The Famine Memorial

One of the sweetest things about living in a rural area is not having neighbours or, at least, not having them live too near to one's own place. For years Lizzie had the quietest of neighbours then a family moved into the house that shares a boundary with her own. She had little truck with them but, lordy, were they noisy. Lots of shouting children and barking dogs.* In the days when Lizzie was fit to go out walking with her own wee dog, she might well have made friends with the children but that never happened. I wouldn't be surprised if those children thought she was a witch. That's what I used to think about very old ladies who lived on their own. Too many fairy tales y'see.

Another thing I thought when I was a child was that lords and ladies were special, and better than us. Too many stories about kings and queens, handsome princes and beautiful princesses y'see. What they do to impressionable young minds is so very wrong. I recall one particular occasion when my Uncle Vincent challenged this belief. It was when he had us out for a drive along the famed Antrim coast road and, as was usual for him, lecturing us on geology, philosophy and history as we travelled along. At one point, somewhere between Waterfoot and Carnlough, he stopped the car to show us something. This was the Famine Memorial carved into the limestone rock that had been commissioned the third Lady Londonderry after the Great Famine. I read it, as much as I could for some of it was scratched out, and thought it very fine sentiment. Uncle Vincent begged to differ. He pointed out that the fine lords and ladies, and queens had done very little to assist the Irish people during the famine times. This is the part that was removed,


“An imperishable memorial of Ireland’s affliction and England’s generosity in the year 1846-47.”


Vincent was scathing about Queen Victoria's generosity towards her Irish 'subjects' which amounted to £5,000. Yet still a good deal better than the Londonderry family contribution - £30 while, at the same time, they spent £150,000 refurbishing their Irish estate, Mount Stewart in County Down (which I was pleased to visit Sunday last).

It surprised me, back then, to realise that lords and ladies, kings and queens might not be the admirable beings I'd read about in storybooks. And for that, the very beginning of my wokeness, I'd like to call out Uncle Vincent, a true champion for social justice.

The Famine Memorial at Garron Point, County Antrim

*Those neighbours of Lizzie moved to our part of the world. Not that far from us but thankfully not within earshot.

Wednesday Day Out

It occurred to me a week or so ago that Bert and I are not spending enough quality time together. I have blogging, he has the clarinet and we come together for gardening and meals but it's not enough. We needed more us-time so we decided more days out. And this week, Wednesday.

But, as always, life gets in the way. Aunt Lizzie needed coal. Since we discovered that a despicable coal delivery man was cheating Aunt Lizzie by bringing crappy coal and charging for top quality, Bert has been bringing her fuel from his own supplier. But as his sore ribs are paining him and he's under strict orders (from me) not to overdo it, I had no option but to help him with the offloading. And we had to wait until midday as Lizzie is not an early riser.

That all went well. Offloaded twelve bags of coal. How fit must coal delivery persons be? That is a tough job. Brought three dogs with us to Lizzie's delight. She adores dogs but can no longer manage having her own. Eighty-eight years old and still living independently, she is very much to be admired. It was Ziggy's first visit and he had to be dragged away. He knows an ardent dog-lover when he sees one.

Before we left I was gifted two gorgeous pelargoniums grown from cuttings. Eighty-eight years old and Lizzie is still as green-fingered as ever she was.

So, coal delivery and plant collection complete it was time to embark on the day out proper. From Connor to Parkgate, to Antrim, then to Randalstown where we walked in the forest, once a deer park belonging to the Lords O'Neill. Ziggy did not approve of the deer. They were completely unfazed by him.

After the forest walk, we progressed to Toome.

I said to Bert,

Shall we stop at Cargin graveyard and visit the IRA graves?

He said,

No.

Which was OK.

We stopped for coffee in Toome and ran into the lovely Liddys who seemed delighted to see us or maybe it was the dogs they liked but it was a sweet encounter no matter the main attraction. I don't think Judy or Jess have ever been to the shores of Lough Neagh before but they liked it.

Ballymena

Ballymena is the town closest to where I live. I wasn't born there, I'm not from there but it's The Town. It's where my mother caught the bus to, once a week, to collect her Family Allowance. Not for her the luxury of letting it build up. It was a necessity to be collected every week as soon as it came due. Occasionally I'd accompany her. I remember how she rushed and how there was never any time to look in shop windows, to admire all the things we couldn't afford. Still, there were treats. She'd buy a quarter of sweets in Donaghy's shop in Linenhall Street and she and I would have one each, the rest tucked in her bag for sharing when we got home.

