24th September

Camping at Murlough Bay was wonderful. Before we went we had supper from Morton's Fish and Chip shop. As always, it was a long wait so while Bert queued Martha, Evie and Granny went to the nearby playground. This was followed by a visit to Morelli's for four ice cream cones. Yummy. Then time to go to our camping site before it got too dark.

While I sorted out the sleeping arrangements Bert and the girls took a walk.

Evie only needed carrying for a few moments. Far more fun to be had on the ground.

They were away for ages and by the time they got back it was time for teeth brushing and on with the Cath Kidston nighties. The young misses are posh campers. Storytime next. I had to tell a lot of stories from real life. Most of them were about dogs. Bert wasn't a lot of help. Occasionally he'd fill in a missing detail. He mostly listened and I've been told he enjoyed my tales as much as the girls. Eventually, they began to drift off which was just as well as, not only was I getting hoarse, I was also running out of suitable stories. I'd foolishly remarked to Bert that the only story I hadn't told them was the one about the nights he'd spent in the cave in Marseilles and that they'd need to be at least twelve before they heard that one - whereupon Evie started to howl, crying that she wanted to hear the story about the cave in Marseilles. So, the absolute last story of the night was That Time Bert Slept In The Cave Near Marseilles.

Of course, I completely removed the part about the paranormal attack and replaced it with a sort of Princess and the Pea treatment involving buried treasure and it went down a treat. They can hear the scary version when they're older. Of course, knowing Evie she'll be sceptical. This morning, she was telling me the story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden and she was scathing about 'talking animals'. I think she meant the snake.

The camper van was a little cramped for four but it was lovely to watch the dawn break over the sea. We weren't paying that much attention to time but it might have been after nine o'clock that we set off for the beach while Bert snatched some extra sleepy-time.

The girls on the Game of Thrones trail still wearing their Cath Kidston nightdresses. Murlough Bay was used as a filming location for at least three episodes of the show.

After that walk, we returned to the van and the girls had a second helping of cereal, some thorough teeth brushing and a perfunctory wash before dressing for the second walk of the day. This time they took Bert to visit the bothy where the evil witch lived, the cave with her captured and chained baby dragon and the twelve, very vicious flying monkeys. I enjoyed a coffee and a read of my book and after about an hour I wondered what was keeping them. I went out to see. And met them coming back.

They'd found another beach, a secret one beyond the little cottage and would I like to see it? I would. Bert was exhausted so he went back to the van. The witch was dead, vanquished by a magic spell involving a red bucket and some magic stones so we didn't have to tiptoe going past the bothy. The flying monkeys were back in the zoo, and the baby dragon had been freed.

And the secret beach was delightful.

We played on it for ages.

That land mass on the horizon is The Mull of Kintyre.

The girls are very good at climbing mountains.

Building a stone house for a woodlouse. Her name was Alice. Alice Wood. Get it?

As we wandered back I was informed that a new witch had moved into the bothy and that the flying monkeys were back. When this witch goes to the Spar for her groceries her broomstick is parked in the air above the shop so as not to arouse suspicion. When we passed her home Martha peeked in and said she was eating her dinner. What was she having? Two roast children (Martha said) with an accompaniment of slugs and boiled grass (Evie said). 

The way out of Murlough Bay is very steep and winding and I said a prayer that the old van would make it and my prayer was answered. Perhaps I should have looked a bit further ahead as she broke down on us as we came into Ballycastle. But that's another story.

**SPOILER**

There was a happy ending.

Blog-Block

In the (almost) eleven years since Nelly's Garden began I have found, time and time again, that the only way to overcome blog-block is to simply blog, write, put words together, whatever it takes.

What causes blog-block? For me it is,

Distractions.

Worries.

Lack of confidence.

Happiness.

I'm distracted by family, by reading, by my discovery of an American sit-com called Modern Family, and by gardening. These activities keep me busy and happy.

