Six Years Since I Crashed Out of the Treehouse

This morning Bert asked,

How long is it now since you crashed through the treehouse?

I told him I couldn't remember exactly but I'd look it up.

So I did. It was just over six years ago. I told him. He said,

You must have been some weight back then.

The cheek of him!

I said,

It was nothing to do with my weight. It was because of your rotten trapdoor.

Everything not good always turns out to be Bert's fault.

He said,

Six years ago. You'd have been the same age as I am now.

I said,

True. And you know you'd not survive a fall like that.

He agreed. Anyway - here's a post I wrote a few days after my fall.

Blackbird Again

This is Mr Blackbird earlier this evening singing as loud as he could to drown out the Dreen Road traffic. This picture was taken from ground level. He is sitting at the very top of a very tall and dying ash tree.

Four days now since I fell out of the treehouse and there is something to add. Two feet, for the drop was twelve-foot, rather than ten.

Every day I'm a little less sore than I was the day before, and yet...

On Day One I was super-hyped on adrenalin and glad to be aliveness. The pain was almost a joy to me because I had survived the fall with no serious injury.

Day Two was more of the same but with less pain.

On Day Three my left breast was really sore. As always, I went to That Place. Then Bert noticed that there were a lot of butterflies in the garden. Mostly Small Tortoiseshells and a couple of Red Admirals. I grabbed my camera.

I spent a happy half hour taking pictures. And afterwards, the breast pain had completely eased. Not cancer then, just boob whiplash.

Today, Day Four. Just one sore area, somewhere under my left shoulder-blade. It was really annoying, much less bearable than Day One's multiple pains. I succumbed to pain relief even though it was against medical advice.

I have been thinking about the fall and have figured out why I got off so lightly. My legs must have got caught up in the trap door cover so than when I landed on the ground I only impacted my shoulders and upper back. My head, lower back and limbs were entirely unhurt apart from abrasions and a big bruise on my right arm where it caught one of the wooden struts holding up the platform. The strut broke, my arm did not. Zoe said I'm as hard as nails. I hope she's right.

Today I took some pictures of our flycatchers. Himself sitting on the sumach outside my window.

 
Herself sitting on their second clutch of eggs. They are a busy pair.

I might go out now to see if I can catch a glimpse of the long-eared owl babies that are hopping around the big trees at the back of the sheds. That is the second pair of long-eared owls that have nested here this year. One pair in the middle of the wood and another pair nearer the house. The young ones kick up quite a racket after dark.

The Camp

 When Martha and Evie were younger, their dad built a camp in the wood. He went to a lot of trouble with it, as the pictures show, and back then they used it a lot. But children grow up, and their own comfortable bedrooms are often more appealing than roughing it in the woods. Even though there would always be s’mores.

The camp still gets used, though. Some of our friends with young children spend the occasional night in the woods, and although Martha and Evie never go there now, we do have a regular pair who camp out at least twice a month. That would be Ben and Sara.

Those two love the camp. You would never think that they have their own comfortable home a couple of miles from here. They love listening to the birds and whatever other creatures might be about. I'm sure badgers and foxes must pass them by during the night. 

It hasn’t always been occupied by such wholesome campers. There were the 'hallions'. These guys were friends of Bert and Ben’s dad, and they used the camp on a couple of occasions. Dave was not pleased, for he felt the site had been disrespected. There might have been a broken beer bottle. Or two.

Our dogs love Sara and Ben’s camping nights best and will go out with them to help set up camp. Often, Bert will have to go and collect them around 10 or 11 pm, as we worry that they might, Jess especially, get disorientated in the dark.

It’s not just that they love Ben and Sara; they love campfire cooking too. For there are always sausages.

Jess has been a bit of a worry lately. At almost 14, she has been losing weight and becoming increasingly fussy about food, despite several visits to the vet and our efforts to tempt her with different things. So perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by what happened last night.

She was discovered stealing the camper's chicken, carefully opening a packet of three, selecting one and wolfing it down raw.

No need for me to worry about her calorie intake last night. The old rascal is clearly taking matters into her own paws.

