One From 12 Years Ago Featuring Father Vincent Davey

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

And so, on to the recycled post.

In A Graveyard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Is My Life: Shopping & Animals (and books)

 

First thing in the morning I let Cleo out for morning pees and poos. Delighted to say that it is more than 50 hours since she has performed either of those actions indoors. The Kong obsession has not been entirely helpful as her desire to collect it in the morning has often led to a big piss on the kitchen floor. Every day is a learning day (for both of us) and I have learned to pitch the Kong out the bedroom window so she just cannot wait to get outside to fetch it.

The picture above is post morning evacuations and back to bed with coffee, Kong and Woody the kitten. Woody has breakfasted, no need for outside as he is still a litter tray user. I have my coffee and my books, not easy to manage with a largish kitten sitting on my throat. Cleo has her Kong and all is right with her world. This morning's books are something about Hurricane Katrina and euthanasia which depite being ploughed through for months, the name escapes me at the moment. The other two books are Wally Lamb's This Much I Know (excellent) and Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye (even more excellent).

Woody has removed himself from my throat and is amusing himself playing with Cleo's tail. It will soon be time to get up as I am taking Jazzer to the shops. Asda to be exact. She is post-surgery for a shoulder injury and I am helping her out just as she helped me out when I injured my hip last year.

I have a perfunctory wash for which I am not ashamed as I showered yesterday and I dress myself in Snag tights, raspberry coloured, Nordic socks, shades of raspberry, Blundstone boots, a polka dot denim Toast skirt, a grey M&S long-sleeved vest, a burgundy coloured jumper and a pink hand-knitted (by Ganching) scarf. My outer garment being a black M&S burberry. I am, in my own opinion, looking well for 70 years old.

On the way to Antrim - I'm travelling slow as the roads might be icy, I notice strange clouds in the sky. They are disk shaped, one on top of the other. I make a note to myself to Google them later.

To Jazzer, still in pyjamas, but despite her shoulder difficulties she is soon ready. All I had to do to help her was adjust her surgical support sling. Last week I had to fasten her bra so - progress. We leave the house, breakfast at Alfies's, collect supplies at the pet shop and peruse the charity shops. I buy nothing, Jazzer buys pyjamas. A theme going on? At our house we call pyjamas drinking trousers - someone call AA.

On to Asda. Asda, once Antrim's flagship grocery shopping destination has become hugely disappointing. OK - so I picked up an incredibly cheap and fleecy duvet set that will replace the one that Cleo ate, but that does not make up for one, just one till being open while we, the actual customers were expected to check out our own shopping whilst being overseen by the grumpiest shop assistant in the world. Honestly Asda, I'm not coming back anytime soon. Also, the Kenco coffee was overpriced although to be fair the cheap and cheerful Spanish Rioja I just took my last swallow of, wasn't bad at all.

After having deposited Jazzer and her groceries I headed home whilst listening to an incredibly interesting programme on Radio 4 about bacteria. I felt vindicated having had just the perfunctory wash as apparently bacteria ain't all bad. I am also encouraged to wear my clothes for longer between washes. But, that said, it seems it is still a very good idea to wash one's hands regularly and thoroughly.

Home again, and in a good mood, having had a brisk 20 minute walk through Ballee Cemetery. It is very cheering to pass the graves of one's former neighbours and work colleagues knowing that one is still here. Bert was also in a good mood having chopped down a disease-stricken ash tree that was annoying a horse chestnut and that will keep us warm for at least a month.

Then that bloody internet. Far too easy to go shopping there. That bloody Rioja too. I bought another pair of Blundstone boots. Still haven't figured out those clouds. Lenticular? Where are the mountains? The Mournes are miles away. Belfast hills?

More Cake

 

There was more birthday cake yesterday when the girls were here for supper. Rhubarb and Almond cake, a new one for me. I thought it was a bit stodgy but that didn't stop me from eating it. 

There are a whole series of pictures of Bert and those two with birthday cakes. This one is from ten years ago.

