Some Things That Happened In September: 1

Just over a week ago, Zoë and I travelled to London for Jonny’s funeral. We caught the first flight out of Belfast International to Stansted, which meant rising in the wee small hours. It was the second time in just a few weeks I had done that. 

The funeral was everything my sister had hoped for, a fitting farewell for her beloved husband. It was dignified and caring. My brother-in-law was deeply respected and greatly loved, and we are all going to miss him terribly.

Jonny is the first of our generation to leave our family, and it feels too soon. We'll go on without him, but we'll carry this forward  - his fortitude, his humour and wit, his kindness, and his unerring good taste in music have all left their mark on us. These are the things we'll remember, the things he passed on without ever meaning to.

Just one more thing. Jonny had an online radio show which streamed on Mad Wasp Radio. It played weekly for about eight years, ever since Mad Wasp began. He poured his heart and soul into that show and he really appreciated receiving interaction and feedback. 

The radio station (with London Sister's consent) are running his shows from the beginning and  I've been listening to it more regularly. It's such a bittersweet experience. I didn't listen often enough before - I wish I had.  Too late now, too late to give him the feedback he loved to receive. 

Cabin Fever

 Since Saturday I’ve hardly been out of the house. There was a quick and early run to the Spar for our weekly print journalism treat, the Weekend Guardian for people like us, people with log-burning stoves need something to help light our fires. Sorry, re our carbon footprint - I’m not going to be embarrassed about that as I rarely use aeroplanes and Bert never flies anywhere.

On Sunday I was completely confined to quarters. Never put my nose outside the door. Did a lot of housework. Took my daily exercise in the polytunnel as it was really wet and windy.

Monday had me taking a quick run to the Spar for milk and to Boots for my medicine. It’s something I take for arthritis, been taking it for years, even before I fell out of the tree-house, maybe started around the time I was cowped by the pig. I don’t know if it helps but I’d rather not stop just in case it does.

The sore stomach started around lunch-time and got worse and worse. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t throw up and I couldn’t poo. The pain went into my back. If someone had offered me heroin I would have accepted it gladly – even though I was pretty sure it was just trapped wind. I slept a lot when I could. No-one offered me heroin so I took two dissoluble paracetamol at around 10pm and slept all night. The smart watch recorded a total sleep of 11 hours and 45 minutes for that period.  Crazy dreams.

The bad pain was gone next morning and I did the natural thing. Tummy still felt tender and I had little appetite and I was so tired. Spent the day reading – mainly Jan Carson.

Today I had the cabin fever. I went to Antrim, took Jazzer shopping. Just a few things she said. We breakfasted in Alfie’s, my only concession to my delicate tum was cappuccino rather than an Americano. Afterwards I checked out the charity shop, nice sweater, two mugs and a book with change from a fiver. Then it was Asda, Lidl and Islandbawn Stores. Jazzer’s idea of a few things is very different from mine. In between Lidl and Islandbawn we stopped at Belmont Cemetery for a bit of a walk and to call with friends. Jazzer said hello to her mum and dad, her sister, her brother, her niece and nephew and many friends and neighbours. I said hello to a great-niece, a cousin, an uncle, an old friend and some neighbours from home. There was a funeral taking place while we were there but we kept a respectful distance.

Being nosy, I checked out the funeral when I got home. I had supposed it was for someone who had lived a long life. But it wasn’t. It was for an infant.

The Unforgettable Geoff Kerr

I Wish It Would Rain

 

Bert heading out to a funeral in a heatwave.

It won't be too formal, I said, fine for a funeral on a day like this, in fact, you might even wear something like that to Naoise's wedding.

Afterwards, I asked the usual questions.

Good turn-out? 

Yes.

See anyone you know? 

A few. It was an eclectic gathering, and his wee sisters carried the coffin.

Then there was Martha's show. She is part of her school's drama club, an enthusiastic member. and she really wanted me to come. It was an interactive performance of George's Marvellous Medicine and it was great.There was a 75% turnout of grandparents on Martha's team and we had to watch a lot of actors* playing George's dreadful grandma. I don't know about the other two grandparents but Im sure I am nothing like that. I did see a hint of Pearlie though although she was nowhere near as horrible. it was a hoot from beginning to end and in my opinion, we need to pay teachers more.

Afterwards, I popped over to Tescos to pick up a few items. It seems like late summer evenings are the best time to go supermarket shopping apart from some of the shelves looking a bit bare. Thankfully there were no gaps in the Italian wine department. I met an old acquaintance there, the guy who used to fix my washing machines. It wasn't his only talent as he's also a fine fiddle player and played in bands back in the day. Sadly he'd given it up, and said he lost interest when the girls stopped throwing their underwear on stage.