I'm worried about a pain in the left side of my skull that comes and goes. It is likely coming from a crick in my neck, or wrongly aligned pillows. It is probably not a brain tumour.

Lack of confidence? The more I read the more I realise how limited are my own writing skills. This morning, as I drove to Antrim I listened to part of a dramatisation of A Severed Head by Iris Murdoch. I started reading Murdoch when I was very young and I remember so little about it. Most of it must have gone over my head. I wonder what drew me to Murdoch? To find out I must return, starting with the first, The Nice and the Good which I read (with great enjoyment) when I was sixteen. And what am I reading now? The last novel in the Game of Thrones series. It's great fun, I'm a big fan, enough of a fan to wish that George R.R. Martin would get on with it.

Happiness. I really do believe that I am happier now than I have ever been in my entire life. And who wants to read a Happy Person blog? For instance, today was a wonderful day. Something happened that turned out far, far better than I could ever have hoped. All I did was drive my godson and his mum to a clearing day at our local college and, despite disappointing GCSE results, he got accepted on to a course that he really wanted to do. So very, very happy that I could help in the smallest way.

To finish, this August has been a great month. Not much of a summer in Northern Ireland but I had those two weeks in sunny Norfolk with my new grandson and his wonderful parents and lovely family days here at home,  and I had today and, despite a middling summer, the garlic, the broad beans, the raspberries and the purple turnips did amazingly well in Nelly's Garden. I'm looking forward to the blackberries.

Home Alone: Days 3 and 4

When I woke up yesterday I felt pleased to know that Martha, Evie, their parents and their dogs were coming to spend the afternoon and have supper with me. Solitude makes a fine relish for Company. It was another warm day so all doors were open and my own three dogs and the four guest dogs were free to come and go as they pleased. Why it pleased two of them to go upstairs and piss and shit I do not know. How did I know that there were two guilty parties? Simple. The poo (Frank? Ziggy?) was very small and the pee (Jess? Judy?) was very large. Is it any wonder that my eldest grandchild, the owner of a sharp tongue, described this house as 'decorated in dirt'.

There were visitors expected in the evening, although they were probably coming to see the dogs rather than me. They cancelled so that left me another solitary evening with only the four dogs, two cats, a glass of carrot wine and the last episode of Game of Thrones for solace. The animals were mostly nuisances, barking at every shadow and, before the supper table was cleared, I found a dog and a cat standing on the kitchen table licking plates! Hang your furry heads in shame Jess and Fred.

Game of Thrones. It was action packed from the start and with a lot left hanging. I watched it 'on eggs' as I'd heard that something really big (bad) was going to happen and I feared for all my favourite characters. Yet they made it or I hope they did. The big ending did not disappoint at all for he was a pious, goody-goody, Belfast-dissing jerk. Sorry Naoise.

So here I am on Day 4. I'm having an avocado for my lunch and I might bake biscuits.

From The Sallagh Braes to Lough Neagh

Warning: While this post does not contain Game of Thrones spoilers it does show some gorgeous pictures of the Northern Irish countryside.

One of Game of Thrones' many pleasures is spotting the location. A few episodes ago we had Petyr Baelish and Sansa Stark standing on the Sallagh Braes looking down at a computer-generated Winterfell. Tonight we had Fair Head and what I believe was the shore of Lough Neagh. I know that some of the location work was filmed in Antrim as a cousin of mine just happened to be cycling by as the actors were taking a break. If one is a fan, as I am, it is also fun to chat to various folk we know who have worked as extras on the show. We were hoping to see Martha and Evie's Daddy tonight but there were no wildlings to be seen anywhere.

A friend told us this story. One of the people working on the show approached his brother asking if he knew any folk with with horse riding experience who might come on the show as extras. Our friend's brother rides with the local hunt and at that time he was sporting longish dark hair and a heavy beard.

So what did he say? 

Said he didn't know anyone.

Martha and Evie's Daddy said that extra work is long and tiresome and that often, when scenes run over, there is hardly enough time to eat. He had a day working as crew and said that was much better, with tastier food and more breaks.