Today I went to lunch with Jazzer. There is no photographic record of this event. We did a little light shopping afterwards in Antrim town where she acquired some pre-loved garments and I bought a copy of The Dud Avocado which was on my reading wish list. I had a good opportunity to read the first chapter in the Asda car park while Jazzer went in for a 'couple of things'. As always she was about half an hour. Bert has remarked before that when she goes into a shop she generally picks up a shift stacking shelves. I didn't really mind as the book was good. Turned out she got into a really slow queue and then, on leaving, the alarm went off and she had to have her receipt checked. Somebody forgot to take the tag off her new summer shorts. I'd have been raging if that had happened to me.

Back home to find Bert had eaten nearly all the pizza from Bamber Pizzeria. Fair play to him as no one had taken him out for lunch. He left me just enough to know it was yummy.

Afterwards, we had the sad task of taking an expired chicken out to the woods for the foxes to feast upon. But who could be sad in the woods on such a beautiful evening? Not us, certainly not Cleo.

Garden Pests

Northern Ireland is currently experiencing Summer Time and I have been making hay while the sun shines, or sort of... I have been weeding, sowing and planting and Nelly's Garden is actually looking OK. If it wasn't for all the interruptions life would be great.

First of all, I took Saturday evening and most of Sunday as a vacation from what the Americans call yard work. We went out for dinner with the Banjos and slept over. Then on Sunday, we all went to Garden Show Ireland. It was Marty and Jazzer's first visit (even though they live in Antrim) and I think they enjoyed it. I bought my usual geranium and wanted to buy some white papaver Orientale but missed out on pot plants so bought root cuttings from a beautiful Dutchwoman. Two white, two salmon pink and two red. Hope they grow! Going around the exhibits I realised that my bay tree is probably worth £120 and that the three trees I'm nabbing from Bert would cost me nearly 500 if I was buying them from a garden centre. And - the half dozen lupins I'd planted the day before and that were grown from a teeny little seed were worth nearly fifty quid at Garden Show prices. I actually felt quite rich.

Monday was family gardening day and it started off well when the black and white cow had a healthy bull calf standing by her side first thing in the morning. Then there was great excitement when Evil Edna started to show signs of imminent calving. Unusually, for Edna, she was considerate enough to hold off on the big reveal until the girls' homework was done, then had the calf birthed just as supper was being put on the table.

Yesterday Hannah and I went shopping in Antrim. I bought a hand weeding tool and Hannah bought socks. Bored with the shops we went to the Castle Grounds to walk. The council workers were still clearing up after Garden Show Ireland and I found a lithodora 'Heavenly Blue' in a bin and nicked rescued it. Another £7 saved.

Today, nothing much to do so worked in the garden. Planted geraniums, crocosmia 'Lucifer', cosmos, potentilla' and used my new weeding tool which is very useful for grubbing up dandelions and creeping buttercup. It was a very enjoyable day except for the invaders. First, there was the chicken escapees, three of the young hens that have no trouble flying over the fence. They spent the day in the flowerbeds gathering up grubs and insects.

Then I was wandering around taking pictures of this and that and heard this crashing noise and there was...

...Lily, who had to be quickly headed off before she started trampling on my freshly planted flower beds.

The next invader was driving a shiny red car that whizzed into the yard with one door hanging open and that turned out to be a mother and child delivering leaflets for a church lecture. I'd already noticed posters for this event in the village and was astonished that such people still walk among us. I told the woman that I was a firm believer in evolution and she looked at me very askance. She suggested I should come and add to the debate. I said I probably wouldn't.

Click to enlarge and get a better look at Evie's plastic dinosaur and the potentilla and geranium that flank it. The invite from the crazy people is propped against the alpine strawberry.  

Garden Show Ireland, 2016

For the third year running I attended Garden Show Ireland in Antrim's delightful Castle Grounds. The first year I went on my own. But for the past two years I've been going with Martha, Evie and Zoe and it has been much more enjoyable. It helps that we are all interested in gardens and plants. Martha saw lots of show gardens that delighted her and made sure that I got a picture so we could remember them.

This was a feature in a 'fairy' garden. Both girls liked it very much.

Take a photograph Granny!

So I did.

There were a couple of mildly unfortunate incidents.

Evie's strop. It didn't last long.

Martha not making it to the top of the climbing tower. She did very well for a first-timer.

