favourite dog?

ChatGPT said:

Nelly, the author of Nelly's Garden, has shared deep affection for several dogs over the years, but two stand out as particularly cherished: Danny and Rosie.

🐾 Danny – "Best. Dog. Ever."

Danny was Nellybert's first beloved pooch, described unequivocally as the "Best. Dog. Ever." He was with them for nearly seventeen years before tragically passing away in 2004 under the wheels of Bert's van. His memory is honored with narcissi planted on his grave, reflecting the deep bond they shared. nellysgarden.blogspot.com

🐾 Rosie – The "Wee Special Bitcher"

Rosie, another cherished companion, was affectionately nicknamed "Scritchy" and "The Wee Special Bitcher." She was a favorite among family members, including Pearlie, Matty, and Bert's aunts. Her sudden passing in 2008 deeply affected the family, with Nelly noting that Bert was visibly emotional—a rare occurrence. nellysgarden.blogspot.com+1nellysgarden.blogspot.com+1

While Nelly has loved many dogs, Danny and Rosie hold special places in her heart, their memories vividly preserved in her writings.

An Unexpected Task

We have Canadian visitors, and the weather has been lovely for them. But sunny, dry weather means much more watering and this afternoon, as I went out to give my baby plants their second drenching of the day, I heard Rusty grunting for attention, and sounding a wee bit anxious. Something was up with him.

I found him lying in the shade, which was sensible of him, as pigs can get sunstroke too. There he was, lying on his side in a wallow in what is left of our dunghill. His problem was that he couldn't get up. I had to do something. Persuasion didn't work. I tempted him with half an apple, but he couldn't get purchase. The wallow was too slippery, and he is a very elderly pig, almost fifteen years old.

Usually, Bert takes care of Rusty's senior moments, but he wasn't around. There was nothing for it - I had to act. First thing - wellies, then a shovel. I scraped all the mud and dung away from him, which freed his hind legs. Then I squeezed behind him; luckily, there was a wall for me to lean against, and I started pushing him forward with my feet. I wasn't sure that it would help and I worried that the stress of it all might kill him. But it worked. He managed to get on his feet, and I fed him the rest of his apple, hosed his head and mouth and got him to drink. 

Of course, I'd considered photographing him in his predicament but decided not to, as he might have died, and it would have been horrid for our last record of him to have been such an undignified spectacle.

While he was drinking, Hannah got back from work. He must have heard the car for before long, he was waiting at the orchard gate, which is where she gives him his special treats. 

Hunting the Lily Beetle

 

 Lilioceris lilii

The first time I saw a lily beetle was in a friend’s garden, and it was - of course - chomping on a lily. I drew her attention to it, as she’s a keen naturalist, always interested in and supportive of all the creatures that creep and crawl.

She identified it for me, and I remember thinking what a pretty little beast it was, with its glossy scarlet wing covers contrasting so nicely with its coal-black head, legs and underside.

But that was before I started growing lilies myself.

I was tempted by those glorious packs of lily bulbs. And after several futile attempts to grow them in a perennial bed (thanks to slugs), I finally had some success in an old aluminium cattle feeder.

Then, last year, my lilies were discovered by those ghastly lily beetles. They must have been there long before I noticed them, and they managed to do a lot of damage. I went to war immediately -picking off the adults and dealing with their disgusting, excrement-covered larvae. Fortunately, I managed to get the situation under control simply by removing them by hand.

My friend Vee’s lilies also came under attack, but she found the larvae too repulsive to deal with. Lily beetle grubs use their slimy black poo as a form of camouflage, but that doesn’t deter me. Vee’s lilies were devastated; mine are, so far, doing OK.

This year, I started early. I inspect the lilies every day - sometimes twice a day - and I’ve already found a few. Lily beetles have another cunning trick: if disturbed, they drop from the leaf or bud they’re chewing and contrive to land on their backs, hiding their shiny red wing covers from predators (me). So I creep up on them.

