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.

Masterclass

Martha and I went to Belfast yesterday. She had a masterclass at the Opera House, taught by Melissa Hamilton, a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet.

I took the train from Cullybackey; Martha boarded at Ballymena. For a moment, I didn’t recognise her. Her hair was pulled tight into a ballet bun, she was wearing contacts, and there was a light touch of makeup. She looked lovely.

I walked her to the front of the Opera House, where she was meeting a friend, and then set off for the shops. I had an hour to spare.

I went to the Seasalt sale, looked at everything, and bought nothing. In the next shop, I did the same- looked and walked away. There was something oddly satisfying about not buying.

For old times’ sake, I stopped by Fresh Garbage. At first glance, it was just the same - cluttered, dimly lit - but everything seemed tawdry, thrown together. The place was full of teenagers. I didn’t stay long and, of course, bought nothing.

For a short while, I sat on a bench in Royal Avenue and listened to a street preacher holding court. He railed against stealing, lying, and fornication—then warned against Muslims, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Rome. Muslim, he said, not Islam. That annoyed me. I felt an urge to walk over and tell him he was a narcissistic prick, but I didn’t feel up to making a scene.

My next stop was Waterstones – as I had a gift card worth ten pounds. I chose two short story collections, one by Kate Atkinson and one by Jan Carson. At last, something worth buying, and I only had to part with £9.98. Time to return to the Opera House.

Martha’s class had fifteen minutes left, so I took a seat in the auditorium to watch. It was a delight to see. Afterward, Miss Hamilton made sure each dancer had a photograph with her before they left the stage, all flushed with happiness. Martha wasn’t so tired that she wasn’t up for a walk to Botanic and she told me everything that she loved about the experience.

At Botanic we made a quick foray into the vintage shops, but unfortunately, coffee was unavailable across the whole of the avenue due to a water supply issue. I had to make do with apple juice but, despite that small setback, it was still a wonderful day.

Crossing the Lagan

I crossed the River Lagan six times today, four times on the train, twice on foot.

The book I brought—because I never travel without one—was Transit by Rachel Cusk. Chosen as much for its weight as its content. I was further along than I had realised and finished it long before the journey’s end. That left me with nothing to do but look at the scenery.

I alighted at Botanic Station as I wanted to peruse the local charity shops. I was looking for an ecru sweater, something loose, to wear over the two forgotten Boden dresses I found in the attic. They had been there long enough to be practically vintage. I did not find a sweater. I bought books instead.

From there, the Asia Supermarket. A wok, some spices. Kimchi for Bert. It was a 35-minute walk via the Ormeau Bridge, or meant to be. Closer to 45 minutes in my case. So many woks, so many spices. I have a wok already, a large one, bought here years ago. It has served me well and will continue to do so. The new one is smaller, and useful when cooking for two.

It was disappointing that the cafe at Asia Supermarket was closed. I had been looking forward to a sit-down and something interesting to eat and drink.

My next destination was Lanyon Place Station, via the Ravenhill Road and Albert Bridge. Roughly 25 minutes. I was tired, thirsty and looking forward to some rest and refreshments at the station. And there it was. And all it had was Starbucks. I got an indifferent cappuccino and a truly bad cheese and ham ciabatta thing. Plastic ham and cheese and bread like sawdust. Never again.

Though I will return to Belfast. I will walk across bridges, along the Ravenhill Road. But I will never eat in Starbucks again. The coffee perhaps, in an emergency.

Having finished Transit (so good) I began another book, one I had bought on Botanic Avenue - I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O'Farrell. I have read it before, but a long time ago. It's worth another read. 

No Excitement and a Wee Catch Up

 No Excitement

Someone asked me today if anything exciting going on in my life. I replied that there was not and that I was glad of it.

So, definitely, no excitement to report on the blog since the last time I properly updated and that was the day we found out that quite a lot of people in the United States feel that they had not had enough of Donald Trump. Since then I deactivated ‘that’ platform and have resolved to take a break from the news.

I am also taking a Duolingo break and have been reading more. And sorting books as there are more books in this house than shelves to hold them and I have shelves enough to hold more than a thousand books. It’s going well. I’ve got as far as Proust and Pullman and both those authors are getting to stay. For now. I’ve filled three boxes for Tesco’s charity bookshelves. Keep an eye on the Ballymena store readers, it’s going upmarket.

Wee Catchup

As usual, there were visitors. Stand out was the Saturday that Martina and her children called with us. Despite it being a damp, late Autumn day the kids had a great time swinging, trampolining and feeding Clint’s calves. They are lovely children and I believe they enjoyed themselves as much as their mum used to when she was a little’un.