Martha and Evie take the weight off their legs.

Zoe admiring the wonderful willow baskets on display.

It was a very enjoyable day and I even bought some plants - some variety of comfrey, unlabelled.  I'll take a chance. And inspired by all we had seen I actually planted out my allium pots today, weeded and watered, made a start on the sweet william and now have a very sore left paw. Despite my achey hand I henceforward mean to spend all fine days in the garden. The housework can go to pot!

The Daily Photograph 4

Katy and family left to return to Norfolk this morning and I would be bereft if it were not for knowing that they had a wonderful wee holiday and that I will see them all again soon. Katy called this afternoon to inform us that they had arrived home safely and that James was racing around in his baby walker with a new appreciation of the saying, East, West, Home's Best. I think so too.

Leitrim Sister and I went to Antrim to visit our friend and found her in poor spirits, laid low with another infection. Afterwards we walked in Antrim's pretty Castle Grounds where we climbed the motte.

 I took this photograph from its side. Apparently it is parts of the stonework from one of the original castles. I'm not entirely sure if it is the one built in the 17th century or not. There are bits of ruined castles dotted along the banks of Lough Neagh all over the place;  it seems that the Lords O'Neill were very unfortunate in their housing situation what with an accidental fire in the late 19th century and the IRA attack in the early 1920s.

Not much remains of the castle in Antrim but one solitary tower, but way back in the 1960s the ruins were more extensive. I saw my first flasher there. He must have heard myself and my school friend Sylvia stumbling, chattering in his general direction and as we turned a ruined wall there he was -  all phallus erectus, and an uninspiring sight if ever I saw one.

An Interesting Day

Today I met up  with Grannymar for a coffee and a stroll around the Castle Grounds in Antrim. It's been six years since we had a real life meeting and there's been a lot of water under the bridge since then but my fellow blogger hadn't changed a bit. One of the very many great things about blogfriends is that many years can go by but you still pick up just where you left off.

On the way home I called with two of Matty's oldest friends, sisters-in-law who live next door to each other. Both are doing great and that was good to see. I also got to meet one of the sweetest and most lovable toddlers I've come across in a long time.

I got home later than I expected to find Bert in a fainting condition, weak from hunger and wondering had I brought home anything to eat. He always asks this whenever I've been out for more than an hour. There are two things he has yet to absorb and they are firstly, when I go out to meet people socially food shopping never enters my head and secondly, there is always lots of food in the house. He never asked me a single question about my day just lamented that all he'd had to eat since breakfast was an egg and a slice of wheaten bread. There was no other food in the house.

Of course he was wrong about this. There were the usual staples, bread, beans, tinned fish, home made rhubarb tart, cauliflower cheese etc. I took him by the hand and pointed at the big door under the fridge.

See this Bert. It's not just a big box to hold the fridge up. If you open the door and pull these drawers out there are all sorts of things in there.

He said,

I would never think of looking in there.

He got quite excited about some fish fingers and a bag of frozen peas so I left him to it. Then he was off out to his music night and left me to dine on my own which was fine as I'd eaten at Anna's just before I got home. Another reason why food shopping wasn't on my mind.

But before I thought of food I started a rhubarb wine and bottled a damson and blackcurrant. It was when I was pulling frozen rhubarb out of the big chest freezer that I noticed a few boxes of dinnerish stuff and pulled one out at random with no notion of what it might be. Whatever it was I reckoned it might go well with pasta. So that was my dinner, A bit of pasta languishing in the store cupboard, lying in an almost empty packet, the dubious thing from the depths of the freezer and the dregs at the bottom of the damson and blackcurrant wine flagon. It turned out to be chicken and mushrooms in tomato sauce and it wasn't bad at all. And I got to feel virtuous by 'using things up'. Bert would rather have died of hunger than eat it. I wonder if that is why he is thin and I am not.

Garden Show Ireland and a Stranger in the Dyke

Zoe, the girls and Granny went to Garden Show Ireland at the Castle Grounds in Antrim. I went last year on my own and enjoyed it very much. However it is far better with company. I did not buy a single plant, just took photographs. The truth is, I don't even have enough room for the plants I already have. My new rule will be - no new perennials unless there is an area of the garden already prepared for planting.