Picture it: the human predator tiptoeing across the yard to dispatch tiny beetles. A cruel practice, perhaps - but one I can justify, because lily beetles are not native to these islands. They began as a small, localised infestation in the south of England in the early 1900s, and were first reported in Northern Ireland in 2002.

My naturalist friend was quite unconcerned that her lilies were being attacked - she believes that invertebrates matter more than cultivated flowers. Perhaps she’s right. But that is gardening: always a balancing act between admiration and intervention. I still think lily beetles are lovely, in a villainous sort of way. But pretty or not, if they come for my lilies, I will find them and... you know the rest.  

First posted in December 2005

 

Dressed: One from nearly twenty years ago

Pearlie, Lizzie and Pepe

In the olden days, farming people had two sorts of clothes: their ‘good’ clothes and their ‘wearing’ clothes. Good clothes were for outings — high days, holidays and Sundays — while ‘wearing’ clothes were for working in. In our house, my father used to talk about ‘good’ clothes and ‘ould’ clothes. Usually, ‘wearing’ or ‘working’ clothes had once been good clothes. A farmer’s outfit would most likely have consisted of a pair of old tweed or heavy cloth trousers worn with an old suit jacket. These need not necessarily have matched, as trousers would wear out more quickly than jackets. Belts were uncommon, and trousers were held up with galluses. If the elastic in these wore out, the trousers could be secured with a length of baler twine — and no one would think any less of the wearer. The look would be finished off with a cloth ‘kep’, as there was no such thing as a heated tractor cab in those days.

Women who worked at home would wear an old skirt that had once been a good, church-going skirt, along with layers of jumpers and cardigans and a flowered apron. When outdoors, she would add a headscarf, an old coat and a pair of wellington boots. Trousers were never worn, as they were not considered ladylike.

Bert’s mother still adheres to these traditional dress codes. While at home, she wanders around in an assortment of mismatched garments, often including layers of polyester and acrylic skirts. She always wears a flowered apron and a pair of Bert’s old deck shoes. Many of her clothes date from the early acrylic years and are virtually indestructible — as long as they’re kept away from naked flames. Being both canny and from Cully, she sees no need to replace these vintage garments. Her better clothes are kept for special outings, Church and the like.

Last week, Pearlie asked Bert to take her to visit her sister Lizzie. Since it was only Lizzie she was going to see, she decided against changing out of her ‘wearing’ clothes. On the way, she asked Bert to stop at the local garage to stock up on wild bird seed. She gave him £10 and instructed him to spend £5. Meanwhile, she waited in the van. But then she changed her mind. Bert said he was gathering up her purchases when she suddenly appeared in the shop foyer, shouting:

‘Bertie! Bertie! Ye may spend the whole ten poond on the wee birds!’

This is what he told me.

God, it was strange to see her standing there in her old ‘wearing’ clothes. You know, I never give her clothes a thought when she’s at home, because I’m so used to the odd way she dresses. But to see her standing there among normal folk — it looked so strange. Back in the van, I was having a wee giggle to myself about it, and she said, ‘What are you laughing at?’ I said, ‘You! And the cut of you, standing in the shop with your apron and all the rest of it.’ And do you know what she said back?

‘Those that knows me, knows I hae better; and those that disnae, disnae matter!’

Off to a wedding in her best clothes

Family Time

 Last week, Katy and her family came over from Norfolk for a short Easter break. was lovely to see them, even though the weather wasn’t great—wet and cold for the most part.

Still, we all managed to enjoy ourselves.

Unlike in previous years, I didn’t stock the freezer in advance. Instead, I kept things simple and cooked meals from scratch—which, in the end, turned out to be less of a faff.

This time they didn’t bother with a car so I drove them where they needed to go. The young ones were just as happy knocking around here as they would have been getting out and about.