An evening at Ballymena Academy to see Martha and a host of incredibly talented young people in their school musical, The Addams Family. It was a great evening. Martha had two sets of grandparents, her parents and her sister to support her. Fun fact – every Martha in the school (all three of them) took part in the show.

There were two birthday suppers. Bert made both cakes. A Chocolate Guinness cake (Nigella) for Evie and a carrot and ginger cake (Hummingbird) for Dave. Both were delicious but Dave’s could have done with more ginger. Dave likes ginger.

Then we had a lovely evening at Les and Dawn's. They cooked us delicious Chinese food. And were great craic as always. A good night.

There were two trips to Belfast. St George’s Market on Remembrance Sunday. Hannah drove. We walked past City Hall just before 11 am but were too far away to spot Michelle. The second visit was by train to Botanic. I walked to the Palm House, bought some jeans in the Oxfam shop and did not buy a single book. But I did finish reading The Remains of the Day on the journey back and forth. So good.

Then the snow came. So pretty, so boring. The dogs, especially Chico, adored it and even old Judy had to get out for a jolly good sniff and a plod around. Now we are waiting to see what Storm Bert brings. Leitrim Sister messaged me to say that I should tell Bert to wind his neck in.

Belfast

I have been getting out and about recently and have used my rail card three times in nine days. 

My first outing was to Portrush with Bert, Hannah and the girls. That would be the annual trip to Barry's Amusements, which is now known as Curry's Amusements. As Martha and Evie are now taller than everyone except Bert they no longer go on the tamer rides. Instead, it is all the scary ones like The Beast and The Waltzer. They may have gone on The Beast five times. 

Of course, Bert and I refused to go on anything as we don't like having our bones shaken about. Instead, we strolled around Portrush like the oldsters we are and looked after the incredibly well-behaved Chico for Hannah. It was, while doing this, that we decided that it was time to lead-train Cleo so that she too could enjoy excursions to the Port. She is, after all, more than 15 months old.

The girls and Chico

My second train journey was a jaunt to Belfast with Vee. We went to the Botanic Gardens to visit the Palm House, the Tropical Ravine, the Medicine Garden and the Museum. It was an enjoyable outing, especially as Vee had never been there before. My favourite parts were the Medicinal Garden (which is new) and the Carravaggios, which are currently on display at the Museum.

Then today, Bert and I took the train to Belfast to visit Smithfield and St George's Market. I knew there was to be an anti-immigration (racist and anti-Islam) protest but did not really expect it to amount to much. But on our way back from Smithfield we found ourselves amid the protest. There were protestors flying  British, Irish and Israeli flags at the top of Royal Avenue. There didn't seem like that many people and most of them seemed to be onlookers. There was a long line of PSNI land-rovers parked bumper to bumper across the road, each with at least one officer in riot gear standing beside them. On the far side of the police vehicles were the counter-protestors. We went to that side.  Both sides were chanting at the other with the counter-protestors making the most noise. There were more of them. Yet, they seemed less threatening. Maybe that was because I agreed with their stance.  

After all that we headed in the direction of St George's Market. I re-upped my Cordyceps Tincture at Spore Shore and we had a coffee and a delicious (shared) brownie. We were joined at our table by a lovely woman who asked us what was happening in town. She was waiting for her daughter to collect her and was concerned that there would be disruptions. We chatted. Our companion was an artist, of Armenian descent and had been born in Haifa. Her family had suffered turmoil both in Israel and Cyprus. I wish we could have spoken to her longer but there was a train to catch. I could not help but think that if the Irish people who are so nationalistic and anti-immigration had any idea how lucky they are to live here at this time of relative stability we might have more compassion for those who have had to uproot their lives and go elsewhere.

Back home I heard that things had turned ugly in Belfast when the anti-immigration crowd headed to South Belfast to protest outside the Belfast Islamic Centre. On the way a Turkish Cafe was attacked, windows broken, outdoor furniture smashed to pieces. Vee and I had walked past both places on Wednesday. I was telling her how much I loved the diversity of the area never dreaming that a couple of days later both places would be attacked. At the time of writing I don't know what will have happened other than that the mosque is under police protection.

Anyone who visits this house in the coming weeks had better not utter one word of support for the racists or they might find the welcome mat pulled from right under their expensive trainers.  