Beautiful aquilegia

Gorgeous iris

 At one of the show gardens where Evie kept trying to sit on the hedge

 Climbing

Zoe and Evie

There was so much for children to do there. The girls had a cookery session and a kite making workshop. There were swings, slides, golf, climbing and a chill out area. That last was bliss. Mood lighting, air conditioning and an episode of Bill & Ben The Flowerpot Men. It was close to being my best bit. Evie's worst bit was getting covered in mud three times and the stilt walkers. Her best bit was the jazz band and Martha's best bit was dancing to the jazz band. Zoe's best bit might have been the 30 minutes she got to look around on her own and possibly seeing Monty Don.

Dancing

Got back home to discover the coffee supplies were running dangerously low and headed out in the van to replenish. On glancing to my right at the bottom of our lane I spotted a large-headed fellow standing in the dyke. Or so I thought. It was actually an election poster featuring Ian Paisley Jr, or Ian Óg as ussuns like to call him. I really, really need to get these eyes fixed.

Stranger in the Dyke

Easter Monday

A very fine day befitting a bank holiday. I did a tiny bit of gardening and took a 17 minute walk and was exhausted. Guess this virus is still in my system. Finished watching House of Cards. Talked to Katy on the phone and had Hannah and Ziggy to visit. Cow still hasn't calved.

It's is number six day on the Great Flickr photoshare. The sixth most viewed picture on the 6th of April 2015 is Fanad lighthouse, taken by me in the days before we had a caravan a mile or two down from it. Looking at it, I feel sad that I have yet to visit Donegal this year. Sometimes, not having one's own car sucks. 1,323 views so far.

Lighthouse at Fanad Head

Then there is this one, the sixth most interesting. I took it myself with a cheap Kodak Instamatic camera. The place was the Castle Grounds in Antrim, somewhat less manicured than it is today. The date was probably around 1972. I could find out for sure if I could make out the cover of the Rolling Stone. The red clogs were my footwear and the cider my refreshment. 392 views.

Still Life

I must have been around 18 when I made that photograph and I would have looked like this...

Young people used to get away with such a lot. Imagine it nowadays, me lying around in public parks, barefoot, drinking cider. The police would be called.

Dinner Plans

I have had a busy few days. On Friday I went to Garden Show Ireland at the Castle Grounds in Antrim where I heard a very interesting talk by the delightful Alys Fowler. The talk was a tiny bit shambolic as is, apparently, her own garden, but no less charming and interesting for all that. I know it has changed my mind about a few things and I am determined to make great improvements to my soil and adopt the no-dig approach to growing. I will also be more tolerant of slugs. Apparently they are doing us a favour by eating seedlings that we'd never get around to planting anyway. Still feeding any I find to the hens.

Alys Fowler - my heroine

Plants people in search of treasure

On Saturday I went to cheer on the participants in the Giro d'Italia as they raced through Ballymena. Very exciting even though they were out of town again in a matter of moments.

Photograph taken by ZMB on Flickr 

Tonight Nellybert went for drinks with the First Husband and His Beloved. The carers were late in coming to Pearlie and the most curious one commented on me being 'dressed up.' I told her I was going into town to meet the First Husband. She said,

I don't like the sound of that.

I said,

Don't worry. Bert is coming too.

That seems very strange to me.

It's not. Far better that people get along. 

What does Bert think?

Oh Bert gets on well with FH.

Does he?

Oh yes. I only hope he gets on as well with my next husband.

You! You're not near wise!

So, FH and Beloved are taking the girls out for the day tomorrow so that First Daughter can get a wriggle on with her sowing and planting. I'll make dinner. We are having vegetable lasagne and rhubarb crumble as FH doesn't eat meat. Another busy day ahead.

In A Graveyard

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Mother

Day 2 in the Matty house.

You'd be sitting there and suddenly a Marie Curie nurse would come bouncing in and say,

I'm here from half three to half five if you want to go out.