Yet I’ve never spent a night in the woods. I can’t imagine I’d be as comfortable there as I am in my own cosy bed, and the number of times I need to get up for a pee during the night would make it somewhat impractical. But I’m pleased that others enjoy it, and glad that it’s there for them. And whenever I see the camp being used and enjoyed, I remember that it’s all because of Dave that we have it.

And sometimes, in the morning,  Jess returns to the camp to see if there are any forgotten sausages. If not, she curls up in the tent for another sleep. Photo courtesy of Ben.

Hello, Goodbye

 

I’m aware that it’s been a while since I last posted to Nelly’s Garden. My excuse? I’ve said hello to the Norfolk branch of my family, then, six days later, goodbye. That goodbye was followed, a couple of hours later, by a hello to Vancouver Brother, who stayed for four nights before I had to say goodbye to him this morning. Then it was hello to my Ballymena family for half a day, followed by goodbye some six hours later.

Which leaves Nellybert all alone with the cats and dogs…

Oh! I forgot about the hens. I said hello to two new hens - the first fowl I’ve had for several years.

So, it’s been a rather busy few weeks of family hellos and goodbyes.

Saying hello. Their first evening in County Antrim. They are back in Norfolk now. I hope to get over there myself early next year.

Their mother and I managed a day to ouselves at the Fleadh Cheoil na hÉireann in Belfast . She worked the pint and I took the picture. We had the best time. Roll on 2027.

The brother and Zoe on Waterfoot Beach. I was sad to say goodbye to him this morning. He’s in London this evening with London Sister and Ganching, together to mark the first anniversary of Jonny’s death.

And as Vancouver Brother lost his partner at the beginning of July, there will be a lot of love and some sadness as they gather together tonight.

So many hellos and goodbyes in such a short space of time. Cherish your darlings.

Birthday Memories

Our mother was born 100 years ago today. Here are seven photographs of her with each of her seven children. I think they show how much she enjoyed spending time with us - just as much as we enjoyed being with her.

 Martha Byrne, 28th July, 1926 to 27th April, 2011

Trefor and the Unexpected Goats

 

Our next stop was Trefor, on the north coast of the Llŷn Peninsula. It was a short drive of just over an hour, so we arrived feeling fairly fresh.

We were staying in a little terrace of cottages with a stream running past the front. Another row of cottages faced us, each with its own lovely garden. Inside, the accommodation was fairly ordinary, but we each had our own bedroom and bathroom, which felt like a treat after sharing elsewhere on the trip.

The Lack of Eateries

Unfortunately, Trefor was rather short on places to eat. The aptly named Bert's Kitchen was closed until the weekend, which meant travelling across the peninsula for dinner. That shouldn't have been a problem, if it hadn't been for London Sister's adventurous (or perhaps pesky) sat-nav.

Instead of taking us along a sensible road, it directed us on to what gradually became a mountain track. It was a truly hair-raising drive. I lost count of the number of Memorares I recited, silently, of course, as my sister needed to concentrate on the wheelwork.

By the time we reached Dylan's in Criccieth I was in ribbons. Thankfully, the restaurant was lovely, the service was excellent and the food more than made up for the journey. I apologised to our server for arriving late, explaining that we'd accidentally taken the mountain road. The look on his face suggested we weren't the first people to offer that excuse.

Clifftops and Sea Stacks

The following day we headed for the beach and then climbed up on to the cliffs to see the sea stacks. They had been our goal from the outset, and they were well worth the walk. The views were spectacular, with seabirds wheeling overhead and the sea beneath us.

The Excitable Italian

On the walk we met a very enthusiastic Anglo-Italian hiker who now lives in Amsterdam. He was accompanied by his sister's delightful little dog and was full of praise for the beauty of the area.

One thing I noticed throughout Wales was the number of exceptionally handsome dogs. As every dog owner knows, all it takes to start a conversation is a compliment - directed at the dog rather than its human!

The Goats of Trefor

Our biggest surprise came on our last evening. As we stepped out of the cottage to go for dinner, a goat came trotting down the street. Then another. Then another.