That made me think, for though it often seems these days that the world has gone completely mad, it always was a crazy place.

Tony

* George's Marvellous Medicine features four main characters. The actors changed with each scene and no, it wasn't confusing, and it gave everyone a chance to shine.

I Go To A Funeral

 It was the first funeral of the year, Aunt Maud in her 91st year. Bert said,

You must be running low on aunts by now. Have you any left at all?

I had to think,

There's just the one left in Australia but I don't know her at all.

In my younger days, I had heaps of Aunts.

On my mother's side, Aunt Kathleen, Aunt Josephine, Aunt Sadie, Aunt Bernadette and Aunt Clare.

And on my father's side, Aunt Roisin and  Aunt Mary

Then there were the aunts by marriage, all on dad's side, Mary, Bernie, May, Marian, Maud, Peggy, Maureen and Eileen.

Maureen is, as far as I know, the only one still living.

Maud was the last of the Irish aunts and we buried her today. 

This was the beautiful young woman that Uncle Brendan met and fell in love with. 

Brendan was murdered when she was in her early forties and today, almost half a century later, she was laid beside him in St Comgall's burying ground.

Maud never had children of her own yet the gathering today was full of children she had cared for and helped look after, the oldest of them in the mid-sixties, the youngest about five years old. 

She was a feisty woman, widowed twice, adored children, was incredibly kind, had a sharp tongue, loved hard, held grudges, was easily hurt, a grafter, sensitive, and fiercely loyal. The thing that I've been thinking about the most these past few days is the terrible grief, the despair she suffered in the days after Brendan's death. He was everything to her.

Maud and two of her godchildren, my brother Joe and my daughter Zoe.

Zoe was born three months after Shaun and Brendan were shot during the 1974 UWC strike In my naivety I thought that asking Maud to be her godmother would cheer her. Wrong reasons, the right choice. She spent the following Christmas with us which is when the picture was taken. When I look at it now I see her brave spirit. Even with a broken heart she still could raise a smile for little children.

 

Tired

I have just got out of bed and am still feeling tired

Such a busy, busy week but not so busy to justify having to go to bed at 5 o'clock on a Sunday evening. The weariness had come upon me an hour earlier and by five o'clock  I just couldn't take it anymore. It had been a very pleasant afternoon doing some light gardening chores, seed collection, watering tubs and cutting back perennials. Then exhaustion hits. Is this it? I'm still in my sixties and am seriously depleted of energy. 

It was a full week. I went to a wake on Monday morning. My Aunt Bernie, Uncle Shaun's wife, a strong and steadfast woman, widowed for almost 50 years.

In the afternoon  I cooked for family - then on Tuesday went to the funeral which took a full day.

On Wednesday I went to Ikea with Jazzer. we made a mistake, we should have gone straight to the marketplace. Both of us knew what we wanted - and we did not need that energy-sapping zig-zag through the showroom.

Thursday was the girls. I took them for breakfast at Middletown and spent a small fortune on things that were supposed to be breakfast food but were basically luxurious desserts. That was them. I had bacon and tomato on sourdough. Back home I had a bit of housework to do as I was expecting Leitrim Sister, her hubby and her mother-in-law (another inspirational 90-something) coming off a late flight from Corfu. I stayed up until they arrived. Odd thing for me these days as I'm usually in bed before 11pm. 

Friday morning was my Corfu visitors then some other people dropped in. I think I might have watched three episodes of the final season of Breaking Bad. That was it. I was weary.

On Saturday I took lots of butterfly pictures. Small tortoiseshell are the leading lights this season, peacocks second and red admirals are scarce. They were all feeding at a bunch of buddleias that Bert didn't sell this year. I think I'll be planting most of those in the garden, Between our profusion of nettle patches and our buddleia we are quite the butterfly haven. 

Then Bert went out for an afternoon gig in Ahoghill and I didn't. Swisser called around for a couple of hours and we thoroughly depressed ourselves talking about the state of the world and the state of Liz Truss. Did I mention that Leitrim Sister brought Gin, Tracey brought Port and Swisser Prosecco? Bert asked, 

'D'ye think people think you're a lush?'

I did not respond.

Later on, I drank some port, finished watching Breaking Bad and started watching El Camino.

I finished watching El Camino this morning. I wonder if it is Vince Gilligan that exhausts me so?

