And We Never Went Near The Christmas Market

 It’s not that I dislike Christmas shopping - for what could be nicer than giving someone a gift that pleases them. No, that’s the part I love. What I struggle with is finding the right thing, because it’s awful to imagine the recipient opening a present that sparks little joy.

Then there’s the pressure. Every year, once Christmas is over, I resolve to start putting presents away from January onward. This rarely happens – and when it does, I find myself staring at the item I bought months before, that thing that has languished in a paper bag, in the depths of my wardrobe, wondering why on earth did I ever thought it would suit anyone, let alone the person I bought it for.

And then there are the crowds. Each year, as I brave the shops, I remember that Christmas Eve, so many years ago, when in a thronging Dunnes Store, I literally sat down and wept. On the floor of Dunnes Store. Thankfully, everyone passing by pretended not to notice.

So, when my eldest grandchild messaged to ask if we could go to Belfast together to shop for her Christmas gifts from Bert and me – just as we did last year, I was, at first, slightly dismayed. She must have enjoyed it to want to do it againbut it wasn’t as enjoyable for me. I remembered being exhausted and a little bit cranky. But then I thought about it. She’s sixteen now, and won’t always want to spend a day shopping with an ageing grandparent. And if she thinks I’m able for it, if she believes in me, then perhaps it’s time I started believing in myself, too.

I got myself into the right frame of mind. Laid down only one ground rule, which was lots of sit downs and coffee breaks for me. I actually found myself looking forward to the outing.

And it was worth looking forward to.

Despite the train being jam-packed full of eager shoppers. Martha got on at Ballymena and had to stand most of the way to Belfast. She was unable to make her way to my carriage so we met for the first time at Grand Central.

Despite me needing lots of loo breaks. For it was a cold day. Martha was very understanding.

Despite getting swarmed by eleven year old girls beside the cosmetics in Primark. I was standing in a dangerous place. The panic attack only lasted a few minutes after I dashed outside.

Despite Martha finding it impossible to decide between two cardis in Urban Outfitters. That was my favourite shop of all as I had a sofa to sit on and lots of interesting people to watch.

I was easily the oldest customer in OU that day. 

Afterwards, I was so pleased that I had managed to go shopping in Belfast, on a Saturday, braving all the crowded shops and managed to stay chilled. Except for when I was in Primark, of course. I’d say that as Christmas shopping experiences go it was actually enjoyable. I’m already looking forward to next year. If I’m spared.

Christmas Is Coming

 Are you feeling Christmassy yet? I can’t say I am. Not properly. But this year, instead of brushing the thought aside the way I usually do, I find myself letting it linger. After all, this will be my seventy-third Christmas on this earth. It has never been my favourite season, but there’s no point in pretending it isn’t going to happen. My stock of Christmases is not what it was. I might as well make peace with it all and enjoy what I can.

I’ve more or less chosen a tree - either a very small one or a medium-sized one. Maybe both if Zoë doesn’t want them. They are standing potted in the polytunnel, so I haven’t far to go. I’ve already bought a few presents, and I know where the wrapping paper is tucked away. Christmas dinner is sorted too: free-range turkey again. It might be the last one for a while as the local supplier is threatening to quit the turkey game.

There will be one change, though, and it’s a big one. This will be a teetotal Christmas. I don’t think I’ve written anything about it, but I stopped drinking alcohol at the tail end of January and simply never started again. So here I am, approaching December with a clear head, or as clear as it ever gets, wondering what the season will feel like without the whisky and wine. I think it will be good.

A Good Dog

 

Hannah asked me to go with her to the garden centre; she wanted to buy some houseplants. It’s the first time she’s shown any real interest in horticulture since she started a couple of bonsai projects a few years ago. She bonsaied the life out of an ash seedling and a hawthorn. The hawthorn still survives; the ash succumbed to dieback.

While we were there, I found myself tempted by tulip bulbs. I resisted, having only today managed to plant the tulip bulbs I bought more than six weeks ago. Thankfully, they’re all in the ground now, though I still have a good number of daffodils waiting to be planted.