At first we assumed they had escaped from a nearby farm, but they were nothing of the sort. They belong to a long-established feral herd that has roamed the hills around Yr Eifl (The Rivals), Nant Gwrtheyrn, Pistyll and Trefor for centuries.

The further we drove, the more goats we saw until it became clear we were watching an entire herd making its evening rounds. It was a wonderful and rather surreal sight.

When I looked into them afterwards, I discovered that they are considered a distinct local population. Researchers believe the herd has been relatively isolated for a long time, making it genetically different from other feral goat populations in North Wales. In recent years a monitoring project has begun to study their genetics, numbers and their impact on the landscape.

Like the famous Great Orme goats, these animals are genuinely feral. Nobody owns them. They survive by browsing shrubs, young trees, gorse and other vegetation rather than relying on people.

Since the Covid lockdowns they have become much bolder. With fewer people and cars around, they grew accustomed to wandering into villages and, even after life returned to normal, many continued to stroll through Trefor, Llithfaen and neighbouring gardens as if they owned the place.

Although they are much loved by local people and visitors alike, there is increasing concern that their numbers have grown. Recent surveys recorded an average of around 95 goats in the study area, considerably more than in the early 2010s. Conservationists are now trying to balance protecting this unique herd with safeguarding rare plants, allowing woodland to regenerate and ensuring the goats themselves remain healthy. Inevitably, there has even been discussion that culling may eventually be necessary if numbers continue to rise.

For now, though, they were simply one of the most memorable sights of our Welsh adventure.

Favourite moments: the spectacular clifftop walk to the sea stacks, the excellent meal at Dylan's after our white-knuckle drive, and unexpectedly finding ourselves sharing the streets of Trefor with a herd of wild goats.

Another Excellent Dinner: Our second evening produced another memorable meal, this time at The Llewelyn Restaurant in the Lion Hotel, Criccieth. The restaurant offered two menus: a traditional British menu and an authentic Indian one.

The Indian menu immediately caught my eye because it included Railway Curry, a dish I often make at home. I couldn't resist ordering it to see what an Indian chef would make of a curry I thought I knew well.

It was spectacular - the best Railway Curry I have ever tasted.

Crickhowell to Dolgellau

We left our Crickhowell lodgings on Sunday morning and set off on a pleasant drive north towards Dolgellau, travelling via Builth Wells and Rhayader. Full credit must go to London Sister, who took on all the driving. It made the journey relaxing for me, as I could sit back and enjoy the scenery.

Our first stop was Builth Wells, a place that brought back memories of a previous visit. Seventeen years ago, Clint, Bert and I came here for the Royal Welsh Smallholder and Garden Festival. It was hard to believe that it took me this long to return to Wales.

We stopped in a little town for lunch. Being Sunday, roast dinners were very much on the menu, so I ordered one. I wish I could remember where we ate, because the meal certainly made an impression. What arrived was a plate of food large enough to feed three people. I tried my best, but was unable to do it justice. Meanwhile, around us, several other couples were happily working their way through equally enormous portions and appeared to have no difficulty at all. I was amazed!

After lunch we continued northwards through the beautiful Welsh countryside, eventually arriving in Dolgellau. The town was very quiet when we arrived, but then it was Sunday afternoon. We parked in the market square and went in search of our accommodation. From the outside it looked very promising, tall, three-storey buildings of beautiful grey stone lining the streets.

Dolgellau immediately had an old-fashioned feel about it. I had no real idea what to expect from the town, but it turned out to be a delightful surprise. I have since read that some people find it a little too monochrome, but I loved it. To me, it felt like an authentic Victorian market town, with its historic architecture largely unchanged.

Most of the distinctive grey stone buildings that give Dolgellau its character today date from the 18th and 19th centuries, particularly between around 1750 and 1870. Built from locally quarried stone and slate, they give the town its wonderfully consistent appearance. 

Today Dolgellau has more than 200 listed buildings, making it one of the best-preserved historic towns in Wales. The narrow streets, tall stone houses and variations in the local stonework all reflect the town’s growth during its most prosperous period.