Another friend told us that way back at the start when Khal Drogo and Daenerys had their first very sensual love scene that the tent of romance was pitched in a cattle shed in Buckna. I'm glad I didn't know that at the time for it would have ruined the vibe.

Ah well. Maybe we'll get to see Martha and Evie's Daddy be a wildling next week.

Insider Knowledge

I have just finished watching the first two series of House of Cards. Essentially, as far as politics go, it was complete toodle but, as a drama, it was  tremendously enjoyable. The acting, particularly the two leads Spacey and Wright, was tremendously good. Kevin Spacey has created a marvellous, Machiavellian villain.

So that's me a-waitin' on my next fix of House of Cards and Game of Thrones. And speaking of Game of Thrones, Season 5 has been shooting recently here in Northern Ireland. I'm not enough of a geek to know if location shooting is still going on but I am enough of a geek to have enjoyed a recent conversation with one of the extras. He wasn't able to tell me about what was going to happen, said that if he did he'd be contractually obliged to kill me but he did tell me about some of the previous season's shoots. For instance, y'know that highly erotic scene back in Season 1 where Daenerys Targaryen first got it properly together with Khal Drogo? They were actually supposed to be glamping in a luxury yurt befitting a warlord. Where the romantic pair actually were was in a cowshed somewhere in Buckna.

I was unable to pick my informant out in his scenes in the actual show. He said he was the one with the big black bushy beard. Not helpful. Not helpful at all.

Once upon a time in Buckna

Granny

Anyone know exactly where Linford is? It's near Sallagh Braes. John Steen my g-grandfather lived in Linford in 1901/1911 while his father Jacob Steen was in Sallagh in the 1850s.

Posted on Facebook August 2014

Linford, Sallagh Braes and the surrounding area

In the census years 1901 and 1911 my great grandfather John Steen was living in Linford. John Steen was a shepherd and he and his family were the only people in that area. He worked for a landowner Campbell Tweed whose descendant, also called Campbell Tweed, still owns and farms the land. Linford is a hilly place not far from the Sallagh Braes. I was curious as to what it must have been like to live and work in that bleak country. Lonely and bleak it may have been where the Steens lived but Linford and the surrounding area is now designated an area of outstanding natural beauty.

I got a few responses from my Facebook post but the most helpful was from my cousin Clare who put me in touch with local historian, Felix McKillop. I spoke to Felix on the phone a few nights ago. The first thing I learned was that he is kin to me. His grandmother and my great grandmother, Rose Steen nee Campbell, were sisters and that makes us second cousins, once removed.

I also learned that the herd's house where John Steen lived is still there, the only dwelling house in the townland. I had imagined it fallen down but remembered that the house belonged to a gentleman farmer and that the gentry do not abandon their properties. It is very likely that the house where Granny spent her childhood was pointed out to me when I was a child for we were often taken for drives through the Glens of Antrim. Sadly I was not interested then and consequently have no real memory of it. Ancestral tales did not make much of an impression on me when I was young. John Steen was a shepherd. That was all.

Johnny's brother Father Joe Byrne was a Catholic priest and in 1911 he was living in Altmore Street in the village of Glenarm. Felix told me that Father Joe was a regular visitor at his father's house where friends and neighbours would gather together to play cards. John Steen would also have been part of that group. That is probably how Johnny came to meet Jeannie. I cannot be sure when they met but they got married in 1913. Hugh McKillop (Felix's uncle) and Jeannie's sister Agnes were their witnesses.

Jeannie Steen was only eighteen when she came to live in the comparatively lush pastures of Lisnevenagh. Johnny was twelve years older. She was, by all accounts, very innocent when she married. Matty told the tale that when she first became pregnant she had no idea how long it would be before her baby was born. Yet she was an intelligent woman and had been a pupil monitor at her local national school in Feystown. That would be a post similar to that of a classroom assistant today. It was an unpaid position but it offered her the opportunity to continue with education.