Thursday was the only day with halfway decent weather, so they took the train to Belfast for a visit to the Ulster Museum in Botanic Gardens. James, however, couldn’t quite settle at either the gardens or the museum, so the outing ended up being a brief half-day trip. Still, he thoroughly enjoyed the train journey and even managed to inform his parents about the type of rolling stock they were travelling on. They were surprised to learn that, unlike the rest of the UK—England, Scotland, and Wales - Northern Ireland does not use standard gauge railway tracks. Instead, it operates on the wider Irish gauge, in line with the rest of the island. James does know a lot about trains.

Evie, James, Emily, and I managed to squeeze in a quick jaunt to Portglenone Forest. Unfortunately, we were without Martha’s company, as she was at home revising for her upcoming GCSEs. James, in a moment of curiosity, decided to test the depth of a puddle by stepping straight into it—and promptly got a very wet foot. I suggested that next time, he might consider using a stick.

Friday was the best day of all. I had the pleasure of spending most of it with all my daughters and all four grandchildren. The younger ones threw themselves into an art project, their main focus being the design and painting of a stone for Ziggy’s grave. When that was completed, the house erupted into a raucous game of hide and seek, with Zoe and Hannah joining in as well. It was loud, chaotic, and full of laughter. The best hiding spots were claimed by Evie, who disappeared into a cluttered corner of the attic, and Emily, who managed to curl up inside a storage box. Being small certainly offers advantages in a game like that - but Evie, despite her height, managed to baffle everyone for quite some time.

And that was our last night. Everyone (except Bert of course) was up really early the next day and off to the airport for eight o’clock. I was sad to see them all leave but glad that we’d had the time together. The house was so quiet when I got home but that was good too.

Until the next time! 

It's All Over Now

 

I feel a bit churlish for ranting in my previous post about my jury service - especially since, from that day forward, I was never called again.

Of course, there were several more days that I had to go online at 5pm to check but as time went on I became more relaxed about it. Then came the best 5pm call-in. 

You have completed your jury service.

And y'know the next thing I thought of?

This calls for a celebratory glass (or three) of wine.

Which was odd as I had been on the dry for over 10 weeks. See! I'm still counting.

Needless to say the urge for wine quickly passed and it has now been 11 weeks since I last had an alcoholic drink.

And I've lost 15 pounds because I'm off the sweeties too.  Losing weight in one's later years is not all it is cracked up to be. I have turkey neck!

 

Jury Service

Monday marks the beginning of my fourth week of tedious, dreary jury service. I don’t like it. I wish I had played the age card and got out of it. 

Why so?

Most of us aren’t needed. They call in about sixty people per group, but only around one in five might end up on a jury panel.

And – even if the panel is chosen and sworn in, a trial might not go ahead.

While we wait – for hours, sometimes – we’re in a grim room, sitting in rows on hard, unforgiving chairs. After about thirty minutes, I start getting cramps. We can be stuck there for three hours or more, doing nothing, waiting for something that may never take place.

Then in comes the Clerk of Court.

‘Thank you for your patience, everyone. You’re not needed today. Don’t forget to check the Juryline at 5 p.m.’

Ah yes, the other major inconvenience. We never know until 5 p.m. whether we’re required the next day, which means we can’t make plans – only tentative ones.

I use the dead time to catch up on my reading. I can’t be bothered chatting with my neighbours. I feel out of place. I’m fairly certain I’m the oldest person in the room – bound to be, really. Any sensible seventy-something would have played the age card and bowed out.

So why didn’t I? Bert says it’s fear of missing out. Maybe he’s right. But believe me, fellow oldies – it’s not worth it.

Remembering Matty on Mother's Day

Tyrone (written twenty years ago)

Getting Offside

The Kerry sister wanted to do a bit of decorating for Matty. Dutifully, I asked if she would like me to help her. Instead, she requested that I take Matty out for the day so she could get on with it.

So, we headed in the direction of Tyrone, stopping first for coffee in Draperstown. When I was a market trader, I visited Draperstown twice a month. I had always liked the town’s wide streets and the way it nestled among the foothills of the Sperrins. I loved the soft voices of the people. I also encountered my first transvestite in Draperstown—wearing a cheap wig and a dowdy cloth coat, far from glamorous, yet possessing a quiet dignity.