My original idea had been to plant the bulbs on Judy’s grave, but the area has become rather grassy, and I was reluctant to start digging it over - and it’s far too wet to hoe. I don’t know why I worried, for Bert planted her deep.

Phoenix, Locky’s husky, lies not far behind her, with Dora, Jazzer’s dog, resting between them. Locky once talked about getting little plaques, but he hasn’t got round to it, and I rather hope he’s forgotten.

I had thought about painting stones for them instead. I even bought the paint, but, like so many things, I’ve not got around to it. Locky hasn’t been to visit since he buried Phoenix.

I miss Judy a lot. She died on the 5th of September, in the time between Jonny’s death and his funeral. That was very much on our minds then. People are more important than dogs, are they not? It felt wrong to make too much of Judy’s passing when we were mourning a dearly loved member of our family. But I do miss her. She was a good dog.

Judy and Dora

Judy and Phoenix

At the beach

Culture Vulture

I’m writing this while listening to the brilliant fiddler Colm Mac Con Iomaire, who I had the pleasure of hearing perform at Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy a few weeks ago.

I went along with Bert and Zoe to hear Colum McCann in conversation with Rami Elhanan and Bassam Aramin — the two bereaved fathers whose friendship and shared loss inspired McCann’s acclaimed novel Apeirogon.

Which, I’m sorry to say, has been on my “to read” list since the last time I saw Colum McCann appear at the HomePlace, just over a year ago.

One of the most sobering things about growing older is realising how much I still haven’t read, and how much I still don’t know. For instance, I hadn’t realised that Colm Mac Con Iomaire was in The Frames with Glen Hansard, even though Glen Hansard also appeared in The Camino Voyage with Kerry Sister’s husband.

Nor did I know that it was Colm Mac Con Iomaire who accompanied the artist and poet Kae Tempest at Other Voices in Dingle - even though I watched a documentary about that venue and thought they were the best part of it. I’d love to see Kae Tempest perform live. It would be handy if he should ever come to Bellaghy.

Two From Twenty Years Ago

 Two little posts from October 2005. Mum was still around then, as was George.

Also, where have all the street drinkers gone? They must all have houses now, which is nice.

Belfast City Airport was officially renamed George Best Belfast City Airport on 22 May 2006, to honour the footballer shortly after his death in November 2005.

The cafe that Matty and I liked to frequent back then was Ditty's in Castledawson. Happily, it is still there and still serves delicious food.

Matty Misunderstands

Whilst sitting in a cafe in Dawson City today I picked up the Sun newspaper. The front page story was about George Best and I showed this to Matty. We both examined the accompanying picture which showed Bestie looking frail and wan. I said it was a sad thing that he had destroyed two livers with his drinking. Matty continued to peruse the photograph and said, "He's looking well."

Overheard

Overheard on the streets of Ballymena today

Street Drinker 1: Hows about ye mucker!

Street Drinker 2: Long time no see!

Street Drinker 1: I heared ye were murdered!

Street Drinker 2: Naw. I was in Coleraine.

Reading and Flying

 These days it seems I never have enough time to read. What keeps me from it? At night it is the need to sleep; during the day, everything distracts me. I always bring a book (or two) when travelling, even if it is just to pick up the grandchildren. I do not mind waiting if I have something to read, no matter how long I am kept waiting.

Train journeys are another good opportunity to catch up on my reading. When I was at university, I always carried something entertaining, never anything related to my studies as that would have been far too dry. I was not the only one. Almost everyone travelling alone would be reading something, even if it was only a newspaper or magazine. I would always try to sneak a look at the cover of whatever book a fellow traveller was reading, and of course I would judge them on it. Nowadays, readers on trains are rarer, as most people are glued to their smartphones. If I do see someone with a book, I am impressed, no matter what it is.

On my most recent trip to London, when Zoe and I were travelling for Jonny’s funeral, I brought TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. It was a ridiculously early flight and we had agreed not to chat on the plane journey - there would be time enough for that later. 

Instead, I read. The first part of the novel centred on the pioneering flight taken by Jack Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown in 1919 when they flew from St Johns, Newfoundland to Clifden, Ireland. That year alone was enough to captivate me, as my father was born in September 1919.