Paddy's Apples

When Paddy died we went to his house. His apple tree, that strange forked apple tree that he loved so much was laden with fruit. Well, one half of it was anyway. I was pleased to see it as Bert, at Jazzer's request, had supplied the sprays and fertilisers that encouraged the old tree to give a bountiful harvest for Paddy's last autumn on earth. Earlier in the season, he'd sent us a bag of the apples and I’d made a very nice apple crumble.

At his funeral, each member of his family threw a rose on top of the casket as it was put in the ground. A lovely touch was, when one of his great-grandchildren, reached into a pocket and threw in one of his granda's apples.

A Local Hero

Two Sundays ago I bumped into an old friend from primary school and she told me that her brother was gravely ill. Only six days later I heard he was dead.

Joe was a few years older than me and at school, I thought of him as one of 'big boys'. I remember him teasing me because new to television, I thought that different makes of TV sets showed different programmes.

I have another memory of Joe when he was a teenager. I was going to my Granny's shop on an errand and he was on the other side of the road swiping the heads of dandelions with a stick. Why this stays in my mind I do not know. There was something fierce about him that unnerved me.

Joe left Tannaghmore when he was a very young man and I rarely saw him after that. Until I went to work for a homeless organisation. This organisation was new to Northern Ireland and there was to be a convention in Belfast. A lot of people would be coming over from London, Liverpool and the South of England. My manager, Anne Henderson, mentioned that one of the people from London, the chair of the organisation, hailed from my neck of the woods. His name was Joe McGarry.

Joe's story was extraordinary. He came to England in 1971 and worked for more than 20 years working as a labourer, often sleeping rough and eventually falling into alcoholism.

My own brother left Ireland for London when he was in his teens and did the same sort of labouring work as Joe. He told me stories of daily hirings and the lure of the pub at the end of the day. Eamon said there were middle-aged men, staying in stinking digs and the pub was a home from home for them. It was there that the site foremen paid out the wages. Little wonder that so many of them stayed there, in the warm, in familiar company, spending those wages rather than go back to their dank lodgings.   

My brother was lucky in that he had sisters living and working in London who provided emotional support and, occasionally when times were tough, a place to stay.  Joe was not so fortunate. In his own words in Ireland's Forgotten Generation (23 minutes in) he was seven years homeless, sleeping rough or in derelict buildings and still got up in the morning and went to work.

Eventually, Joe moved into Arlington House in Camden Town. He was still drinking but eventually, his life turned around. He became involved in the Aisling Project and after a trip to Co. Donegal in 1995 he found the inspiration to quit alcohol. 

I didn't know any of this when we met in Belfast. Anne and I gave Joe a lift back to Tannaghmore and we stopped at the Ramble Inn for something to eat. He spoke about his alcoholism. He was so articulate and well-spoken and came across as such a thoroughly decent man.

Afterwards, I followed his career. He went on to found Novas Ireland and set up projects in Limerick, Tralee and other Irish cities. I'm going to link to Joe's friend Alex McDonnell who'll tell the story better that I ever could. Alex also gave a great eulogy yesterday at Joe's funeral. 

Joe McGarry was a truly remarkable man. I'm glad I met him.

A Good Day For Planting

 Lizzie's funeral was an early one, 10am in Ballyclare. Due to the pandemic restrictions, only a handful of people were able to attend. Lizzie was a well-liked woman, and even though many of her friends and relatives had died before her if these were normal times the church would have been full. In normal times the service would have been in church. In normal times there would have been a queue of people waiting to give the coffin a lift, but today that job was left to four men, three in their seventies and one (Bert) a mere lad in his early sixties. That is what happens when a person gets to be ninety, a person without issue and all that is left is a solitary nephew and a handful of cousins.

Last Monday, Zoe offered to come out today to help Bert plant the bundle of native trees bought to replace the larches that had succumbed to ramorum disease. It was a great day for it, mild and dry and the ground still soft enough to make planting easy. We planted around 150 bare root saplings and a few in pots. While we were planting them Zoe suggested we call the stand of new trees Lizzie's Wood. So we will. Lizzie would have been tickled pink to hear that. In years to come, we might walk through the new planting and listen to the birds singing in the branches and remember Lizzie and how much she loved the 'wee birds'. I will remember too how much she disliked the bigger birds, the jackdaws, crows and jays and most villainous of all, in her book, the sparrowhawk.

Off to the wood, Martha at the wheel.

Bert and Zoe handled the spades.

And, for the day that's in it...