Ballymena is where I went to grammar school for three long and hateful years. The summer holiday before, 1965, was ruined by my anxieties about this move from the small country school that we were able to walk to. I was especially terrified of travelling on the bus on my own. What if I got on the wrong bus? Ended up in some far-flung place like Ballyclare, never to find my home again?

The bus wasn't as intimidating as I'd feared but there were new anxieties. What if there was no seat on the lower deck? What if the conductor made me go upstairs where all the rough Academy boys sat? That actually happened once and I was terrified until a big boy, David Allen, who'd gone to our country school, sat beside me. I'm sure he recognised my terror at being among these great oafs. He tried to make conversation with me but I was too shy to engage. There was another boy from our school on board and I remember the other fellows bullying him. David was standing up for him. He was as old as my protector but fat and poor and probably a great butt for their jokes. He was a very sweet and kind boy and ended up working in the Civil Service at a very high level. David Allen became a GP and practised in the village where I live now.

And later on, Ballymena was where I socialised and came to live and, in time, where I met Bert. It's where my children where reared until we moved to the country to live with Bert.

These days it's The Town and I am ashamed of it.

Like all small towns, it is full of decent people but there is also an element of xenophobic, racist and bigoted people who live in it and, unfortunately, they are the ones who seem to define the place. When Ballymena gets in the news it always seems to be for the wrong reasons. From being the heroin capital of Northern Ireland, to the savage sectarian murder of a 15-year-old Catholic boy, the years-long protests at Harryville Chapel, and then a DUP Mayor asserting that Hurricane Katrina was divine punishment for the existence of gays. And, more recently, we had Ian Paisley Jr. M.P., prancing up and down Ballymena streets exulting being let off the hook by his constituents after his suspension from Westminster. Worse still, Ballymena's racists have now attracted the attention of England's worst and we may well become infested by them. Is it any wonder I'm ashamed to call it my town?

An October Promise. To Myself.

It's October, autumn is well and truly here. I'm going to up the posting and try to update the blog for the entire month. Sure I might as well. What else would I be at?

The lovely lilies that grow alongside the roses in the Rose Garden at Mount Stewart. Zoe drove Hannah and me there yesterday. The girls had both been there before but it was my first ever visit. I am already planning my return.

So, as I said, a post every day. Tonight's is short for it's been a busy day and I'm still reeling from the last episode of Ozark that we just watched. The blood! The wails! The water!

More tomorrow.

Grubbing and Planting

We spent some time yesterday digging out astilbe and Johnson's Blue geraniums because they had got far too big for their space. The astilbe will be going to Richard of the enormous garden and the geranium to anyone who wants it. We left a bit of that because it's a big favourite with pollinators.

And speaking of pollination, our friend Rachael was on the TV again. Not rare orchids this time but because her organisation Polli:Nation (part of Learning Through Landscapes) scooped a National Lottery Award for Environmental projects. Well done to everyone. I've learned a lot from Rachael, especially about encouraging pollinators by letting parts of (actually a lot of) our outdoor space run wild.

After the grubbing out, I planted oriental poppies. I know, I know! Not a huge draw for pollinators but I love them so. I'm not even sure they'll do, as the part of the garden they went into is rather heavy going.

Bert went to the doctor this morning for a discussion about how to manage his bone condition. He has been diagnosed with osteoporosis which is unusual for a male not yet sixty. He's a bit blue about it all. I felt a tad guilty about wanting him to rotovate especially as his rib is still bothering him so we decided to leave that until he's feeling better and planted the Stag's Horn Sumach anyway. He said we can work around it.

That little tree will branch out and become much fuller next year. And the year after that it will be even better. I'm looking forward to watching it grow.

A Parcel From England

Remember my lament about being unable to source a Stag's Horn Sumach? When I wrote that post I was rather hoping that someone would contact me to say that their Granny had that very shrub growing in her garden and that I was most welcome to come and help myself to a sucker.

That didn't happen. But this did!

It arrived this morning. When the delivery person pulled it out of the back of his truck I was quite flummoxed as to what it could be. For a moment I thought Bert had bought another strimmer. It was much taller than I expected. And oh, so carefully packed. It took me a while to get it unwrapped.