Out And About

I went to Belfast yesterday, St George's Market, then past the Courts where  TV camera crews were setting up. Something to do with an atrocity that happened 52 years ago, involving someone who'd be in their seventies now, someone whose name we are not permitted to know, but whose court-sanctioned alias has featured on flags and banners in this forsaken place for some years now. Of course, I only knew this once I got home and Googled it.

That apart I enjoyed my day in the city. I exited St George's as fast as my Blundies could carry me. It's a horrible touristy hole. I only went there for the mushrooms. 

I thought of going as far as the Botanic Gardens but decided against it. There was an off chance that the photographer guy who frequents it might want to feature me for his Insta page and I hadn't washed my hair. Another time. 

Instead I hung around the delightfully diverse Botanic Avenue where, if the weather was finer, one could almost imagine oneself in some European city rather than grim old Belfast.

The mushroom guy had kindly given me a freebie of yellow chanterelle. He didn't say what I was supposed to do with them so that evening I sauteed them in butter and shared them with Bert. Delicious.

This afternoon, I met Miss Evie and she took me to Boots where she bought some hair stuff. Then we went to the Oxfam Shop (her idea) where she chose some bling. Then it was off to a coffee shop and had cinnamon buns and I had a coffee and she had a blueberry bubble frappe, which is something I'd never, ever heard of. She seemed to enjoy it and explained the bubbles to me and I'm not sure I approve but sure, it's not as if she's having them all the time.

The Rest of the Week

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

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

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

He went to check it. Told me,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Sweet Waters of Europe and Some Other Places

 

The Sweet Waters of Europe

Just as Bert finished reading Dutch Interior I'd completed Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge. I handed it over,

I think you'll like this. It's about a surgeon in the Crimean War, and it's written by a woman. 

These days Bert seems to prefer female novelists, his current faves being Hilary Mantel and Pat Barker. Sure enough he came downstairs next day saying,

That's more like it. Says what she means, no shilly-shallying around.

In the novel Master Georgie and his camp followers take a leisurely route to the battlefield. They set sail from Liverpool to Constantinople and on arrival spend some time taking in the sights including a trip to the Sweet Waters of Europe, which was a fashionable resort at that time. The area, now known as Kâğıthane, is urbanised and the wealthy must have found new playgrounds.

Now I know very little of the Crimean War for it never came up in my school history lessons. That was all Plantagenets, Tudors, The Flight of the Earls and the English Civil War. There was Florence Nightingale of course and references to limbless soldiers in Victorian novels. Yet when George and his camp followers get to where the action is I realised that many of the geographical place names were already familiar. Belfast, like hundreds of other towns and cities in these islands, had streets named Crimea, Inkerman, Alma, Sevastapol, Plevna and Varna. Most of these are part of old Belfast and no longer exist. However, Sevastapol Street, off the Falls Road still stands and that is where the famous mural of Bobby Sands is situated. Balaclava Street, also on the Falls Road, has disappeared. Its claim to fame was being named 'Balaclava' at one end and 'Balaklava' on the other. 

Nor was Lord Raglan, of Peninsular and Crimean War fame, been forgotten when it comes to Irish roads and pubs. Belfast had its Raglan Street, Dublin still has its Raglan Road made famous by Patrick Kavanagh and Luke Kelly. And Ballymena? We had the Raglan Bar in Harryville which I entered on one occasion for about five minutes. Strong Straw Dogs vibe. It's a Credit Union now. 

Walking and Sleeping

Since I started wearing my I Can't Believe It's Not A Fitbit I've been obsessed with my sleeping patterns. My average sleeping time is 7hr and 40m which is good and if I find, on waking up, that I've slept 6 hours or less I return to bed to catch an extra hour. This will be after going outside with Cleo for at least ten minutes (rain or hail) to supervise her morning pees and poos for, if I don't, she shamelessly does it in the house. 

Back to sleeping. I started reading Paul Lynch's Prophet Song a couple of days ago and even though I've barely got into it I had a vivid dream about living in a police state. There were two factions, Tories and Nazis and we ordinary people were living in fear. My dream featured a long urban street, lots of people around, uniformed Police/soldiers dotted in every other doorway and all the people were white. All the black and brown people had disappeared. It was scary and I was glad to wake up from it.

In better news since I got the ICBINAF I have been walking every day without fail and feel much better for it. Walks usually find me in the woods but if I have errands in town I might walk there. Yesterday it was Belfast and I expected to clock up plenty of steps. We were meeting friends for lunch and left the choice of venue to them. It was five minutes from Great Victoria Street Station. But, despite lack of walking opportunities the place was great, food was good and the company enjoyable. Drink was nice too. We decided to do it again soon. In Barcelona. I need a new passport. An Irish one this time. 