Our townhouse accommodation was just as promising inside as it had been outside. Our rooms were large and airy, with two comfortable beds and a pleasant sitting nook overlooking the street. It was exactly the sort of place you hope to find when exploring an old Welsh town.

On our first evening we wandered around Dolgellau and discovered the Catholic Church of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. I was really impressed by this building. Although it is only just over 50 years old, it seemed to blend beautifully with the much older stone buildings around it.

The church has a remarkable story. After the Reformation, Catholic life in the area had almost disappeared, and it was not until 1928 that Dolgellau again had a resident Catholic priest. This was Father Francis Scalpell, a Maltese priest who arrived with great determination and very little in the way of resources. Initially, Mass was celebrated in an old stable which was later adapted into a small chapel.

Through years of hard work and fundraising, Father Scalpell finally achieved his dream of building a permanent church. Constructed from local stone, Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows was completed and consecrated in 1970. It remains a lasting tribute to his faith, perseverance and dedication to the small Catholic community he served. Being Catholic we lit candles for a very special intention. Being pragmatic we were not looking for miracles, rather fortitude for those that will need it.

The following day our plan was to walk the popular Precipice Walk just outside the town. Despite the rather dramatic name, it was not quite as frightening as it sounds, although there were a couple of places where we had to negotiate rough stone sections carefully.

The views, however, were spectacular. The walk offered wonderful panoramas over the Mawddach Estuary, Cadair Idris and the surrounding mountains of Eryri (Snowdonia). The route passed through woodland, along rocky paths and past viewpoints that seemed to change at every turn.

The area is also a wonderful place for wildlife. We were lucky enough to see red kites soaring overhead. There is something very special about watching these magnificent birds gliding effortlessly above the Welsh hills.

Despite the popularity of the walk, the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly. Almost everyone we met was cheerful and ready for a chat, apart from the lady at the very beginning who warned us about horseflies! Her warning unnerved us, but thankfully we did not encounter any. In County Antrim we would call them clegs, and they are not creatures you particularly want to meet on a walk.

When we returned to Dolgellau, the town had a very different feel from the quiet place we had arrived at on Sunday. The streets were full of walkers and climbers, many setting off to explore the surrounding hills and trails. It was lovely to see the town with more life in it, yet it still retained the character of an old Welsh market town rather than feeling overwhelmed by visitors.

We also discovered that the friendliness extended beyond the streets. On our first evening we called into an Indian restaurant, only to find they were closing early. I asked if they would be open the following day, and an Asian lady assured us that they would be. It was just a small encounter, but it added to our impression of the warmth of the people we met.

In fact, with very few exceptions, almost everyone we met in Wales was genuinely lovely. (There is a little airport story to come!)

I was actually sorry to leave Dolgellau. We had found it welcoming, beautiful and full of character. It may not have the grand attractions of some better-known Welsh destinations, but for us it was one of those places that quietly gets under your skin.

I would happily recommend this lovely old town to anyone.

Cardiff to Crickhowell

It’s been a while. I took a trip.

For eight days I was in Wales with my sister. She drove from London while I flew to Cardiff. I’ve been back for a week now and, despite some life stuff going on, I’ve been in decent form. Holidays really are restorative. It wasn’t just what we did while we were in Wales, but how being there made me feel.

First, the trip.

London Sister planned it all, as she’s good at that sort of thing, and knowing that, I was confident it would be a good plan. We met in Cardiff and drove to a village in the Brecon Beacons where we stayed at the Kestrel Inn, a former coaching inn believed to be more than 200 years old. We were sleeping in a building that has welcomed travellers since the coaching era. I’m willing to bet the beds we slept in were a vast improvement on those offered in the late eighteenth century!

When I complimented our host, Richard, on how comfortable they were, he let us into the secret: the mattresses came from John Lewis. Despite the heat, we slept like logs. There’s nothing quite like thick stone walls for keeping a room cool during a heatwave.

We caught the tail end of the hot weather in Wales, and the day we climbed Crug Hywel (Table Mountain) was still very warm. It was a tough walk, especially at the beginning and again near the end. I hadn’t done a proper hike in ages, but I reminded myself that Mammy had climbed Slemish well into her seventies, and that this was a similar elevation to our own local hill. And in addition, our host told us that his Mum had climbed it recently and she in her eighties! 