I shan't photograph it until it is planted in the ground which should be tomorrow. We've chosen the spot and it will need to be rotovated and levelled. One has to be careful when planting a sumach as it will make lots of baby sumachs so cannot be too close to other plants. The spot we picked is just outside my private, secret sitting room so I'll be able to enjoy looking at it when I'm relaxing.

The person who sent me this in response to my lamenting blog post was my cousin Dermot from Sussex. He is actually a first cousin, once removed and I believe that I might have met him on at least one occasion when he was a very tiny child and I was a teenager. But that's one of the truly excellent things about social media - you get to keep up with far-flung family members and even get to know some that you'd probably never get to meet in ordinary life. It was a very kind gesture indeed, and just the sort of thing that Dermot's great-grandmother might have done if she'd been a horticulturist and an expert plant finder and knew someone who really, really wanted a Stag's Horn Sumach.

Thanks, Dermot. You're an excellent cousin and a fine human bean.

Autumn Days

Chrysalis on tomato support frame in the polytunnel

Bert went a-wooding on Saturday to begin dealing with the big beech tree that blew down in the sheugh on the day of the strong wind. I mooched around the house doing a bit of this, a bit of that. It was a fine bright day. After a while, I went to see how he was getting along and found him loading all the fiddly branches in a big pile. And while he was doing that, he couldn't chainsaw. The truth is I worry about him when he's off a-wooding, just like Matty used to worry about Daddy. What if he injures himself, out in the fields, all alone? Lying there, bleeding out, his phone (as usual) lying on the coffee table, not able to get help. I may seem happy-go-lucky but I do get rather carried away with worst case scenarios.

Anyways, he was fine. I looked at what he was doing and thought, I could do that and let him get on with the chainsawing and, at the same time, keep an eye on him, be there if he accidentally cuts his leg off, be able to run out to the road and flag a vehicle down as my phone (as usual) is lying on the sideboard and I wonder which of my garments would be best to tear up to use as a tourniquet if the worst did happen. I'm thinking all this as I'm throwing small branches on the huge pile and keeping a look-out for any breach of health and safety procedures on Bert's part.

Of course, tourniquets are no longer recommended and stanching and applying pressure to large wounds is the thing to do nowadays, The tee shirt I'm wearing would be good for that purpose. But would Bert be able to apply the pressure himself while I ran out to the road looking for help dressed only in a flesh coloured bra and Gap jeans? That would certainly stop the traffic.

Happily, none of this came to pass and we spent a couple of hours a-wooding and I have to say, it was one of the nicest Saturdays I've ever spent and I could hardly wait to get back to it but it would have to wait until Monday as unnecessary outside work on a Sunday is still frowned upon in this God-fearing townland.  

Sunday was a good day too. Bert visited his Aunt Lizzie and I worked in the polytunnel and made pastry and a pie filling for the next day's dinner. And the reason for that was so I would have more time to go a-wooding on Monday.

Bert was a bit of a slow starter on Monday morning but eventually, he gathered up tractor, trailer, loppers and chainsaw and set off. I had a steamed chocolate pudding on the hob and it needed more time so he set off before me. Twenty minutes later I joined him to find that he'd already got several decent-sized trimmed branches on the trailer. I chided him for working too hard then set to gathering the trimmings to load onto the enormous pile. Bert stops work, starts staring at the fallen tree. He is pondering his next cut. I stop working too and ponder alongside him. I haven't a clue what he should do. All I know is that I will not approve him perching anywhere precarious whilst operating the chainsaw. He decides to approach the job from the other side of the sheugh (ditch). It is a very deep sheugh and it involves him climbing down then clambering up the other side and over the thickest part of the tree trunk. In fact, it is such an awkward manoeuvre that we decide I should climb into the sheugh and reach the chainsaw up to him. It was at this point that I realised that one of my wellington boots was letting in water.

Safely on the other side of the ditch, Bert starts to chainsaw while I watch from a distance. There is an expectation that the tree will drop closer to the ground so it is best to stay back. It takes a while. The tree moves a bit but not far enough. He can't see what is holding it up. If it was winter and the foliage gone it would be possible to work it out but not with the tree in full leaf. I keep watching to make sure he stays safe. He leans over a small branch to steady himself as he starts to cut into a thicker branch under it. 