Alcock and Brown’s was the first non-stop transatlantic flight ever completed. They flew in an adapted Vickers Vimy, a former First World War bomber chosen for its ability to carry heavy loads. The plane was flimsy by modern standards and freezing cold. Of course, I knew they were going to make it, but even so I was gripped. The final push towards Ireland, when they hit a fog bank and briefly lost control, was nerve-racking, and the bog landing, rough as it was, felt like a triumph.

It was only a few days later that I realised, as I had been reading this thrilling account of an earlier flight, that I was actually sitting in a plane myself. Although it was nowhere near as precarious and uncomfortable as Alcock and Brown’s Vickers Vimy, the seats weren’t that comfortable and I did have some concerns that my hip might start to cramp. Which it did, but the walk from plane to train soon loosened it up. Compared with Alcock and Brown, we modern folk are softies - most of us, anyway, and I certainly am.  

Some Things That Happened In September: 1

Just over a week ago, Zoë and I travelled to London for Jonny’s funeral. We caught the first flight out of Belfast International to Stansted, which meant rising in the wee small hours. It was the second time in just a few weeks I had done that. 

The funeral was everything my sister had hoped for, a fitting farewell for her beloved husband. It was dignified and caring. My brother-in-law was deeply respected and greatly loved, and we are all going to miss him terribly.

Jonny is the first of our generation to leave our family, and it feels too soon. We'll go on without him, but we'll carry this forward  - his fortitude, his humour and wit, his kindness, and his unerring good taste in music have all left their mark on us. These are the things we'll remember, the things he passed on without ever meaning to.

Just one more thing. Jonny had an online radio show which streamed on Mad Wasp Radio. It played weekly for about eight years, ever since Mad Wasp began. He poured his heart and soul into that show and he really appreciated receiving interaction and feedback. 

The radio station (with London Sister's consent) are running his shows from the beginning and  I've been listening to it more regularly. It's such a bittersweet experience. I didn't listen often enough before - I wish I had.  Too late now, too late to give him the feedback he loved to receive. 

A Tale Of Two Cakes

It was just over a year ago that Bert took over baking the family birthday cakes, and I was only too happy to let him. Our system was simple: we agreed on what he’d bake, I went shopping for the ingredients, and then I laid everything out – the recipe, the scales, the bowls, the spoons, the tins, and their liners.

Bert would assemble and bake the cake, take it from the oven, and leave it to cool. I prepared everything for the icing and decoration, and Bert handled the finishing touches. We’d stand back to admire the cake. Compliments would be lavished upon Bert. Afterwards, I cleared away and washed up.

The very first cake Bert baked was for Martha. He chose the recipe, though neither of us remembers which one, and the photographs don’t offer many clues. What is clear from the pictures is that Martha didn’t look especially pleased to receive it. At the time, this is what I wrote, back in 2024:

‘When a young woman hits her mid-teens she may not be just as excited about birthday cake as she once was. But that's OK. When you've experienced many birthdays, you can be excused for feeling a certain ennui.’

As it turned out, I was wrong. Nearly a year later, the real reason came to light.

In 2024 Martha had been asked what cake she wanted for her birthday and she’d asked for chocolate. Didn’t matter what recipe I picked, just let it be chocolate. Then Bert decided he’d make the cake and I let him choose the recipe. It wasn’t chocolate. I was so excited for him to be baking the cake that I forgot Martha’s request.

Bless her. She never said at the time, but she could not help feeling disappointed. It wasn’t teenage angst at all. Well, maybe it was – just a teeny-tiny bit.

.

I chose Zoe's photograph because it showed Miss Martha (now a sweet 16) beaming her beamiest smile.

Chocolate, mascarpone and cherry cake

Happy Birthday, Martha!

Seamus and Granddaughters

 

Unposed pictures are always the best. This one must be from the late ’80s or very early ’90s, around Christmas time. Daddy has just come in, or is about to head out, still with his cap on. It was taken on Drumkeeran Road, before his younger daughters laid the wooden floor. My three are there, together with their cousin Sadie, and Jess, Mammy and Daddy’s collie, looks as though she is still just a pup.