Even so, I was exhausted when we made the top for the last half hour had been quite a scramble. But, as promised, the views were excellent and to make things even better, there were early bilberries to scoff and a small herd of mountain ponies to watch. 

So we descended, which was thankfully much easier than the climb up, returned to the inn, got changed and headed out for a walk around Crickhowell, then dinner.* Then it was back to those wonderfully comfortable beds for a second night.

The next morning we said goodbye to Richard and continued our journey. A good start to the holiday. Next stop Dolgellau.

*Food excellent, service abominable disappointing. 

Nepeta or Catmint

 

 

When we first introduced nepeta, or catmint, to our garden, the intention was to bring pleasure to our cats Fred and Holly, and it certainly did. They both adored it, Holly in particular. Those beloved pusses are no longer with us and now it's Woody and Pippin who enjoy it, especially Pippin.

But it's not just the cats. Bees, hoverflies and butterflies are also attracted to the flowers. I was delighted to spot a painted lady on it about a week ago. Just one, rather tattered at the wing edges but not too faded. It may have travelled a considerable distance, perhaps as far as France or northern Spain. I really hoped it would find a mate.

A few days later it returned, recognisable by those ragged wing tips, and this time it was accompanied by another painted lady. The newcomer looked much fresher. Since then I've seen them feeding on the nepeta most days.

Yesterday they were joined by a hummingbird hawk-moth, a delight to see. There was no point reaching for the camera because these moths are such speedy visitors, in and out in seconds. It's said they return to the same flowers at roughly the same time each day. I kept an eye out this morning, but I must have missed its usual visiting time.

I was so pleased with my hawk-moth sighting that last night I decided to put out the light trap, just to see what was about. The most exciting visitor was a poplar hawk-moth.

It's forecast to be a good year for painted ladies and I hope that's true. Unfortunately, it hasn't been a good year for long-eared owls or spotted flycatchers. The loss of the big spruces at the edge of the wood, damaged in winter storms, has probably put the owls off. As for the flycatchers, I don't know what has happened to them. We still have the swallows, though, one brood is already on the wing and perhaps there will be another to come.

A Message From My Father (revisited)

 

One from June 2016. I was right about Brexit and wrong about Trump. He has turned out even more of a disaster than I feared.

Sorry Reader. I cannot settle myself to properly update Nelly's Garden until this bloody referendum is over. Who cares about Trump? Even though I have detested him since first becoming aware of him. He'll be a disaster for the world and the USA if he gains the presidency but, at worst, it's only eight years. For us, leaving the EU will be irrevocable. I just can't understand why anyone, anyone with a grain of intelligence would think leaving would be a good thing to do. I hate what the debate has become, the exaggeration, the lies, the fear of  'the other'. I also hate that Northern Ireland's particular position has been almost totally ignored.

And another thing, you people, you otherwise good people who do not exercise your right to vote - it is time to grow up. Opting out is Not An Option. Opting out is not you being too fine a person to get involved in ugly old politics. Opting out is letting the bad guys win. It's Father's Day today and my father Seamus Byrne would metaphorically kick your arse. He always said that those who don't vote are like beasts in a field. Think about it.

Seamus and Bert. They always voted.

Appreciating nature.

 Sure, there’s not much else to do when you’re standing in the mud beside a stream, making sure the cows don’t escape again.

This tiny patch lies between two fields, one being ours, the other belonging to a neighbour. There is a spring burbling here, though the water is contaminated, thanks to modern farming practices. In April, the ground was carpeted with pretty wood anemones, now it is just green vegetation churned into mud by the wandering cattle.

I'm waiting for Bert to contact the farmer. The cows cast baleful looks at me. They had been thoroughly enjoying their brief excursion onto the road, nibbling the tastier herbage from the hedges and verges, completely unconcerned by the growing queue of cars and vans unable to get past.

Around them, swallows swoop and dive. Where there are cattle, there are always flying insects.

At last the farmer and help arrives and I am relieved of my post. The cattle are driven to another field further from the road.