Be careful,

I say as I've said so many times already. Then he stops, he goes pale, the chainsaw stops. I can see he has hurt himself. He's popped a rib. Game over, no more wooding for us. And now the bloody tree is a health and safety risk for we still don't know what's propping it up. It will have to be Clint and the digger now. How he will gloat at having to finish the job for us.

I advised Bert to rest while I went to Killyless Stores to buy new wellies. When I got back he said he was feeling much better and thought he might finish trimming back the rhododendron bushes beside the greenhouse. I pulled on my new boots (so comfy) and went out to help and was just in time to see him take two-thirds of a lilac bush down. 

It'll do it no harm,

Says he. We worked at the hedge for about an hour and, since the chainsaw was running anyway and Zoe had arrived, we persuaded him to saw down one of the three peach trees in the polytunnel. It was growing in a really awkward place and hadn't produced fruit in two years. My hopes are, that the one beside it will do better if it's gone. And, if not, it's going too. The third one we'll definitely keep as it produces a good crop most years and is well worth the space it takes up.

Poor Bert. He'd hurt his rib, banjaxed the fallen beech and been forced to murder his carefully espaliered peach tree and his troubles were not yet over. For Miss Evie, six going on seven, playing her favourite game of standing on his steel-capped boots while he walked her around, gave him a shove backwards which knocked him completely off balance and they both went tumbling to the ground. She, thankfully, was completely unhurt but he staved the palm of his hand and gave his frame another jolt.

The white hen refuses to lay in the hen-house. This is her latest nest. She thinks she can't be seen.

When he woke up this morning his hand was black and his rib was throbbing. I said,

Should I have a chat with Evie and say maybe she should be less rough in her play as she could hurt you?

He says,

Don't bother. She'll hardly be doing it for much longer.

Evie was delighted with this ladybird's hiding place.

Rhus Typhina or Stags Horn Sumach

How hard must it be to find someone selling this shrub for less than £30?

I first bought it in a 2litre pot at Ballymena Market. back when it stood on the original Fair Hill site, planted it at our first home on the Dreen Road where it flourished.

We sold that house to Clint and we knew he wasn't a lover of flowers. He was going to dig everything out! And he did. But, before that happened I returned to the garden, dug out suckers and potted them on. It took a while, a long while before we organised our new garden and decided where the Stag's Horn Sumach should go.

Too long. The Rhus Typhina was potted (and doing very well) in 3litre pots but, by the time I went looking for them, were gone. Nowhere to be found. Completely disappeared. Bear in mind that they were six or seven plants, among several thousand. It was a plant nursery after all, and my sumachs were lumped in along with the rest of the For Sale plants and some utter low-life landscaper type bod had arrived up someday, on a day that we weren't around and stole them. This light-fingered shit probably took other stuff as well but we don't keep track of lonicera, clematis and random shrubs so who knows.

That was years ago and I still haven't replaced my furry-branched sumach. There have been other sumachs but not Rhus Typhina. I'm old now, how many years have I got to appreciate those velvet branches and the unsurpassed Autumn colour. I could spend thirty quid being robbed by some pack of English bastards, charging me stupid postage and a further six quid surcharge for being from Northern Ireland, Channel Islands or The Fucking Hebrides like having to get on a boat means we get to be robbed. When I KNOW there are people within a ten-mile radius with Stag's Horn Sumach TORMENTING them with suckers and all you'd have to do is let me dig them up and I'll swap you a clematis, or some crocosmia Lucifer and as many aquilegias as you can carry.

What's brought this on, you might ask? Bert and I, this very day sailed to Dobbie's Nursery in Lisburn, which emporium offered Rhus Typhina on its website. I knew it was a Fool's Errand, websites being notoriously unreliable entities. And of course, I was right. I got into a conversation with one of the (Greenmount educated) sales assistants. It was an interesting and enlightening conversation. Apparently, crocosmia Lucifer is still a thing and also, the website is a nonsense. All that it means is that Dobbies knows Rhus Typhina is a plant, they've heard about it and might have sold it once, several years ago. What else can I say about Dobbies? It is very expensive. Araucaria that Bert sells for ten quid they sell for forty. There is a butchery? There is. I find that strange. The women's toilets are weird. The toilet cubicles are flimsy and cheap looking. The wash hand basins are shaped like flowers. They look stupid and hard to clean. I did not think of flowers, just bacteria.