From the days before tractors - a very young Lizzie with her father's farm horse. Used for ploughing and other jobs, he was also a much-loved family friend.

I Wish There Could Be More Hugs

Martha

Bert and I went on an exciting road trip yesterday. Garden Centres are open again and everyone wants Bert's excellent clematis. We had a quick drop off in Antrim then it was off to Portglenone via Randalstown. Bert once worked for a fellow who went via Randalstown no matter where he was going and, as far as I know, he didn't even have a special friend who lived in there. Bert hadn't planned to go that way and was actually going to return to Cullybackey! He didn't know that Randalstown is the gateway to the rest of the world but I persuaded him that it would be exciting. It takes very little to please us in these days of lockdown.

We went via the Largy Road and as we came closer to Portglenone started to see knots of people standing at gateways. What's going on? The only thing we could think of was a funeral. Funerals are different now. Services are private and only a very small number of people can attend the graveside. There can be no wake. But, as we got closer to the village the crowds grew larger. There must have been a hundred or more people gathered outside the old chapel across from the forest. Social distancing was non-existent.

Being nosy, I looked up Funeral Times on my phone. The man whose funeral had just taken place was a member of a large and well-connected family. He was a retired school teacher, had a brother a priest, played Gaelic at Uni and was well thought of in his community. There were a lot of people at his funeral but if it hadn't been for coronavirus there would have been hundreds more. I hope they will all be OK.

 Evie

Zoe tells me that Evie has given up on personal grooming and rarely washes her face or combs her hair. She still brushes her teeth (I hope). I saw her today at a 2-metre distance and she looked pretty fine to me. I would have loved to give her a cuddle and sniff her shiny brown hair.

She went for a walk in the fields with Bert. It's easy to keep a distance there. They were looking for the pigs. Bert said they tramped around for at least 45 minutes but no sign of Rusty and Lily. It was only on the way back that he remembered that he hadn't actually let them out and that they were still snoring in the shed. Poor pigs. They must have been peckish. I gave Rusty one of the naans I'd made for last night's supper. Waste of flour really - they weren't very good. Rusty did not agree. He thought they were so delicious that he followed me and tried to come into the house looking for more. Evie was appalled.

James and Emily

Katy shared a video of James and Emily playing in the garden. Emily is so jolly and never seems to stop laughing. I got a pang about that. They are all supposed to be coming to visit in August but how can we be sure that it will still happen? Everything is up in the air. Plans mean nothing. We live for the moment. As Emily does.

A Catch Up

Wednesday: On this day I was supposed to keep Hannah company as she travelled a job interview in a far away town. This was cancelled due to her being offered another job in a nearby town. So I went to the Tannaghmore funeral with the young brother. The man whose funeral it was came from a big connection. The priest who conducted the funeral Mass was from the United States, a friend of the family, his people originally from Ireland. Father Pat Universal. That is a name with a ring to it. The service was beautiful, very life-affirming. Nick Cave said recently that atheism is bad for songwriting. I get that. Cave goes on, "It doesn't matter whether God exists or not - we must reach as if he does." That resonates for me. I don't know if God exists, but I want to live as if he does.

Thursday: Roy was poorly so we took him to the local vet in Portglenone. What was wrong with him? He was spooked, edgy, couldn't settle, wanted to be outside all the time, wanted to be given a lot of attention. Not himself. The vet gave him a thorough examination. The only issue was a raised temperature, and him being a big fat boy. The vet thought he might have a high temp because of inflammation in his joints and gave him a shot of something anti-inflammatory. What about his weight? Should we put him on a reducing diet? Oh no. There is no point, he is too old. What about treats? Should he have less treats? Oh no. Give him a couple of treats a day. I love this new vet. The shot worked its usual magic and old Roy is back to normal. Often I think that animal medicine is much better than human medicine. We should all go to the vet.

Friday: I worked in the garden and enjoyed it very much. My energy levels are back to normal. Those blood tests I took? The only thing mildly problematical was my cholesterol levels. I have an appointment to see the practice nurse on Tuesday for blood pressure and advice.

Today: More garden work and I cooked a leg of lamb. A few slices for supper and I shall make curry with the leftovers. And always - checking out the pollinators.

.
 

A Busy Week

It's been a busy week. Monday was a family meal day with a lot of worry leading up to it. Zoe had only heard about the Pig Invasion, she hadn't seen it and I was fretting that she'd be completely gutted about the damage done. But she took the pragmatic view and I was greatly relieved.