That Was The Week That Was

My Anglo-Irish visitors arrived on Sunday evening. I met them at the airport where James was one of the first off the plane. He jumped up and down with excitement when he spotted me. I would have liked to do that too but, y'know, knees...

I told him,

We don't have the van anymore. We have another car.

He is obsessed with motor vehicles

He said,

Is it a Tesla?

He is particularly obsessed with Tesla cars and was disappointed that Santa Claus did not bring him one at Christmas. This is despite him being ten years too young to hold a driving licence.

I told him it wasn't a Tesla and he asked,

Is it a Landrover?

Fraid not, James. It's a Jeep.

Monday

We had an at-home day. Evie and her parents came out after lunch. Martha had a prior engagement, a sleepover birthday party which sounded exciting. There was an Easter Egg Hunt in the woods and all three children returned laden with chocolate eggs.  

It was lovely to have my three daughters all together and half-listen to the buzz of conversation between them. I made a curried fish pie. Emily told me she hated it. What's not to love about a five-year-old with strong opinions? James has particular food requirements and supper for him is either spag bol or Weetabix. He chose Weetabix. I didn't mind. 

On Tuesday Hannah and I had planned a visit to Portglenone Forest and a picnic with all four of the grandchildren. Zoe intended to spend the day planting native trees in the wood. This didn't happen. When she arrived at the sleepover house to pick Martha up she found that Martha had just had a trampolining accident and had injured her foot so it was off to Accident and Emergency with them. Hannah and I took the rest of the children to Portglenone and Martha was very much missed.

Wednesday

Everyone except Nellybert and Hannah went to the Titanic Experience. Martha had her foot in a cast and she got a complimentary wheelchair. There was a slight worry that they might bump into Joe Biden and get caught up in traffic jams but this did not happen. The President was in a different part of town. I'm told that they did see a huge amount of police on the motorway and it was obvious that they were in riot vehicles as many of them bore the scars of rocks on their bodywork. Happily, there was no trouble in the city during Biden's visit. 

James was most impressed with Belfast. Under his direction, we spent a couple of hours making a city. This involved using all my printer paper and a bunch of Sharpies and drawing buildings and shops and placing cars in the streets.

I was impressed by his drawing of Goliath.

Someone said,

Isn't there a church?

James wanted a church so I said I'd draw one. He said he wanted a graveyard too so he drew the gravestones and the statuary. He's keen on graveyards too and visited two when we were in Portglenone.

That was the last evening I had with my youngest grandchildren as it was off to the airport again on Thursday morning. It was sad to see them go but I made a promise to visit them all during the Autumn half-term which isn't that far away.

The Rest of Thursday

I did nothing. Leitrim Sister came round in the evening to pick up Lulu. I forgot to mention that we were looking after Lulu during the Anglo-Irish visit and she was a great favourite with the little ones. That dog deserves a medal for what she put up with.

Friday

We had the big girls out to help us collect Cleo. Yes. It was time for Cleo to come live with us. Some might say it was a shame that James and Emily didn't get to meet her but I think she had a lucky escape. James did actually get to meet her as Katy called briefly at Laura's house to see the puppies and James got down on the floor and rolled around with them to the slight consternation of his hosts. Emily missed this as she was asleep in the car.

Cleo's First Night

We were going to start her off in a crate and she cried all night. Bert had to go down and comfort her and I heard nothing. It must be hard when a pup is used to eight other familiar bodies to have to sleep alone.

Saturday

Martha and Evie were out again and Zoe, as she still had some trees to plant. While she was doing that the girls and I drove into town to buy Judy a new basket and a few other bits for the pup. Cleo got a lot of attention that day. 

No crate on Saturday night. She slept in Judy's new bed with Judy on the sofa beside her and there wasn't a peep out of her.

Today

Cleo has had a busy day helping Bert in the polytunnel. I think she will sleep well tonight. So will I.

I Go To The Zoo With Jazzer

Jazzer and I have been friends for around thirty years. The first time we met was at Ghillies Bar near Cullybackey where her husband (Banjo Man) had a regular Thursday night gig as part of a Folk/Americana duo called Rustic Reality.  The guys had been to a couple of parties at our house and Jazzer has since told me that they had made so much of Nellybert that she was already prepared to dislike us - especially me. That first meeting happened and I wasn't what she expected, any more than she was what I expected. I was nearly forty, she was mid-twenties and we clicked, we clicked fast. Friends now for thirty years. Sometimes she annoys me, and sometimes I annoy her but the friendship is fast. We love each other. 