Despite all this, I bought stuff. Strange stuff. Unusually coloured crocus, weird bean seeds and nasturtium seeds that are supposed to look like orchids. Dobbies has a chance to redeem itself. If these corms and seeds fulfil their promise I might return.

I still want Rhus Typhina.

Seeds Ordered!

Product Name	Stock Code	Quantity	Price
Bargain Basement 10 packets	1327	1	£ 3.25
Eremurus robustus	513B	1	£ 2.38
Canna indica	269	1	£ 3.10
Eccremocarpus scaber, 'Tresco' Mixed	490H	1	£ 2.25
Anethum graveolens, 'Mariska'	102Q	1	£ 1.95
Papaver somniferum Mixed Varieties	954G	1	£ 1.75
Lathyrus odoratus, Old-Fashioned Sweet Peas, 'Cupani'	765Z	1	£ 1.95
Salvia patens, 'Blue Angel'	1141R	1	£ 3.15
Salvia sclarea var. turkestanica	1140R	1	£ 1.95
Cleome spinosa, Mixed Colours	366A	1	£ 1.85
Pulsatilla vulgaris	1075B	1	£ 3.25
Helianthus annuus, 'Lemon Queen'	674J	1	£ 2.25
Abutilon x hybridum, F1 Hybrid, 'Bella' Series, Mixed	5M	1	£ 3.15
Angelica gigas	102E	1	£ 3.65
Carthamus tinctorius, 'Zanzibar'	277P	1	£ 1.95
Adonis aestivalis	48	1	£ 1.72
Sub Total:		16 Items	£ 39.55

So, using the Flickr gallery group, I made my choices. All seeds ordered from Chiltern Seeds and all except the salvia sclarea inspired by James Fenton's list. 

I've been meaning to grow that salvia for ages now. It's been a while.

If I do this right, there should be enough plants to share with friends and enough to sell to the local garden supply shop which should, at least, cover the cost of the seeds.

****

Another thing that was on my mind today - it was our father's birthday. Seamus was born on this day 99 years ago. Happy birthday old lad, wherever you are. 

A Garden from a Hundred Packets of Seed

One of the more wonderful things about the internet is how easy it is to source hard to find books. The poet James Fenton's A Garden from a Hundred Packets of Seed was not available from my local library nor was it to be found on Amazon but, as always, eBay obliged. I couldn't wait to get it.

The premise was interesting. A hundred packets of seed. It would have to be a very big garden if all those seeds sprouted. It would cost at least £300 to buy the seed and a fair bit of compost and seed trays would be needed as well. Still, it would be much, much cheaper than the garden centre, that is if one could even find that sort of variety in a garden centre. I'm sure Fenton doesn't expect anyone to actually sow 100 packets in one season or even two. Growing space might be a problem too.

The book arrived and I read it in one sitting. It wasn't easy. The print was small and too many of the pages were coloured orange or violet which made it difficult to read. There were no illustrations. Despite all this, it was an inspiring read and I longed to grow new things.

I spent an hour copying out a list of Fenton's recommendations. Black ink on a white background - super-easy to read. Would it be wrong of me to reproduce the list here? Would it be an infringement of copyright? The book is still worth it for the way Fenton writes. He is a poet after all.

But I did do this thing and it has taken me three days. I could have completed it in an hour if I'd put my mind to it but I have this fantasy that my life is composed of a series of Herculean tasks so I preferred to take my time. The thing I did was make a gallery on Flickr, a gallery composed of the hundred plants that Fenton listed. Many of them were unfamiliar to me which was rather a thrill. Those will be the ones I shall try and the gallery will assist with the choice.

In case readers are unfamiliar with the concept of Flickr galleries they are selected from other people's pictures, not one's own. I'd like to express gratitude to all my fellow Flickrites who allowed their beautiful photographs to be used.

Here is the link. I'm sure that anyone who has a look will be impressed with the gorgeous photographs and James Fenton's choices. Enjoy!

And if any of the seeds packets I decide to purchase and sow succeed be sure I will keep everyone posted!

Garden Centre

Today we went to The Range garden centre, where Evie wanted to have her photograph taken at all the stands.

 She insisted on two angles at this one.