Today is his birthday.

Gently Does It

 

Just easing myself back into blogging after the longest break ever.

Since my last post, I spent five days in London with our newly widowed sister. What a hard loss it has been to her, and to all of us who knew and loved her Jonny. 

Then, barely home, I was straight into preparing for a four-day visit from the children’s father and his partner. That all went smoothly enough, though on the second day, we had to say goodbye to our oldest dog, darling Judy. 

Today Jonny’s funeral date was set, and Zoe, who is far more capable with these sorts of arrangements than I am, booked our travel and accommodation. I was grateful to leave it in her hands.

Meanwhile, Bert baked me a cake from a recipe in Saturday’s Guardian. The family were here for supper, and I blew out some candles - for I will be 72 years old tomorrow. Zoe had to take the photographs in portrait mode to fit in those tall girls, who tower over their little granny.

I used to think I looked like my ma, which made me feel old enough. Now I’m starting to resemble her mother, my Granny McAnespie — and that makes me feel really old. But who cares? I’m here, and so are you. We might as well make the best of it.

Stuck

 Stuck

The photograph was taken in Leitrim about ten years ago at a large gathering of family and friends, marking a special birthday and all that comes with it. It was a wonderful party, so well attended that cars had to be parked out in the fields -and the fields in Leitrim can be fairly boggy. All three of my brothers-in-law are in that picture, along with Bert. 

There’s another big occasion coming up in the autumn, one we’ve all been looking forward to - because it isn’t often that we get together as a family. And I think it may still go ahead. But this time, someone very special and dearly loved will be missing: London Sister’s husband, who died so suddenly just over a week ago.

There is so much that could be said about Jonny, for he was one of the best. But for now, just this: he brought so much, and we will miss him terribly.

Another One Of Those Days

Our last remaining kunekune pig died a few days ago, at the age of fifteen. Nellybert are no longer pigkeepers. We won’t be getting any more because, if we did, and they lived out their natural span, we’d both be over 80 by then.

Rusty had been on his own since October, when his sister and lifelong companion, Lily, died.

Back in 2010, I gave in to the fad for keeping a pet pig. Bert wasn’t as enthusiastic, but we had the space, the time, and the money, so he relented. I’d done my research and knew pigs like company, so we got two - a brother and sister we named Rusty and Lily.

They were the cutest piglets

Right from the start it was clear that eating was their prime enjoyment. 

This picture looks gory but fear not - Rusty and Lily are tucking into a big feed of boiled beetroot. That expains the red puddles.

And they got fat. 

Rusty was more prone to ill health than his sister. In his first year, he caught a virulent strain of pneumonia, and the vet doubted he would survive. She gave him antibiotics anyway, and, although he loathed injections, he pulled through.

Five years later, Rusty fell ill again, and we called a vet to the house. He was one of the old-fashioned, no-nonsense sort. After examining Rusty, he pronounced him “foundered.” I wondered aloud if it might help to give the pig a little of the poitín we happened to have in the house. The vet fixed me with a look and said,

“Drink that poitín yourself, and tie a blanket round that pig. Then get him under an infra-red lamp.

Rusty lay under his lamp, cosy in his little warm corner. We brought him grapes, as is the custom for the poorly, along with strawberries and other delicious fruits. We fed him warm liquids, and before long he was on the mend.

And so life with the pigs continued. They went to the fields, they ate sweet grass, they wallowed in mud, they got lots of fruit and vegetable treats. They had a nice life.

And after a good feed, no better way to spend the afternoon - beside the dunghill, soaking up the sun.

There was the occasional home invasion. It wasn't encouraged. 

As they grew older, they slowed down and showed the signs of age. Both had trouble with their teeth, a common issue for kunekunes. For Lily, it was a constant battle, kept at bay with antibiotics. Rusty remained unaffected until the final weeks of his life. When Lily died in October, we worried Rusty would find life lonely without his lifelong companion, even though she had always bullied him.

He coped, staying closer to home. We got to know him better, and he became great friends with Hannah. He knew the sound of her car and would come to the orchard gate to get the fruit she brought for him.