Tuesday was a funeral service. It was an unusual one as the person whose funeral it was had died 10 weeks previously in Australia. Her husband brought her ashes back to Ireland for funeral and burial. It was a really lovely service. Afterwards, I went on a shopping expedition and bumped into a cousin. We went for coffee (and tea) and caught up with each other. Heard a very interesting piece of gossip about our Westminster representative who is currently in the news for all the wrong reasons. I feel a bye-election coming on which he'll probably win if he has the brass neck to stand and he will.

Wednesday I was not looking forward to as we were going to do some financial planning and had someone coming round to discuss it with us. But that wasn't as awful as I'd expected. Time for a bit of gardening and then off to Portballintrae to see Swisser. We had been asked for supper but had declined and she'd made it anyway so that was two suppers. I did not take the main course (a healthy vegetable dish) but did not refuse wine.

Thursday - the girls. We had an exciting trip to Portglenone then they had an exciting jaunt on the quad with Bert then it was the exciting trampoline for the rest of the day.

Yesterday I went to Belfast with Jazzer (whose sister's funeral was Tuesday) for another jaunt. The train was packed but it was an interesting trip as I got talking with some of the musicians from The McLain Family Band, a bluegrass band from Kentucky who'd been playing two nights in Ballymena and were on their way to Dublin.

In Belfast, we shopped a lot although I just bought Birkenstocks.  Between shops, we had coffee and a snack in the Linenhall Library, a drink in Maddens, dinner in The Apartment and another drink in the Europa Hotel. The train home wasn't as busy but I ran into a Facebook friend and we chatted all the way to Antrim.

From Antrim to Ballymena I got out my book, The Way I Live Now by Meg Rosoff, and came across a passage so shockingly harsh that I gasped. Closed the book and finished it later in the privacy of my own home. that evening. Very good read though not to everyone's taste I imagine.

That evening I watched the Netflix reboot of Queer Eye For The Straight Guy and enjoyed it a great deal. Found myself grinning throughout. Hadley Freeman, my favourite columnist in the Guardian Weekend magazine, had raved about it and I get that. Not to everyone's taste, I imagine. For instance, Bert said he wouldn't like it as he doesn't like reality shows. This week he has sat through The Hateful Eight and Natural Born Killers. Not for me. I watched the tiniest bit of The Hateful Eight but the minute...

BEWARE

!!!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!!!

...Samuel L. Jackson got his bollocks shot off, I was out of there.

The pigs have been in Piggy Jail all week but we're making it up to them with extra rations. They had carrot cake today and liked it very much. It's not allowed to give them food that has been in a kitchen but we had it in the fridge in Bert's room which definitely isn't a kitchen and the only other thing that is kept in there is alcohol. Which the pigs also like.

Today it rained and it blew and I worked in the tunnel clearing weeds from where we harvested onions and garlic. Outside the bay tree blew over and the sunflowers were bent but not broken. When it all died down I put stronger stakes on all the tallest plants.

One more thing.

Today was our mother's birthday. She would have been 92 years old. I always thought she'd make it to her nineties but she didn't. And although I don't believe in an afterlife I wish I did because then I'd know she'd be looking out for a special person that she never got to meet but if she had, she'd have loved her very much.

Tomorrow is a day of rest.

That Was The Week That Was

It seems that the more there is to write about the less I write because there is NO TIME and I am TOO TIRED.

On Day 1 after my last post, I went (with Bert) to visit an elderly relative and then, because we were in the general area, went to a disused diatomite quarry that has become a haven of delight for newts, butterflies, psilocybin mushrooms and other wonderful things. When we got there we found it had been devastated by earth moving machines. Bert was very sad.

On Day 2 after the last post, I cooked a delicious meal for the family and played adventures with Martha as Evie was sick.

On Day 3 I was visited by the elderly aunt and her (sort of) nephew. She filled nephew's car boot with spare shrubs and perennials from my garden. Afterwards, Bert continued work on our new lawn and I  cooked a sensible manly dinner for Bert and one of his friends. Lots of potatoes.

On Day 4 after my last post we visited Jazzer who has been dealing with some very sad events recently. To cheer her up we brought a chainsaw and cut down a tree that has been threatening the foundations of her house. Then we went out to lunch and had two large glasses of wine each. On my return from the outing I had to take a long nap.

On Day 5 I picked the girls up from school and took them shopping. I needed new shoes for a funeral and I got the children  some summer togs for their holiday. Martha opined that the tops would go very well with a pair of denim shorts. So I bought those as well. Then we went to the wake which was a first for the girls.