I said to her today,

When we first met, if someone had said to you, in thirty years' time when I'm almost 70 and we have eight grandchildren between us, that we'd go to the zoo on our own, with no one to hinder us and we'd have the best time. What would you have thought?

And she said,

I'd have thought that was crazy.

And I would have thought that too.

As always, the gorillas were my favourite place to be but no photographs. The place they live does not lend itself to pictures. I don't mind that.

In Which We End Up in Asia Supermarket

 

We said goodbye to dearest Lulu on Tuesday morning. Her people, Leitrim Sister and Dmitri returned from Lisbon on Monday evening and we spent a pleasant evening watching Happy Valley, eating Pastel de Nata and drinking wine. Whilst in Cullybackey, Dmitri was as mild-mannered as one could wish but apparently spent the following evening fighting Fascism on the streets of Sligo and got his big Glaswegian dish all over Twitter the morning after. We were all very proud of him.

Wednesday was Evie's Year 7 Revue in which she played a stroppy pre-teen. Obviously, she excelled in the role. I was lucky enough to be given a precious ticket and enjoyed it very much.

On Thursday Bert was invited to go to the Sunflower in Belfast by Les, who was playing there. He declined.  I'm afraid that Bert is becoming reclusive and have decided I must encourage him to venture further afield. I know it won't be easy. Whilst not at the Sunflower, we had a visit from Young Rooney whose current take on the political situation in the North was agreeable to me - not so much his firmly-held belief in the flatness of the earth. 

So today, in a spirit of adventure, we went to Belfast via Doagh (scenic route) and ended up in Asia Supermarket on the Ormeau Embankment. I knew Bert would like it there. What I didn't realise was just how much. I don't believe there was a single item that he didn't study intently. I thought I'd never get him out. We bought roti and kimchi, mangoes and salted sunflower seeds, pickles and tapioca, prawns and mackerel, halva and six kinds of tea. And a lot more besides. We did not buy butter even though it was 25 pence cheaper than Tesco's best price. 

And tonight Bert was invited by Rodders to go to the Brian Jonestown Massacre gig in the Limelight, with a lift from door to door. He declined. Said it would be 'too much' and that he'd already been to Belfast today. There is much work still to be done if I am to get that man out from under my feet.

Belfast Then and Now

Last week, while in Belfast I took a walk from Yorkgate station to Carlisle Circus then, after the exhibition, from Carlisle Circus to the Linenhall Library. I was most comfortably shod in my new Blundstone boots so the walking was a pleasure despite my achey hip and knee.

The first part of the walk took me past the memorial to the McGurk's Bar bombing in 1971. The pub was blown to pieces and fifteen people died. That was one of the many atrocities that took years and years to get through to me.*

I passed near Gresham Street and thought of all the times I hitched to Belfast when I should have been at school, making my way to Smithfield Market and Harry Hall’s second-hand bookshop. Ages were spent in there choosing Penguins and Pans some of which are still on my bookshelves today. Pocket money gone, I’d begin the trek from Smithfield to the Antrim Road where I’d thumb a lift just in time to catch the school bus from Antrim, back home and the parents never had a notion. Imagine taking rides with strangers in the 21^st Century, now that we are led to believe that every other person is a predator. Although, I do think that most of the people who gave me lifts back then were probably protecting me from the bad actors.

Sixteen-year-old me would have been lugging a satchel stuffed full of Steinbecks from Harry Hall's. Nowadays me bought one solitary book - May the Lord in His Mercy be Kind to Belfast, by Tony Parker. I had a copy years ago and wanted to read it again. 

*During the early years of the conflict there would be times when I would not be fully aware of what was going on. In 1971 the violence escalated and it peaked in 1972. The ‘News’ became unbearable and truth was in short supply.

Van Gogh: The Immersive Experience

 Back in November I booked myself a ticket for the Van Gogh exhibition in Belfast.

Christmas happened, then Covid 19 happened and about a week after that I thought to myself,

Really must find out when this event is taking place. Maybe the 17^th?

So I checked out my booking and guess what? It was happening in two hours' time. I’d got my Van Gogh mixed up with my Emily’s birthday. Obviously, I didn’t go. Instead, I booked another ticket.

My new slot was at 10am today so it was an early start. I took the train to Yorkgate and walked to Carlisle Circus. But I was still too early. There is not a lot going on there. Not even a coffee shop! So I went for a walk. When I got back to the venue there was a small queue where almost everyone waiting was eligible for the bus pass.