Bert had referred to the beasts as ‘replacements’. They were young dairy cows, Holsteins, famed for their wandering ways. As older cows become less productive they are sent to the abattoir and replaced with younger animals. It seems that the adventure they had on our road was not going to be a part of their future.

We do tend to think of milk and milk products as being fairly benign but it all comes at a big cost to the animals involved, constantly pregnant and never allowed to keep their calves because we want the milk, the cream, the butter, the cheese and the yogurt. And I do love those things. But when faced with those young cows, just wanting to explore the world and live their life and knowing what their future holds I cannot help but wonder if Vegans have the right idea.

Pig Dream

 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 very nice and 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 very 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 and she 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. They 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.

First posted, October 2018

The Last of Them

It's my father's 21st anniversary today and it occurred to me that when he died I was almost exactly the same age as my oldest daughter is now. I thought I was a right old age when Daddy died but these days when I look at my first born I think she's just a slip of a girl.

Also, it was today that I learned that I have completely run out of uncles as my father's brother Dessie has just died in Australia at the age of 95. He was the last of his generation. I never knew him as he emigrated to New South Wales when he was very young. A family story has it that when he left his family home on the now Lisnevenagh Road the only one of his family who waved him off was his older sister Mary. His mother did not even come out to the bus stop to see him on his way. I don't believe he ever returned to Ireland again. His mother was a hard woman.

Anyway, Dessie made a good life for himself in Australia. Married, had two sons. He is the only one of my father's siblings to have made it to his nineties.

My mother knew him. She said he was a bit of a teddy boy. I think when they talked about teddy boys they meant any young man who didn't dress just like his da and his granda before him. There is one photo I have of Dessie, probably taken by Daddy and he's along with Mammy. It would have been taken in the early 1950s.

Photograph taken just up from the Wayside Halt, Dessie's home place. I think he looks more like James Dean than a teddy boy.

Myself and the da when he was in his prime and I just a slip of a girl.

The Hidden Orchard and Other Rooms

I really should have posted this a few weeks ago because the apple blossom has fallen from the trees and, if successfully pollinated, the fruit should be starting to form.

We have an orchard of sorts closer to the house but it has been neglected. It contains one ancient cooking apple tree and two crabs. There used to be damsons but they are broken down now. Recent plantings of fruit trees have not been successful. A greengage and pear never took off. The Katy apple tree that Les planted is doing OK and the currants and gooseberries are reasonable if we can get to them before the blackbirds. For the past few years Bert has been planting other trees in there including a tiny apple that Mammy grew from a pip. Who knows how that will turn out.

A few years ago we applied for and received a number of native Irish apple trees from Trees on the Land which were not planted in the orchard. They are in an out of the way spot and I'd forgotten all about them. Then, a few weeks ago Bert said that I really ought to go see the apple blossom before it dropped.

What apple blossom?

He reminded me where it was so I grabbed a camera and went out to see.

I've heard that professional gardeners advise making 'rooms' in a garden so that all is not visible at once. It's a good idea. But I'm not sure that they mean that the rooms are hidden by overgrown raspberry canes, great clumps of nettles or fallen laburnums. That's what here is like. Our outside is packed wih rooms. For instance, if you want to see our climbing hydrangea you need to go round the back of the long shed where it grows profusely with a clump of yellow welsh poppies at its feet. Bert put it there because it prefers a north facing aspect. He wasn't bothered that it faces a big dungheap.

We seem to have forgotten the 'room' hidden under the sweeping branches of the big beech trees. This was a den created by Martha and friends.

Why we can't have nice things

Five years later

Enraged

I've been trying to make a post about why I lost my temper with a visitor to our home when he expressed unasked for views supporting the Orangeman in the White House. This, despite knowing that my political alignment leans strongly to the left. But what really pissed me off was when he asserted that RFK Jr was the best person to have charge of the health department. His reasoning? Because Kennedy is an old man, yet he has a six-pack and this must mean he 'looks after himself' therefore best man for the job in hand.

How does one argue with that? I didn't even try. It was too stupid.