On Day 6 I went to the funeral. My cousin's husband, still in his fifties. They were close neighbours of my mother and had always been good friends to both my parents. At the funeral reception, I found myself looking around and wondering where he was.

Day 7 - I gardened, cleared a new bed and planted the geraniums I'd bought at Garden Show Ireland. They'd been potted on and were just beginning to flower. And of course, I glanced at the Royal Wedding for an hour or so. It was quite cheering and distracting. Later on,  we had Jazzer, Marty and Ben round for the evening.

On Day 8 after my last post, we still had Jazzer, Marty and Ben and Jazzer cooked breakfast and mopped floors. Some friends are just keepers and her Ulster Fries go a long way towards making up for her singing performances on the evenings before.

On the evening of Day 8, when everyone had gone, we watched The Handmaid's Tale, me mostly with my hands covering my eyes. Then I wrote this post.

The devastation at the old quarry

Hurt

Today was one of those days that reminds one of how sad life can be. We went to the funeral of a man in his early fifties who had died from a brain tumour. I didn't know him well but I knew other members of his family, his older sister in particular. This man had spent his entire working life in a local tobacco factory which, up until recently was one of the most important employers in the local area. Between 2014 and 2017 everyone who worked there was made redundant. Many of those attending the funeral today were ex-workmates of Hugh. No problem getting time off for a weekday funeral - they all had time on their hands.

I went for a quick walk in the early evening. Now that the days are lengthening it is possible to do that and I'm grateful for it. Ziggy and I weren't even five minutes from the yard when I spotted a thrush lying at the side of the road. I thought it was dead but when I looked it was still moving. I picked it up and returned to the house and left it in the greenhouse. I expected it to be dead when I got back. Ziggy and I walked for thirty minutes and when we got back the bird was still alive. I made it as comfortable as I could and left it. Thirty minutes later Bert returned from visiting his aunt. He looked in on the thrush and said it was getting very cold. Fifteen minutes later it was dead, I was racked with guilt. should I have interfered? Should I have hastened its end? And if so, how? I wouldn't have the courage to do anything violent for fear of increasing its suffering. After it died I felt its little body and it seemed to have a chest injury. No doubt a blow from a car, one of those bastard cars that drives far too fast on our B-road.

Peter called round after work and he told me that a friend of his says that the best way to hasten a small suffering animal's end is to wrap it in kitchen roll and place it in a freezer. I don't know. That wee thrush took a long time to die.

Ziggy, my companion on today's walk. His little face reminds me that life is not always hard to bear.

The Phone Call

On the evening of the shopping trip, I received a phone call from Ganching requesting a favour. A very good friend of both her and London Sister had to return to Ireland because his mother had died and both my sisters were coming over for the funeral. Would I pick them up from the airport?

Of course.

Would I go to the funeral?

I would.

In Ireland, funerals are generally held two days after the death unless of course, close relatives need to travel from afar in which case it might be three days until the burial. In country areas, the funeral is usually preceded by the wake. It is a very busy time for the bereaved.

I wouldn't be going to the wake but I would be trying to straighten up the house in preparation for my visitors. Swisser had stayed the night and the spare bed needed to be changed. I was starting to realise what life must be like for Kerry Sister who runs an Airbnb. After a quick and largely futile (four dogs, wet weather, and Bert) sweep and mop it was time to pick Ganching up. She had arranged with Our Joe to attend the wake outside the city of Armagh, a little over 60 miles away. That left my evening free to continue tidying the house but I was so exhausted from the previous day's outing that I fell asleep on the sofa.

My sister returned sometime around eleven o'clock  and we stayed up until after midnight hemming funeral skirts and chatting. I checked my route on Google Maps and printed it out then went to bed feeling a little anxious about the next day's journey. I have a horror of lateness, the road was not familiar to me and a lot hinged on London Sister's plane being bang on time. I slept badly and woke far earlier than I needed to - maybe four hours shuteye. Not enough.

Still, my early start gave me an opportunity to have a sensible chat with myself and I was calm enough as we set off. The plane was dead on time and all was looking good. London Sister had printed out a far better itinerary than mine and she has the reputation of being an excellent navigator so I was feeling confident enough. Until I messed it up at the carpark. I couldn't figure out how to use a credit card to get out of the damn place. Panic bubbled up. But not to worry - my sisters were there.

You can do this Nelly! You can get out of the airport! You're doing great! 

With this encouragement ringing in my ears, I gathered up two pounds and fifty pence and went to the parking office, explained my predicament (stupidity) paid over the cash and they raised the barriers. We were off!