This is one of the last pictures taken of Rusty, in the overgrown orchard - a favourite spot in his final months. He and Lily had always loved the orchard when the apples began to fall. It’s sad that he missed the apples this year.

Rusty died on August 6, 2025.

Remembering Matty On Her Birthday

I used to think my mother would live to be over 90, but it was not to be. She did have what’s often described as a good innings, a cricketing term, I believe. She was almost 85 when she died, which was a decent stretch by any measure.

Today would have been her 99th birthday. We’d have been holding out for one more year and a telegram from the King, but it wasn’t to be.

Still, to mark Matty’s birthday, here’s a wee story about a jaunt we once took to Portglenone. One of the things I’ve missed most since she died are those runs out in the car. She was the best craic as a travelling companion and never, ever criticised my driving. 

This was posted in 2008. Three years before Matty died.

Matty and Hannah and I took a trip to Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey today. I wanted to get a Mass Card for a friend of ours whose father died earlier this week. I don't understand the etiquette of Mass cards, so I decided to take Matty who knows all the ins and outs.

Matty usually goes to Antrim with her favourite sister-in-law on Saturday mornings, so I phoned first.

You not out with Maud this morning?

No. I told her I just didn't trust my legs today.

Bert and I discussed this over our porridge.

Says she just doesn't trust her legs to go out shopping with Maud.

Why not?

Maybe she's afraid they'll go shoplifting or slope off to score some weed. Or maybe they'll slip into a betting shop and blow the pension on the Grand National.

Happily, she felt that her legs were trustworthy enough to go on a jaunt with Hannah and Nelly.

The Abbey is, like all repositories of rosary beads, Mass cards and religious paraphernalia, a weird and wonderful place. You go in. The first thing that you see is a miniature set of a priest's Mass vestments. You wonder why? Who'd want that? There are shelves and shelves of religious pictures and statues, there are rosary beads galore, there are stands and stands of pre-signed Mass cards. A monk is sitting in the corner to bless the holy stuff you buy for it's no use if it's not blessed. There is Status Quo playing 'Whatever You Want' on the sound system. Whether this was the monk's choice or the delightful young shop assistant's choice, I do not know. Probably the monk, as he was 50+.

I quickly chose my Mass card; a bargain at two quid. Meanwhile, Matty gets heavily involved in a conversation with the shop assistant on the possibilities of buying a book on the life of Saint Anne but said saint being slightly obscure, none was to be found. Matty reports that Anne is the patron saint of grandmothers. With Jesus as her grandchild, she would be, wouldn't she?


I experienced Matty's untrustworthy leg in one of Portglenone's charity shops. She does this genuflection thing with it. She says the strength just leaves her leg for a moment. I tried distraction as a cure and pointed her in the direction of a shelf of brand-new shoes. No shoes were purchased - she just bought another beige skirt.

Mum with her last dog, Jess. They are sitting on a bridge at the top of the Drumkeeran Road. It's not there now as the road was widened when the 'line' became a dual carriageway. I believe Matty might be wearing a beige skirt. If it's not beige, it's dusty pink, which is practically the same thing.

 I really miss her. We all do.

A Lot Going On Back Then

Twenty years ago, there was a lot going on.

I was working, and Bert had a job too. We were in the middle of fixing up this house while also trying to sell our old one. On top of that, we somehow managed to maintain a lively social life. And far more people were commenting on my blog back then - blogging was quite the thing in 2005. Everyone had one. Now it’s just me and Ganching, keeping it going.

At the time, Bert was growing and selling climbing plants, mostly clematis, which were especially popular with the local garden centres. There were so many independent centres back then, not like today, where the big chains dominate.

Some of the customers we sold to back then were real characters - like this fellow,

So this garden centre man phones up and says,

"Have yez any of that clematis Garibaldi'?.
"We have indeed."
"Keep me a whole big pile of them. I'll be up with the trailer tonight.

Well, I knew he meant 'Sieboldii' but as you know, the customer is always right.

I was telling Bert about it, and he said,

"Oh I know that wee boy. He was up with his trailer one night loading up with clematis and he says to me, 'Can you sell them oul clematis?' and I says to him that I could sell them to a band playing and he says to me as he loads them on thick, 'Thats funny for I cannae sell them atall.'"