While we were there, Matty said she wanted to look at some shops. She led me into the most old-fashioned hardware store in the world. The only objects that could possibly have held the slightest interest for me were some Pyrex measuring jugs.

‘Can I help you?’ ventured the young assistant.

‘No, just looking,’ I replied. Looking at what? Coils of rope? Shovels? Galvanised buckets? Then Matty piped up, ‘But I thought this was a dress shop.’

Onwards to Tyrone—Land of My Ancestors

Gortin

Matty’s parents came from Tyrone. Granda’s family were from Moy, and Granny was born in Newtownstewart. While Granda’s people had migrated to Belfast in search of work, Granny spent her childhood in Plumbridge. There were cousins in Gortin, so to Gortin we went, as Matty reminisced about a wonderful holiday she and her sister had spent there in the summer of 1947 as guests of their mother’s cousin, Mamie. We found the road where Mamie had lived, but the lane was overgrown, and the cottage was long gone.

This is one of the joys of driving Matty around—she starts remembering and telling stories. As this journey was one she had taken many times with Daddy, some of the stories were particularly poignant. Once again, I listened to the tales of their meeting and courtship. She told me about the funny sayings and silly games they enjoyed as they traveled together. She recounted the wonderful holiday she had with Mamie. It had been her first time apart from Daddy since they had started going out, and she had written to him three times in two weeks.

‘Did he write back?’ I asked.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Sure, he never wrote a letter in his life.’

Apparently, she had written to reassure him that she hadn’t run off with some Tyrone boy. For according to Matty—and I do not doubt her—she had been very popular with boys in her youth.

Hearing Matty’s stories, I sometimes feel envious of the times she lived in. That holiday in Gortin, a mere 60 miles from home, had been such a novelty for her. She told a story about how she and her sister, out on borrowed bikes and having gotten lost, met a group of young, kilted men, also on bicycles, returning from Twelfth of July celebrations. These fellows escorted them back to the right road, and she recalled how exotic it felt to be riding alongside a troop of Protestant boys in kilts—something that would have been unthinkable behavior at home.

Matty and I behaved very well in Tyrone. We waved at passers-by and were extremely courteous on the road. ‘After all,’ Matty said, ‘anyone here might be your cousin.’

On the way home, Matty asked me, ‘Do you ever look at the clouds and imagine you can see pictures in them?’

I replied, ‘Not while I’m driving.’

One From Nineteen Years Ago

 

Hannah has a new enemy although she remains at daggers drawn with her old enemy Evil Nat West. She declared war on Evil Northern Ireland Railway yesterday evening after one of their vile and smelly trains refused to let her off at Cullybackey. The door wouldn't open and she was whizzing off to Ballymoney before she knew it.

All that after a hard day at Nixt! and an evening session with the dentist. She had been so pleased to make the train as, ever the considerate daughter, she wanted to save me the trouble of picking her up in town.

But oh! The rage. Apparently, she gave the poor guard a right earful. And her with the frozen mouth and all. I bet he was scared. He refused to take any responsibility at all. All I could do as she raged all this down the phone to me was agree with her that NIR were evil and their employees all stupid. And of course, their trains are crap.

Bert the Wonderful volunteered to pick her up in Ballymoney. By the time he got her home, she had calmed down. A little.

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The above was posted in 2006 – a lifetime ago. Why, I was only a girl back then, rather than the decrepit old crone I am today.

We no longer think of NIR as evil; in fact, I took two train trips just this past week. The first was to Holywood, a town I had never visited before, and the second to Ballymoney, from where I continued on to Balnamore – a village I've never been to, despite it being a mere sixteen miles away.

I was going to see Leitrim Sister and her extended family and friends, who were staying in what was once Balnamore Hall – an intriguing house that I hope to visit again.

The main purpose of this visit was to meet the apple of Leitrim Sister's (and Dmitri's) eye a little fellow just two and a half. He was definitely the star of the show and well worth the journey.