And it all worked out well. We got to the church half an hour early. The service was sad but lovely and afterward had a delicious bowl of soup in the church hall. The priest sat beside us but didn't annoy us. Then this thing happened. A man, a very nice man, sat down beside me and informed me that his wife reads my blog. If she happens to be reading it now maybe she'll tell him how welcome I felt in that place I'd never visited before. And, seeing how decent and good his family are I would have loved to have known his mother.

The Right Decision

I find, that when life is full and complicated, it's far harder to make the time to write this blog. So. What's been going on? First of all, I spent a lot of time with small children, the majority of whom were not even related to me! Martha and Evie on Thursday, all day because their school was closed for voting day - then their friends Caitlin, Cara and Maria on Thursday afternoon.  Five girls altogether.

I stayed up late on Thursday evening then got up very early on Friday morning to check the election results. Roughly four hours sleep in all. The results were better than I expected. A hung parliament. Exactly what we needed. No landslide for the Tories, no improved majority, a good slap up the bake for Mrs May. I allowed myself to feel pleased until... this.

Company expected on Friday afternoon, one of Hannah's friends and her little boy. Not quite three, he was a live wire who spent almost the entire visit 'adventuring' with Hannah.

Saturday was sleepover day with the girls. Zoe brought them out mid-morning and we were all very excited. The girls because of all the telly they were going to watch, me because I haven't had them for a sleepover for ages and Zoe because she was going to get some uninterrupted sewing time. She had hardly left when she was back with the saddest news. My brother-in-law had just returned to Kerry after taking a stint on that journey and he had also spent part of three previous summers rowing the naomhóg from Dublin to Spain with Danny, Liam Holden and Brendan Begley.

On Sunday I brought the girls to Cara's party where there must have been at least two dozen children in full roar. I surprised myself by actually enjoying it.

Come Monday I was exhausted. Girls and their parents for tea. I cooked something cheesy and spinachy (Jamie Oliver) that was delicious and Sticky Toffee Pudding (Nigella) that was a bit overdone. Can't wait to get it right as it was still yummy. Monday evening we settled down to watch Better Call Saul and I fell asleep on the sofa and missed the best bit, a scene with Mike in it. Watched it again this morning.

Then to the internet where I found out that a former boss from my days in the hostel in Spide City had died. For so often, these days, that is where we first hear this kind of news. It wasn't a shock for I knew she was very ill and I arranged to go to her funeral. Then Jazzer rang. She had an urgent appointment  in a Belfast hospital and wanted me to go with her for support. I explained about the funeral and she understood. I carried on with my day but something was nagging at me, I felt anxious.  And I did what I always do when I'm anxious, ate a lot of food. Then it came to me - Anne, the woman who had died was a famously kind person who cared very deeply for her friends and family. If I could have asked her about my dilemma she'd have told me not to be so silly and take my friend to the hospital. So that's what I'll do. It feels like the right decision.

Hard Times

My Uncle Vincent's funeral in Rasharkin was held on the same day as the interments of Princess Diana and Mother Teresa. I have to say that the old nun's death passed me by what with everything else that was going on at that time. But I'm rarely in that churchyard and when I visited it last week on the eve of Aunt Marian's funeral I was surprised to recognise so many names of people who are buried there. One of the most startling was the grave of the three Quinn brothers from Ballymoney who died in a sectarian arson attack on their home on the 12th of July, 1998.

Marian had lived to 83 years of age and she had lived well. The priest who conducted her Requiem Mass made much of her sense of adventure, her love of travel and her strong attachment to family. It was probably one of the most inspiring eulogies I've ever heard and, I can assure you, I am very hard to please when it comes to preachers. One thing I noticed in the chapel was the presence of three young brothers, great-nephews of Marian's I suppose, who were around the sort of ages as those other three brothers lying in the churchyard. The Quinns would be grown men now, probably with families of their own but they never made it to adulthood just like so many of the youngsters murdered in Manchester the other night.

It is hard not to feel a terrible sadness right now for it happens that tonight is the 43rd anniversary of the deaths of our father's two brothers, my uncles Shaun and Brendan. Sometimes I forget it is their anniversary. But not this year.

Yvonne and Anne
write far more eloquently on this than I can. There is a lot of reading here but it is very worth it.