 This, she said, was her favourite picture because it featured her favourite flower - the pansy.

We had an hour to use up before we picked up her sister. She asked, "Did you get the lion in the photo?"

And after all that, we only purchased two pot herbs and some lily bulbs. She wanted me to buy a fountain. There are about as many photographs of her standing beside the wide selection of fountains but I think that's enough garden centre for one day.

Oh well, maybe just the one then.

My Birthday Photograph

These pictures were taken on the eve of my sixty-fifth birthday. They had to be taken yesterday as Katy, my middle daughter, was heading back to deepest, darkest Norfolk earlier today with her family. Dave took the pictures with my camera and under my instruction which absolves him from any responsibility as to their overall quality. We did have a lovely day, an outing to the zoo (of which more on a later date) and a Indian food ordered in from the Khayber restaurant. We ate before six because that's what happens when there are small children.

So, sixty-five years old. No argument now - I am definitely an Elder of the Tribe. I get the all-Ireland free travel pass so might be off to Dublin soon. I won't wear those jeans I think. When I look down at my leg attire I always think it looks OK but photos tell a different tale, a tale of baggy denim.

 For fun, I chopped the other pictures into bits. James, my sole male descendant (so far) was very taken with Ziggy. Perhaps Ziggy was slightly less enthusiastic about James' attentions. Judy was the most patient of all our dogs with James which I think is because Martha was around when the Judester was a pup.

Martha, Zoe and the Queen of Dogs.

Evie just wanted to cuddle Emily. She has always loved babies.

Ziggy looks a little stand-offish in this one. No-one else seems to mind.

The house seems so quiet now that all my visitors have gone. But it was a super birthday and a wonderful four days with my Norfolk family. The next time I see James he'll be a seasoned pre-schooler and Emily will be completely mobile. In the meantime I have Mark's regular photographs and videos to look forward to. And perhaps get up to date with this facetime thing.

A Crossed Line

Not Able To Come To The Phone

The telephone makes me cross. That's because it's ALWAYS ME who answers it. If I'm showering or otherwise engaged Bert will still wait to see if I get it and then excuse himself by saying,

I was just too late, whoever it was rang off.

Maddening.

The phone rang the other morning and, as always, I answered it.

Hello, is Bertie there?
May I ask who's calling?
Blah..blah... health.

I carry the phone to him like a good wife.

Bert, it's the Health Centre. Maybe about your scan.

He had a DXA scan last week.

I gave him some privacy to take the call even though I was keen to hear what the health professionals had to say. Some minutes later he told me what had transpired.

Hello! I'm calling about the results of the test.
Oh?
It's positive.
What does that mean?
It's positive.

Bert told me that he thought the caller was awfully abrupt for a health professional.

He said,

What shall I do?
There's nothing to be done!
But shall I come down to see you?
What! No. There's no point. There's nothing can be done.

At this point, Bert thought the caller extremely unsympathetic to him.

He said,

But is there not some advice I might need? Medication I could take?
What? I'm ringing about the wee ash tree. The test was positive for ash dieback. Nothing to be done.
Oh. I thought you were someone else.

Oh dear. It was the Plant Health Inspector on the line. I should have cottoned on when she called him Bertie. That other lot always refer to him as Robert. Still, maybe it'll teach him to answer the phone himself instead of letting his half-deaf wife do it. Some hope!

Ash Dieback

Just a little self-sown sapling at the edge of the growing area that has succumbed to the Chalara ash dieback fungus. Bert spotted it a couple of weeks ago. It's a notifiable plant disease so he started looking for the number of the plant inspector who calls once or twice a year. Of course, he couldn't find the number and after about a week he cut down the sapling and chucked it in a shed. The very next day the plant inspector drove into the yard. Bert told her about the sapling and she took a sample to test. She informed him that the disease is now rife in Counties Antrim and Down and there is no real benefit in taking precautionary measures. Apparently, it is mainly saplings that are affected so hopefully, our mature trees will be able to fight it off.

So it's not always buddleia and butterflies in Nelly's Garden. Yet, on a cheerier note...

Black Elder

Evie and I had around an hour to use up before we collected Martha from school, so we went for a walk, our eventual destination being the nearest sweetie vending emporium. On the way, we walked past a very lovely shrub in a garden (pictured above) and I said,

I must get a picture of that on the way back because I'm sure Bert will know what it is.