And what else can you do but go out. Thing is you haven't planned anything. Quick! Rack brains. Matty requested ham and there was none. Go to Asda, buy ham. Then go for walk in the Castle Grounds. Could have went to visit Wee Laura K and Baby Caitlin but no present organised. A walk in Castle Grounds and listen to audio-book. Damn. Forgot earphones. The Castle Grounds is having some work done. The paths are pure glaar. My trainers are bogging and yet I have left Hunters in the car. How disorganised is that?

I meet Eugene walking a Parson Russell terrier. He's somebody I know from decades ago and I hadn't seen him for decades until a month ago when I met him and his wife in Lidls. We chatted dogs for a while. I walked away thinking about the olden days when Antrim people didn't speak with a Belfast twang and we were all full of beans and the bull.

On the way back I avoided the soggy, disgustingly wet Castle Grounds and walked past the chapel where I looked in on Daddy's grave. It has been well over a year since I visited. His grave is just next to the plot where the babies are buried and there was a new headstone. It was very small, said BABY and had the child's name. On it was inscribed,

I will never forget you

I held you in the palm of my hand

Who wouldn't weep?

Billy's Rissoles

After I’d spent three miserable years at St Louis’ Convent my parents relented and allowed me to leave after the third year. It’s very likely I wouldn’t have been allowed to stay anyway as I’d made a very poor show in my Junior examinations.

So it was off to Antrim Technical College to do a pre-nursing course. It was still school but compared to the Convent it was heaven. At that time the ‘tech’ or Further Education College was more formal than it is today. Boys could go from age eleven, everyone wore uniforms and it was said that Mr Bell the headmaster even used the cane! But only on boys.

At lunchtime we could actually leave the building and go into town. And sometimes if we got chatting to boys in O’Neill’s Café we didn’t bother going back in the afternoon. Of course, being painfully shy, I didn’t chat much to boys. But I liked being around when chatting was going on.

The Tech was where I first met and got to know Protestants. If there was sectarianism and bigotry around I can’t say I ever experienced or even noticed it. This was 1968 and the Troubles were just about to begin. We had a very enlightened teacher of Current Affairs and she grounded me in the background of Northern Ireland politics pre-1968. It’s probably one of the most interesting things I’ve ever learned at school. Before I met Winifred Law I thought that Gerry Mandering was a politician who Nationalists didn’t trust an inch.

This wasn’t quite as bizarre as my previous miscomprehension of world affairs when, as a somewhat younger child, I’d thought that the Viet Cong had trained gorillas fighting for them and that the Americans, whilst very brave, hadn’t a chance of winning. I used to avidly watch the news hoping for a glimpse of these gorillas.

All this came back to me as a result of talking to my Aunt Maud yesterday. Maud’s brother Billy ran a café in Antrim that we went to occasionally. O’Neill’s Café was where the boys hung out but at Billy’s you could get rissoles. Those rissoles were so good.

I asked Aunt Maud,

Did your Billy tell anybody his rissole recipe before he died?

No. He never did.

That was a pity.

There was one thing he put into those rissoles that he never told anyone. But I think I know what it was.

What was it?

I think it was powdered onion soup.

Billy’s rissoles were made from carrots, onions, sausage meat and his secret ingredient. This mixture was shaped, dipped in flour, then beaten egg, then coated in batter and deep-fried. One rissole was enough for two people. Maud said that Billy never made much money of his most famous dish because he ‘made them too big.’ She also said he was very particular about his batter and ‘went mad’ if anyone opened the fridge door while it was chilling.

When I got home I got on the Internet and googled Antrim +Billy’s Café. I found this page and then spent hours looking at the whole site. Fascinating stuff for anyone who remembers pre-Troubles Antrim. I found myself looking at pictures of girls I remember from school, teachers from the Tech and staff from my time working in Holywell Hospital. I even saw a picture from the 40s that was taken down Matty’s road. The site is basically a digital photo album but it is also a labour of love to be greatly appreciated by old-timers like me. I can’t wait to tell Aunt Maud about it. She’ll be getting a ‘puter for sure.

Not So Shabby Shit

You know by the time I’ve driven Matty on this errand and that errand I could have taken her to Dublin and back. Today I would have liked to take her for a trip to the coast but, as always, she had different ideas.