The event was described as an immersive experience; I wasn’t sure what that would mean. It wasn’t quite what I imagined but then I’d imagined a dream. Despite having been to the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam a few years ago I learned more about the artist today than I ever knew.

The immersive part of the exhibit was wonderful, the only downside being that it was cold, cold, cold. We had fleecy blankets but they weren’t enough to keep us from freezing. It would have been much better if it had been warmer and our experience would have transcended perfection if we’d been offered some hot tea with a pinch or two of magic mushrooms. The only downside about that would have been the decanting onto Carlisle Circus of several dozen tripping elders. It is to be hoped that the few young couples present with infants would have declined the offer of hallucinogenics.

Day Out in Belfast

There had been an arrangement to have a new stove fitted today in my private, secret sitting room and I didn't want to be there when it happened. So I thought I'd have a wee excursion to Belfast. Swisser was to come too. The stove-fitting appointment was cancelled until Tuesday, but we decided to go anyway.

It was a fine day, with blue skies and fluffy clouds. Belfast is beautiful when the weather allows. Our first call was to St George's Market then on to the Mac to see the Ron Mueck exhibition. There was no light-heartedness or joy in these works. The sculptures were contemplative, serious and concerned.  That's life, that's humanity. Which is why it worked for me. Being alive is a serious business and ends in being dead. 

But one must eat. We had lunch at Dumpling Library which was very good. We had seaweed dumplings, salmon fishcakes and deep-fried spinach wontons. I shall take Bert there someday soon.. 

And one must clothe oneself - to shopping. Urban Outfitters, Seasalt and Jigsaw. Swisser tried on about a million things in Seasalt while I sat outside watching the world go by. I was expecting her to emerge laden with bags but she had only one solitary jumper. I bought a hot pink shirt from Urban Outfitters which will brighten up my life and, hopefully, that of those around me.

A dem good day. Culture, food, fashion and friendship. The only thing missing was books. And I have enough books for now.

TW3

Only oldsters and media studies grads will 'get' the title of this post. Checking out the link on Wikipedia myself, I'm surprised I even remember it seeing as I was barely a teenager when it aired.

My own TW3 has been rather uneventful. We started watching that David Tennant thing Around The World in 80 Days. Enjoyable enough, and very much Sunday night TV.

Obviously, Bert has been glued to all televisual things historical and WW2 related. It has been Holocaust Remembrance Week. I lit a candle last night knowing that no one would see it. 

Enjoyed very much seeing on our family WhatsApp the first pictures of my extremely new great-nephew Seánaí. Kerry Sister and I are the only ones in the family who have just one great-nephew. All the other sibs have two. We are a family that is light on boys so are excited when we get one. Our parents Seamus and Martha have (so far) 25 descendants of which eighteen have been girls. 

Other news. Three positive Covid cases in our inner circle. One family, two friends. All mild cases so far. Bert and I are still testing negative.

By far the most exciting event of the past seven days was the Scruffy Hen capturing and eating a young rat. All the other hens were extremely envious and tried to steal it but Scruffy won the day. 

 Much excitement again tonight as I took myself off on a solitary date for one to see Belfast at the local cinema - the first time I've been to the 'pictures' in ages. I'd forgotten how annoying one's fellow cinema-goers can be. Crunching crisps, slurping drinks, kicking seats and then the one reprobate whose phone started ringing during a particularly poignant scene. Despite these annoyances, I enjoyed the film. Maybe a wee bit heavy on the Van Morrison tunes (there are other Irish musicians y'know) and Judi Dench was wonderful. She reminded me of several McAnespie matriarchs, especially Clare and Josephine. And now I'm home, sipping a glass of wine and catching up on my neglected blog.

Oh! One other thing - I was eleven years retired this past week and still love waking up in the morning not having to go to work.

Butterflies, Belfast and Girl Camp

 

We have quite a few buddleia bushes dotted around the place and they certainly do attract the butterflies and moths. The most popular place right now is down by the polytunnel where a group of unsold buddleias are still in pots. I brought my camera to see if I could catch a group shot of the peacocks or maybe the small tortoiseshells. Thanks to our nettle patches we see a lot of those. And there they were in their dozens. And then there was this one which I've never seen before around here, not ever. According to my Collins, it is a silver-washed fritillary. It likes to feed on brambles, and luckily there are lots of those around the place and the larva feeds on dog violets and we have a great swathe of those growing under the beech trees. Once again, I'm grateful that we've learned to love a bit of wildness around the place. Some might call it a mess. I call it a haven for wildlife.