Clematis Florida 'Sieboldii'

Plans Afoot

 For years, a pair of spotted flycatchers raised brood after brood in a nest above our front door. The nest was perfect, overlooking an expanse of grass which provided plenty of insect life, and sheltered by two tangled climbing roses.

Spotted Flycatcher 2020

This year, they returned to the old nest as usual and spent a day or two making repairs. But it wasn’t as well protected as before, for one of the roses, left unpruned last season, had fallen forward, leaving the nest exposed. The flycatchers changed their minds and found a new site.

We still don’t know exactly where their new nest is. Maybe in a tangle of holly near the big shed, for they are still on the land, catching insects, raising their brood. I’m glad they are still with us.

Now that the nest has been abandoned, we have removed the falling rose. The front door looks very bare but I will replace it with another rose, and this time I will put more thought into it. So, it’s off to the garden centre tomorrow afternoon,  just Vee and me.

The very bare front door

A Change Of Plan

An opium poppy sport that self-seeded. I love these surprises.

Last night, I had decided that I would take the train to Belfast. Knowing it was going to be a hot day, I gave some thought to what I should wear, especially when it came to choosing the right footwear. Warm weather calls for sandals but tramping pavements calls for something tougher. So I dubbined my Blundstones. So what if there's a heatwave.

This morning, I decided not to go. It was already too warm at eight o'clock. Instead, I went to Tesco and the Oxfam shop in Ballymena and was home before midday. The remainder of the day I spent outside, watering, weeding, deadheading, planting, potting on and more watering. And I wore sandals.

Much of the day was also spent keeping an eye on Rusty. He’s not well. The antibiotics gave him a lift for about a week, but he’s in decline again - sleeping more, eating and drinking less. The heat is hard on him. He had to be checked often, moved to the shade, and encouraged to sip water. He’s an old boy now. Kune kune pigs usually live 12 to 15 years, and Rusty turned 15 back in April.

 

There will be no journeys abroad tomorrow apart from picking up milk and the Saturday Guardian early morning. For it is Orangeman's Day and this year one of the parades will be in Cullybackey. We'll be home all day listening to the sound of distant (Lambeg) drums.

Here We Go Again

My plan to use this blog as an aide-mémoire hasn’t progressed as well as I’d hoped. It’s been twelve days since my last post, and although nothing particularly exciting has happened - no riots, no house fires - it’s still been a longer gap than I intended.

So what did happen?

Still snail-watching.

Went to Portrush on a day out with Bert, Hannah and the big girls. They did not use all their Currie's tokens. Either I bought too many or they are tired of scary rides. Come to think of it, there's a definite air of ennui about them lately.

Watching a lot of teevee. Dept Q was a big favourite.

Became aware of a band called Bob Vylan.

Wondered why an old man dying of old age is such a big deal for the BBC.

Today was good, except for one thing.

I met an old work friend for coffee. That was good.

In the afternoon, Bert and I worked together in the garden. That was nice. We achieved a lot, dug up half of the papaver orientale and created a new area for planting. Displaced a lot of snails. Bert is very keen to replant but I want to wait a while. Snails are territorial, and when they return to their feeding grounds, which they will, they'll demolish anything new and tender. The big rough poppies could stand that, but my seed-grown agastaches might not. We'll wait a while until the snails move on. Fingers crossed that they do.

The not-so-good thing that happened?

I was just leaving the small polytunnel after watering the tomatoes when my foot caught in a clump of ox-eye daisies and down I went. My first thought being, 

Here we bloody well go again!

Hand out to save myself. Didn't work. It wasn't too bad. The ground around that polytunnel is soft and spongy, even more so since I left a hose running there for about 16 hours on Sunday evening. As I lay there, a bit winded, a brown butterfly flew past. I identified it as a Meadow Brown. And I knew that I was OK.

My left hand is a bit achey but it didn't prevent me from picking several pounds of strawberries and raspberries.

Tomorrow - more gardening, drive Hannah to the airport and on Friday I might go to Belfast.

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.