First trip was to her new GP in Kells & Connor. I chatted her into changing because of the interminable long waits at her previous surgery. An hour and a half’s wait to see the doc was not uncommon at her old place, the car park was tiny and the wait for an appointment far too long.

Before we left for Kells Matty said,

Are you planning on going into Antrim?

No. Are you planning on going into Antrim?

Well it’s just that I’ve got these bags of coins….

Oh bloody hell! Not more bags of coins. Why don’t you just spend the money instead of bagging it up and trailing it into the bank? Sure the bank people hate seeing wee grannies coming with their bloody bags of coins.

Well if you don’t want to go to Antrim I could always get a taxi* and…

Oh I’ll take you to Antrim if you must but I’d far rather take you to Carnlough

So after the docs we went to Antrim. I dropped her off and went to visit Daddy’s grave where I deadheaded Ganching’s pansies and got all emotional.

Then I gathered up Matty again and suggested a coffee. But where? She says brightly,

Randalstown?

OK. Randalstown it is.

On the way to Randalstown we had this conversation,

It’s our Claire’s birthday today. It’s her 70th.

Is it? It’s a wonder you didn’t want to go down and see her.

Well I had a card and present for her on the kitchen table but you were that crabbit I was scared to ask you.

I cringe at this. I’m a Bad Daughter. We get to Randalstown and I swing straight back to the home parish to collect Claire’s card and present. Then back to Randalstown, then up to Claire’s house. She’s out. Probably being treated to a birthday lunch so I leave card and present on her windowsill and we go to The Forge for coffee.

After coffee we go to a little knick-knack cum antique shop that is only recently opened. Matty buys some pretty padded dress hangers. Back in the car I say to Matty,

Nice place that. You know you’d call that sort of style shabby chic.

Shabby shit? D’ye think so?

Hanging out with the hard of hearing does have its amusing moments.

Then we went to visit Matty’s neighbour who is really ill. They are a lovely family and we’ve always been close to them. Now they are going through a similar experience to what we were going through 12 months ago.

Afterwards the oldest daughter asked us up to her house to peer into the nest of Wagtails on her front doorstep. Last year during Daddy’s wake I remember watching a group of young Wagtails cavorting in the stream at the bottom of this house’s garden. There are so many memories coming back to me and I could cry for any reason. Even this lovely warm weather is making me feel sad.

Grey Wagtail

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I could always get a taxi* The taxi company that Matty frequently threatens to use is called Guilt Trip Cabs. This taxi is always mentioned when anyone (it’s usually me) shows any reluctance to drive her wherever she wants to go.

Rehoming Hannah

Naturally enough Hannah is not that keen on living in the wilds of Cullybackey under the intolerant and harsh regime that is Nellybert's hame. So, to escape these strictures, she has been searching for a private rental in town. And since today I have been helping her. Dear Lord but these properties are expensive. And then they'd be looking for a squillion pounds of a deposit. But despite all this we are hopeful that this will be the week that she secures a place of her own. When I first left home I got a flat in Anketell's Hotel in Antrim. This had once been a proper hotel but it had become rundown and was used as apartments. I had a living room, kitchen and two bedrooms. The toilets and bathrooms were shared and were utterly vile. I once went to the toilet during the night and stumbled on a couple making the beast with two backs and was quite overcome with the romance of it all. There was an old man who regularly stood on the stairways displaying his wizened member but I learned to ignore him. The rent was £7 per week for this 'palace of heavenly pleasure' and every Friday I placed a £5 note and two singles in the Complete Works of Shakespeare for the rent collection. Matty and Seamus were not happy about me living there as they considered the place a terrible dive. They were quite right. I had mad parties every Friday and Saturday night. The young people streamed out of Paddy Smyth's and Bobby Barron's and straight up Anketell's stairs past the wee man, blue in the face, trailing at his johnson for all he was fit. Oul Anketell evicted me for the parties and in time Anketell's was demolished to make way for the shopping centre. It's not just Hannah's search for a place of her own that reminds me of the awfulness that was Anketell's. The squalour of Tinkerton brings these memories to the fore as well. Oh how I wish I worked in a nice clean hospital. * *heavy irony