Clint cut the meadow today. This is great as I was worried it wouldn't happen. Before he turned it I collected the remnants of the yellow rattle seeds and walked the field bashing out the last of the seeds. There are lots saved already but they are destined for the patch outside my window.

Apart from that, it was much too hot to do much and, believe it or not, I am still tired from the social whirl. Which began the Tuesday before last when I saw Nat and Neil.

Now For The Archive

Tuesday, 17th August

N and I arranged to meet in Belfast and I was raring to go. It was a long, long time since we'd seen each other. Of course, being me I got mega anxieties about things not working out. The last time we'd met in Belfast I had a prang with a driving instructor who was taking a lesson with a young Polish woman. The damage done was slight and the cost mighty but it could have been worse. This time I took the train and set off early so I could peruse the vintage and charity shops on Botanic Avenue. I was lucky with books - found an Ishiguro and a Banks that I hadn't read. Both from the turn of the century. I mustn't have been reading so much back then.

Then a walk through Botanic Gardens, still feeling sad that the Palm House remains closed to the public. I said to Bert a while ago,

Those gardeners will still be working away in there even though no one can come in.

And he said,

Yea! And they'll be loving it!

I expect he's right. 

Then it was time to meet Nat. She looked great. A few years older than me, and barely a grey hair. We were both wearing Seasalt tops, obviously a favourite choice for old hippies like us.

Photograph by Neil.

As they say here, the craic was mighty and there was one tale from the olden days that Nat thinks I should share here. I might just.

It was all too short for N and N were heading off the next day. But I shall be keeping my eyes and ears open for classic motorcycles for sale to see if I can lure them back to Belfast. 

Next Day, 18th August

Tired and happy. My feet were a bit achey. 15000 Belfast steps in ankle boots. Should have worn my comfy Merrells. So during the day, I rested up because that evening and all day Thursday was going to be Girl Camp!

 

 

A Day Out In Great Company

 

Strange to see the toys we used to play with on an antique stall

Evie and I planned this long-overdue day out last Monday. Big Sis was going school uniform shopping with her Mum so Evie was at a loose end. Our first stop, Evie's choice, was St George's Market. It has been a long time since I was there and apart from masks and hand sanitisers, it was all much as usual. There were the regular interesting stalls but we were only there for the food. Although had I a spare couple of hundred on me, I might have been tempted by a big dramatic painting of a jackdaw. 

The next place Evie wanted to visit was Victoria Square because there were 'lots of shops'. It turned out that as far as she was concerned there was only one store she wanted to visit - the dreaded Claire's Accessories. I waited outside the door while she spent a good twenty minutes (I timed her) examining the merchandise. Only one purchase was made - a present for her sister.

The next place she needed to visit was Smiggle which is actually worse than Claire's. Evie looked at everything and then bought one thing, some sort of a puzzle. The moment she got outside she ripped the packaging apart and immediately regretted buying it. That put a damper on things for thirty minutes or so during which time we went to Matchetts to buy Bert some clarinet reeds. Then the next stop was Waterstones, a store we both like. We chose two books each and then had lunch in the cafe. 

By the time we left the bookshop, Evie had decided she did like her new puzzle

Of all the street musicians we heard in Belfast, Evie said this percussionist was the best. 

He beat out an impressive rhythm using old plastic buckets, saucepans and other bits and pieces. I suggested to Evie I might buy her some drumsticks and set her loose on the contents of my kitchen cupboards. She seemed to like the idea.

Evie's next port of call was Søstrene Grene but by this time we were hot and tired and as it was getting close to home time, and we took a slow leisurely stroll to the train station. It was more than thirty minutes to departure but we found a cool spot to relax and read our new books.

Heading home

Evie got met at the station by Big Sis and I travelled the next stop along and got met by Bert and the dogs, fashionably late as usual. It was a most enjoyable day.

The books I bought

I chose Starve Acre because of this review,

'The best closing line of any novel we have read this year... A strange and unsettling read'

And knew that as soon as Bert picked it up and read that he'd turn straight to the last page. Which he did this morning. 

Look Back In Bemusement

 I have been toodling around with genealogy for more than twenty years now and often I'll leave it alone for years on end. Now that I have more free time I'm finding myself becoming obsessed. I'm at it at least once a year, and often for weeks on end. It doesn't help that my oldest daughter, at least one sister and several cousins are equally interested because that only encourages me.

Which is why I haven't blogged for over a week.  