Six Months Later

Six months ago I visited one of my aunts, one who lives a mere ten miles away from me. It was a lovely visit, long overdue and on the drive home I promised myself, just as I'd promised her on her doorstep, that I'd come back soon, that I'd not leave it so long again. Yesterday I kept that promise, exactly six months since I'd seen her last. The pity of it, it was too late for Marian was dead. Today I go to her funeral.

There's a lesson there, don't you think?

Centaurea or Bachelor's Buttons always blooming in Aunt Marian's garden in May.

The News

There is always too much news. Sometimes it comes from a distance and sometimes it is closer to home. Yesterday there was the news of the carnage at Westminster, too soon to say much about, just the hard facts, four people dead and many more injured. Anyone who has ever been to London will have walked or driven over Westminster Bridge. Indeed, my sister, until recently, walked over it regularly as part of her commute to work. Like all do, in this time of almost instant communication, I established that both London sisters were safe. And watched as the television news went round in circles showing the same sad and terrible footage over and over again.

And today's big news in Northern Ireland will be the funeral of Martin McGuinness, former Deputy First Minister at Stormont. Opinion on his legacy is, as might be expected, divided. We are a divided people here in these six counties but I'm happy to declare that I am on the side of those that respected him. I came late to that stance but then, we're all on a journey, are we not?

In Drumrankin, our wee bit of it anyway, the news is homelier. The chickens are free again and we are observing all the orders guidelines laid out by the government to protect them from avian flu. My main contribution will be to never set foot in a commercial chicken farming establishment. Should be easy enough to keep to.

Keep safe everyone, no matter where you are and don't believe everything you hear, even if you hear it from me.

Gatherings

Today Nellybert hung out with two of our oldest friends, the Wees. First, we attended the sixth birthday party of our friends' oldest granddaughter. Martha and Evie were also part of this event. Then we grannies and grandpas went to the funeral of a gentleman of our own generation. The Wee had been to school with him, Bert and I had another connection with younger members of the family. This man, was in the parlance of our country, very well-connected so his funeral was very large. Being well-connected in Northern Ireland usually means that a person comes from a large family. He or she will have been very well thought of during their working life. They often belong to clubs and organisations and being involved in music brings people flocking to the send-off. Our man loved traditional music and was a fiddle player. I saw people today that I haven't seen in years.

After the funeral, I collected my girls from their party which they seemed to have enjoyed immensely.

We were at a party ourselves on Friday evening - a friend's 50th birthday. The news of our friend's death came just as Hannah and I had returned from an enjoyable morning buying gifts (for ourselves as well as birthday girls) and drinking coffee in cool cafes. As is often the case, the news came via social media. Immediately spirits dampened and I thought - but we're going to a party. This doesn't seem right. Then I thought again. Our friend's dad was the life and soul of any party he was at. He'd have been dismayed at anyone not getting themselves out there and socialising. So out we went, were entertained to gipsy jazz, had a delicious meal and talked to people that we knew, folk we hadn't seen for decades and others we'd never met before. It was a lovely evening.

2 h 24 min on the road today

Never Forgotten

There are some things that just stick in the mind. One of mine is my great-uncle Father Joe's funeral, which I wasn't allowed to go to. Father Joe or, to give him his full title, the Ven. Archdeacon Joseph Byrne, was the Parish Priest of Larne. He was greatly loved by his family and by all who knew him. Father Joe was described as 'a man noted for his kindness, goodness and piety', and he was certainly very kind to us, his great-nieces and nephews.

On days off he'd drive down to Tannaghmore in his ancient, blue Morris car, do the rounds of the grown ups houses, then pile all us children into the car, probably about six of us and take us out for a 'run'. He drove slower than anyone I knew and always tooted his horn when he approached a bend in the road. There would be a white paper bag of sweets with pictures of fruit which he bought in Mrs Fletcher's shop on the Pipe Road. We'd get one or two sweeties and they were that hard they'd knock the teeth out of your head. These runs would often end up at Uncle Joe's house near Cookstown Junction.

Father Joe died in 1961 at the age of 77. I didn't get to go to the funeral. Mammy said I was too young. But cousin Joseph was going and he was two years and a month younger than me. But that was because he was called after Father Joe, Mammy said. This didn't mollify me. Cousin Joseph was going and I wanted to go too. Mammy stood firm. I stayed home.

Then, about a month later, we were given a copy of a photograph of little Joseph (barely six years old) standing at his great-uncle's grave looking suitably solemn and sad. I was raging with jealousy. I've never forgotten that feeling but, I'm glad to say, I never held it against young Joe. I blamed the grown ups.

Joe's gone himself now. Three years ago today and I miss him still. We all do.