Johnny, Jeannie and their first born son

Coming from where she did, it is no wonder that Granny was so austere. She abhorred waste and despised new clothes. Yet going by the only photograph I have of her as a young woman, she could dress well and she had a tiny waist but I only remember her as a big woman who wore a man's grey gaberdine coat for Sunday best.

Matty had a very telling story. Once, during my parents courtship she was visiting his home place and wanted to help out. It was a busy farm and pub and there was always plenty to do. She noticed the scullery sink could do with a clean and set to with a cloth and scouring powder. The job was completed and the sink gleaming when her future mother-in-law crashed through the back door, Jeannie was wearing a hessian bag as an apron and was carrying a big creel of freshly dug spuds. She looked at the sink, scowled, elbowed my mother out of the way and tossed the potatoes into the sink, clods of earth flying everywhere.

Granny was such a fierce woman. And fiercely nationalist. She'd quiz us on the history of the Easter Rising and cried bitter tears that our knowledge of Ireland's martyr's often fell short. She blamed the educational system for that. She spent her latter years keeping a petrol station (always called The Pumps) where she sat with a huge stick at her side and if we annoyed her she'd wave the stick at us. I made sure never to get too close to her. I was so scared of her. I certainly never felt any love either for her or from her. She had 26 grandchildren and I always felt that our part of the family came far down the pecking order.

Granny at the Pumps

Both my grandmothers had large families of their own and lots of grandchildren. Jeannie had her 26 living grandchildren and Granny Mac had more than 40. Each granny seemed to have their favourite family of grandchildren. It was never  us so I did not have that experience of grandmothers being very special people in a child's life. Perhaps it's a generational thing for both my grannies had hard, hard lives. My own children had loving grandparents as do Martha and Evie. 

Some of these days I'm for driving to Linford and I'll have a good look around and I'll remember my cross old grandmother. I may even take a walk. It's a beautiful part of the world.

Sallagh Braes

P.S. Attention Game of Thrones fans - apparently they were shooting in this area today. Brienne of Tarth and Pod were being filmed riding down the Braes.

Bad Books

It's been a bad week for books at Nellybert's. The first casualty was White Teeth by Zadie Smith. This book has been languishing in my Must Read pile for ten years or more until I decided it might be a good idea to keep a few books in the polytunnel and the tree house (my outdoor rooms) just in case I happened to be in either place and fancied a relaxing read. I've yet to bring books to the tree house but I did gather up White Teeth and took it to the tunnel. It wasn't the slightest bit what I expected and although it is a slow process I'm rather enjoying it. But the tunnel isn't the best place for books. It gets hot in there and pages curl up. No matter. I've decided to compost it when I've finished it. It has been a week now and I'm only half way through it. The book has been thoroughly watered several times and it looks a state but still readable. Note to self. Don't bring books I want to keep to that dirty, hot and humid place.

Keep Well Watered

The kitchen table isn't a safe place for books either. Especially if Bert is around. The other day I found him using one of Martha and Evie's favourite books as a plate to spread plum jam on toast. I snatched it from him before any harm was done.

Avoid Plum Jam

And only today I left How To Grow Food In Your Polytunnel All Year Round on the table after checking the correct spacing for planting sweetcorn plugs. When I returned from my planting task I noticed that the book was covered in breadcrumbs and bits of cheese. I dusted it off and went to put it away. It was then I saw the two cuts in the cover. Someone (Bert) had sliced a fresh crusty loaf on it. We do have cutting boards but I expect the book was handy. He (Bert) is in my Bad Books for that volume is my gardening bible and it cost me £10.95! Bert is every bit as bad as Joffrey Baratheon that time Joffrey used his Valyrian steel sword Widow's Wail to slice to shreds the rare and precious volume that his Uncle Tyrion had just presented as a wedding gift. Well maybe not quite as bad as that.

Not A Bread Board

Not A Book Lover