The oldest daughter tempted me to try a free month on Ancestry and I really did think that would be enough. Instead, I found myself buying an extra month so I could get stuck into all those Australian, Canadian, and American kinfolks. It has been both frustrating and fascinating.

I spent several evenings digesting 1950s newspapers centred around the Trangie area in New South Wales searching for news of Bert's Robinson kinfolk. They led not particularly exciting lives holidaying in each other's homesteads all of which were extensively reported in the local paper. Also considered newsworthy were purchases of new Ford cars or the shooting of wild boars that had been worrying sheep. They all lived between Trangie and Dubbo and a trip to Sydney was a big highlight. Bert has relatives (supposedly) in Dubbo to this day as do I although I'm not sure if they know each other. Bert's lot moved from the North Antrim hills to become farmers and my lot travelled from Belfast to make their livings any way they could. I tracked, through Facebook, a descendant of those early Robinson farmers and he'd made the news and not in a good way. Living on a property, dry as a bone, where no crops have been raised in nearly a decade and trucking in grape by-products from the wine-growing areas to feed his cattle. It seems that my relatives in keeping clear of farming have had far better outcomes in life. 

One thing I have learned is that sites like Ancestry, like so much on the internet, cannot be trusted. Take those Dubbo relatives. About thirty years ago Bert's lot got word that a couple of young folk from Dubbo were in Ireland to seek their ancestral roots. It turned out that most of their Irish relatives were very elderly and because Bert was still on the young side we were encouraged to meet up. At that time in our lives, Nellybert were very sociable and keen on partying and the brother and sister from Dubbo were invited to a social gathering at which the young lady was very well-behaved and her brother anything but.

We met a few times and the final get-together was to be in Belfast. That never happened because although we were all in the city we couldn't make it to the agreed meeting spot in the Crown Bar as the Europa Hotel, which is opposite that pub took another hit that day. 

Back to the present day and with all the internet and Ancestry at my disposal I decided to find out how those far-out Dubbo cousins were connected to Bert. I found out that their dad had died recently and conveniently, he was in possession of an unusual forename so it was easier to trace his ancestry. I was very excited for Robinson is a common surname. But, what's this! Mr Unusual Forename, married to a Miss Robinson completely by-passed Bert's ancestor Joseph Robinson who had emigrated from Carnbuck to Trangie in his eighties and instead our so-called imposter cousins from Dubbo are descended from Mr George Robinson, convict of Manchester, England. 

Or maybe Ancestry UK got it wrong again. Like I said, frustrating.

Lost Lives Again

This was the most beautiful day in balmy Belfast. And I spent the first part of the day in my favourite part of the city, the Botanic Gardens taking in a quick scoot to the museum and a longer one to the Palm House and the Tropical Ravine.

Paper sculptures inspired by Michelle Clapton's costume designs for Game of Thrones, created by Billy Butchkavitz. Currently at the Ulster Museum.

A selection of beautiful blooms seen today in the Botanic Gardens in the Palm House and Tropical Ravine.

But my main reason for today's trip to the city was to see the film Lost Lives at the Queen's Film Theatre which premiered in London yesterday. The book Lost Lives is a memorial to all who died as a result of more than three decades of conflict in Northern Ireland. My own copy is much read and referred to and has often been wept over. I wanted to see this film.

It was harrowing and beautiful, telling the stories of some of the people who died, beginning with Patrick Rooney in 1969. He was nine years old and the first of many children who were killed during the troubles.

I'd never heard of the Orr brothers, Malcolm and Peter, 19 and 20 years old. They were murdered in 1972, shot in the head and dumped on a roadside near the airport. No one knows who killed them except that they were two Protestant boys who had Catholic girlfriends. The grief of their parents as their coffins were removed from their home was terrible to see. There was so much grief portrayed in the film.

And it made me so angry to think that there are people right now who are utterly unconcerned about Ireland, about what we have come through, about our fragile peace.

The filmmakers were definite that every single death recorded in the Lost Lives book should be included. And so at the end, all the names were listed. Beginning in 1969 with 21 deaths, peaking in the first half of the 1970s (my father's brothers Sean and Brendan were murdered in 1974) then gradually declining through the 1980s, 1990s onwards. Yet one of the heart-wrenching names to see was one solitary death in 2019.

Lyra McKee.

I had to compose myself as I left the theatre. And it felt strange to be out in the sunshine again in Belfast, with people going about their business, just like any other city, on any fine afternoon. My edition of Lost Lives records 3697 deaths between 1969 and 2001 and 45% of those occurred in Belfast.