On the return journey, I was camera ready. Evie held the Haribo and I got my pictures, one at a distance for the general shape of the bush and one close up for better identification. I hoped the people in the house weren't looking out and thinking me presumptuous. Job done, I put the camera away. Evie said,

Granny what's all that stuff? What happened to the house?

I looked at what she was looking at. Outside the front door was a pile of half-burnt and melted stuff. It looked like the type of thing people might stash in their roof space. I looked up. A vast hole in the roof, partially covered with a blue plastic sheet, tiles damaged or missing,

It was easy to find out what happened from the school lollipop man and his friends. An electrical fire in the roof space a few days ago. The people were away. The fire melted the plastic water tank and the house flooded. Scary. My own attic is full of just the sort of crap that those people had but there is no plastic water tank to put out the fire.

And...if it hadn't been for Evie I wouldn't even have noticed the fire damage. Talk about not seeing the wood for the trees.

The shrub? Bert identified it immediately - Sambucus nigra f. porphyrophylla. Who says Latin is a dead language? Not for horticulturists it isn't.

So what have I learned apart from the name of that covetable shrub?

1. To pay attention to my surroundings.

2. And get the attic cleared.

Your Drafty Foot

Holders of the title Most Beautiful Baby in the world, nos. 1, 4 and 5

That was the story I told Evie today on her mum's birthday for when Zoe was born I thought her the most beautiful baby in the world. Then when Katy came along she was the most beautiful baby... and so on and so on as Hannah, Martha, Evie, James and Emily duly made an appearance.

Evie got it. Every baby is the most beautiful baby in the world to the people that love it.

Happy birthday, Zoe. Hope you've had a lovely day. 

Sleeping With Dogs

This past week I've been doing one of those interactive thingies on Facebook where you tag other people in the often forlorn hope that they will do it too. Actually, I'm OK if people choose not to engage. But it's nice to be asked.

This one was all about beloved and favoured books. No wonder I engaged. My problem was there was so many to choose from!  And one of the conditions was that the post (a seven day thing) was to be minus comment or review.

But this is my blog and I can comment and review as much as I wish.

Day 1

This was my transition book. The first one I read that wasn't children's literature and I first read at around nine years of age in abridged form, part of my Uncle Desmond's Reader's Digest library. It only appealed because there were children in it, Abra, Caleb, Aaron. Their Chinese caretaker. All the Cathy part went right over my head. The only bit that stuck was the rotting lettuces when Adam went into the refrigeration business. I read it again in my teens and was struck at how powerful it was. I was still too young to understand Cathy. Read it again a few years ago, as did Bert. We talked about it for weeks.

Recently, our friend Billy came to visit and announced,

 "I've just read the best book I've ever read in my life. East of Eden. Have you  read it?"

Billy is a generation younger than us and sadly, Steinbeck is rather overlooked these days. I let him know that we'd most of the books and he was welcome to share.

Day 2

If Steinbeck was my late teens then Flann O'Brien aka Myles na Gopaleen was the boyo for my self-conscious early twenties. Not that that was a bad thing because self-conscious twenty-year-olds need heroes too. His writing made me laugh. Out loud. On buses. The Third Policeman was the third or fourth book of his that I read and I didn't read it on a bus. I read it in the wild garden beside our house (Joe's house now) in a very hot summer and I laughed out loud and nobody heard me and that was alright. I still don't understand what it was about and that's alright too.

Day 3

This one had been hanging about our shanty for ages. I recommended it to Bert a while back and he really enjoyed it but, it was when he started talking about it that, I realised I hadn't even read it myself. So I did and it was good and started me on an Atwood revisitation. I'm currently halfway through the Maddaddam trilogy and re-reading The Handmaid's Tale.

Day 4

Is that a fucking wasp on that book? It is. One of those wee bastards stung me the day before I took that picture and my hand swelled up like a bap. And stayed that way for two days. There was a time that a wasp could sting me and it would itch for a while and that was that. But now, two days of infirmity. Still, at least it wasn't a bee. Not worth getting the EpiPen out for a wasp. The throat doesn't close over for a wasp sting.

But. The book. That book is well-thumbed. It's a gem. It doesn't do much. Just lets me know what I should be sowing in the polytunnel and when I should be doing it. The other stuff, the technical stuff I cannot even be bothered reading about. I just ask Zoe. She knows.