Instead, I said something like this,

Have you any idea what if feels like for me to sit in my own home and listen to you and people like you spouting your stupid shit? Do you know that I so often wish that I could just say, there's the fucking door, why don't you just fuck off!

Then I stormed out, to sit it out until he had the decency to leave.

Which he did, almost immediately.

I heard Bert in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. He looked quite unperturbed.

I said,

Has he gone?

Yes. He said to me, tell Nelly I'm sorry I offended her.

And what did you say?

I said, you didn't offend her. You enraged her.

Is it any wonder I don't have much to say about politics in this blog. I'm just not cut out for it.

I thought of finding a picture of that oul fella with the six-pack to illustrate this post but any I saw were too horrid. Instead, a picture of Cleo running through a wood with a stick in her mouth. Her ears don't normally look like that. Nice capture.

Back to Bellaghy

 

Last Saturday, Zoe and I went to the Seamus Heaney Homeplace to hear local writer Jan Carson in conversation about her work, particularly her most recent publication which centres on fictional inhabited islands on Lough Neagh. As I expected, it was a really interesting evening.

Obviously, as Jan Carson is only a couple of years older than my youngest daughter, we’re from different generations, Nelly boomer, Jan Carson Gen X. Despite that, I was getting older-girl vibes from her. Not that she isn’t young and vibrant compared to me, but it felt as if I was back in grammar school, in first or second form, and she was one of the cool sixth-formers.

What brought that on? It was when she spoke about the camaraderie among this generation of Irish novelists, how they support each other, enjoy meeting up at literary gatherings, and how the craic is mighty, and as she chatted about Anne Enright and Louise Kennedy, I could just see myself at age 13 or so, hero-worshipping Jan and her cool friends.

Which is why, as she was signing my copy of her latest novel, I was thrilled to pieces when she complimented me on my Uniqlo/Marimekko shirt. I think she was even a wee bit jealous. 

One From Ten Years Ago

 

The Daily Photograph 9

Wouldn't it be a fine thing to have even a quarter of that energy?

I was weary today so I just had fun with the girls. 

Sheena passed away shortly after midnight.

I will spend tomorrow in the garden.

Speaking the Names

 

I went to a wake last night for a family friend, the last of her generation. It was well attended, as she was a much loved woman from a well respected family.

As is often the case, I met people I hadn’t seen since the last time I’d been at something like this. Among those around my own age or a bit younger, the refrain was familiar, we only ever seem to meet these days at wakes and funerals.

Many of the conversations circled the same ground, bereavements - parents, partners, siblings, and in the hardest cases of all, children.

At one point I found myself sitting beside a younger man. We got talking. He said he was from Creggan. I told him my mother had lived not far from there.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“McAnespie.”

He didn’t recognise it. Didn’t know anyone of the name. I explained that there’s no one left of the McAnespies in that area now.

My mother and her sisters, so I’ve always been told, were fine-looking girls, much sought after at the ceilidhs and fairs. All of them gone now and not a one left to carry the McAnespie name on as their one and only brother never married.

Later, speaking with another old friend, we talked about our deceased parents, about all the people who lived on the road where we were, about those who had died recently and those long gone. And it struck me then how these gatherings have become less about a single person and more about a kind of reckoning. A quiet taking stock. Who’s still here. Who isn’t.

There’s an idea that no one has really gone from this world until their name is spoken for the last time and that one day that will happen to most of us. So I won’t say every name that was spoken of on Saturday evening in the house beside the moss, in the townland of Drumkeeran, in the Grange of Shilvodan, but here are some of them in no particular order,

Pearlie Orr, Pat McKeown, Joe Byrne, Joe O’Neill, Martha Byrne, Seamus Byrne, Paddy Heffron, Susan Heffron, Sadie McAuley, Brian Heffron, Martha McKeown, Malachy Robb, Shaun Byrne, Brendan Byrne, Jonny Steingold, Bridie Lavery, Clare McAtamney, Father Felix McGuckin, Sammy Heffron, Sheena Heffron, and Sarah Fox nee McCrossan.

The person listed last was born in rural Tyrone in the 19^th century and is still being named. She was my great-grandmother.