Travelling Back In Time

The other day I had a conversation with some friends about what we’d do if we had the opportunity to go backwards or forwards in time. Everyone, apart from me, was curious about the future but I’d be far too scared to know the future. Surely it would be far better not to know and retain some semblance of hope and optimism than to see the worst. I’d prefer to travel to the past.

Hannah said,

So you could prevent Trump becoming President?

I said,

I think that one might be entirely outside my control. And, going by popular fiction, it might be a very bad idea to meddle in those big events. The only thing I’d change would be to unfriend that blade on Facebook before I ever got to see the picture of the poor, tortured dog that she shared.

No. If I had a time machine, magic wardrobe or whatever, I’d go back to around 80 – 150 years ago and I’d stay in my own locality so I could see what the world looked like to our recent ancestors. I’d enjoy travelling the old roads, streets and loanins to see how my grandparents and great-grandparents lived. I know it’s mundane but it’s what I’d enjoy and I’d try very hard not to interfere too much in their lives in case I screwed up the future a la Marty McFly.

So, while I wait for the mad scientist and his time machine I can search the newspaper archives to get a taste of the past and it seems that that’s a very dangerous and frightening place too. There was carnage on the highways at the dawn of the twentieth century. There may have little need to worry about motor vehicles – horses and carts could mow a pedestrian down just as efficiently as the horses were always bolting and when that happened it was advisable that anyone who could should run for their life.

Derry Journal, October 1909.

Also in the Derry Journal, October 1909.

The fellow up the tree would have been my grandfather. His younger brothers would have been at college, Joe training to be a priest and James at medical school in Dublin.

Plundering the Archives

I'm finding this oul blogging lark hard going these days. In days gone past I'd be tootling about my daily business and thinking about all kinds of things to write about - these days, not so much. That's why it's great having an archive. When I can't think of a single thing to write about I can always plunder the archive. It seems that 10 years ago we were having this house renovated and were yet to move in. I also noted that 10 years ago I was a good deal more likely to write posts that might hurt people's feelings. Perhaps I should get back to that style of blogging.

The only thing this picture has to do with today's post is that it is from the 2005 archive. Poor Harry de Cat. We miss him still.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

The Accidental Joiner

I was hoping that the most eventful happening of the day would have been my boss causing me to suffer bloggus interruptus. It was during my lunch hour but there was no way he could be sure as he wasn't there when the hour started. And I was in the middle of a really good reply to CyberScribe's spooky comment about Cully pubs. How does he know? Where is Greyabbey anyway? Oh Bert's just told me it's in County Down. So the muse deserted me and that's why my eventual reply was so lame Cybe ol' boy.

So that's my quota of italicised words used up for this post and from now on I will have to manage without them.

On returning home I decided to go and inspect the work going on in the new house. I was especially interested in seeing how the kitchen tiles looked and also wanted to see the flight of stairs leading to the attic floor. Seamus the joiner started on them yesterday and they were pretty much finished. There is a little health & safety type issue at the very top which I wanted to take a look at so I asked Seamus if they were safe to step upon. He gave the go ahead and I had my foot on the bottom step when James the electrician nabbed me with a query about the lights I headed downstairs to the room where Matthew was tiling. Matthew says,

"Where's Bert?"
"Down the road. What's up?"
"We've a bit of a problem here."
"Oh! What's wrong?"
"Bert's tin whistle has fallen into this bucket of tile cement."

We were just coming to terms with this disaster when the joiner's apprentice came in. He says,

"Where's Bert?"
"Down the road. What's up?"
"Seamus has cut himself with the electric saw."

And so he had. Apparently it had stuck and he was trying to dislodge it when it had jumped back and gouged a lump out of his knee. Both Matthew and James were urging me to take him to the local GP surgery. Feck's sake! These lads must think Dr Finlay practises in Cully. I said no for the first thing the local GP would say is, "you'll need to go to casualty with that" so that's what we did. Seamus was very stoical about the whole episode and says he'll be back at work tomorrow. They breed real men in Dunloy.

By the way that policeman is still reading my blog. He phoned me yesterday in his professional capacity and before he rang off he said, "Are you still off the drink?"

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Meanwhile in the present world Nellybert took a walk up the back lane at dusk and spotted Foxy's big red arse disappearing into the wood. We had interrupted his supper of fat pigeon. He took it with him, leaving the wings and a shiny, black poo behind him. Judy did not roll in it for which we were truly grateful.

Ooops!

Oh my!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/northern_ireland/7472490.stm

This puts my little parking skirmishes into perspective. 

The Wee Goes Down

Last night's soiree was a bit hectic. Gatherings usually are when the Wee Manny is involved. He got lost at one point, just as I was thinking of heading to bed. Swisser was making a big fuss about it,

We have to find him! Something must have happened to him! He could have wandered on to the road!

No one, not even the Wee Manny's wife, paid Swisser a bit of mind. She can be a bit of a drama queen at times. But as it happens there was a drama which, fortunately, I missed having decided that bed definitely was the spot for me.

Swisser's insistance on a rescue party being sent to find the Wee eventually wore Ploppy down and he went out for a scout about. He was soon back in, saying calmly,

Might need a bit of asistance out here.

The Wee had fallen and gashed his head and was lying in the yard partially stunned. Help was needed to bring him in. I, of course, knew nothing about this. Swisser did first aid and it was decided that the injury didn't warrant an A&E visit. He wouldn't have been treated anyway - not with the drink on him.

Things could have been much worse though. If a car had driven on to the yard he'd probably have been run over and if the pigs had still been there and he'd fallen among them they'd likely have eaten him.

Drink can be a terrible curse.