One thing I have learned. If you don't want to eat it, don't grow it.

Day 5

I love old books. Probably lots of people, dozens have perused this copy of The Wind In The Willows but not me. I just picked it up in a second-hand bookshop somewhere, sometime and stuck it in my bookshelves only because I love possessing shabby old books. I read it first at my primary school on one of the rare occasions that our horrible teacher, Cassie O'Neill allowed us to choose books from our paltry bookshelves. I was entranced by it and never got the chance to finish reading it. I don't remember when I got back to it but I would still have been a young child. Probably my Uncle Vincent's collection. Like myself, Vincent had a connection with old and well-read books. Staying at Vincent and Marian's house in Rasharkin was the rarest of treats, myself and my sister, separate beds, linen sheets, and Vincent's bookshelves. It was almost like being English!

Day 6

I had a plan for Day 6. But when I woke up I entirely forgot it even though I had the book laid out and everything. Instead,

I photographed this one,

Bert and I were very taken with the film The Tin Drum which was shown on Channel 4 more than twenty years ago. Soon afterwards we both read the book. It was very powerful. Uncle Vincent once told me that if there was a choice a person should always see the film first, then read the book because the book would always be superior to the movie. He had a point but with The Tin Drum it was a close call.

The book I had meant to feature for Day 6 was Brian Sewell's Sleeping With Dogs which was poignant, lovely, heart-breaking and all about dogs. It's a loan from Zoe and I must remember to return it to her. 

This was my morning.

With my children's dogs. Maya, Gracie and Ziggy.

Too Few Poppies

https://www.flickr.com/photos/17223773@N00/sets/72157683091126321

One of the best things about Flickr is albums. I've been gathering photographs over the years and collating them into sets by year. The link above connects to last year. This year isn't finished yet. The photographs give me an opportunity to see what worked and what I missed.

Looking at last years pictures reminded me that 2018 did not have enough poppies in it. Even the polytunnel had fewer self-seeded poppies than the year before.

This will have to be remedied in 2019.

The Camino Voyage

Last night Bert, Zoe and I went to Belfast to see a film. To say that the three of us had a fair good idea of what it was all about would be an understatement.


The film was called The Camino Voyage and it was about four men from West Kerry who thought it would be a great adventure to follow in the steps of their Irish ancestors by going on the Camino pilgrimage in a naomhóg.







A picture of the four intrepid adventurers lifted from The Kerryman website. It was taken by my sister and they never gave her a bit of credit for it. However, I will. Thanks, Tricia - it's a wonderful shot. One of your best.


Now, as I said, I knew a great deal about the film before I watched it. I had heard about the proposed adventure before the documentary was thought of. I fretted along with the rest of our family as the rowers made the long crossing from Rosslare to the Welsh Coast. Did I forget to say that one of those Kerrymen was my brother-in-law, Brendan?


The journey was made over three years, each stage lasting around six weeks and beginning in May. The first stage took the crew as far as Brittany. The second year they rowed around the coast of France until they got to the Bay of Biscay, at which point they took to the canals and rivers to avoid those treacherous seas. And we were glad to hear it after what had nearly happened the previous year as that tiny boat was crossing the English Channel. I shan't tell you. See the film.

Just as the crew were preparing for the third and last stage of the voyage Brendan got a permanent job offer that was just right for him and he was very conflicted. But he took the advice of a fellow crew member and accepted the post. Brendan's place on the boat was taken by this guy. He brought a lot more to the journey than just his strong back and arms.


Anyway, enough spoilers. Over the three years, I followed the journey on Facebook, heard bits from my sisters, watched the promo, was delighted at the finish, enjoyed the photographs, went to the event at the Ulster Museum to hear the five crewmen talk about their adventures, heard what happened afterwards, sympathised with Tricia and Brendan snowed in for days trying to get to the Glasgow Film Festival in a blizzard, babysat our Joe's dog when he went to see Camino Voyage at the Galway Festival.


And yet, knowing as much as I already did the film was so fresh, so engaging, so beautifully photographed. Sometimes thrilling, often funny, always inspiring and in places very, very sad. Laughter and tears.



Our Brendan re-joined the crew for the last leg of the journey and was there in the cathedral at the end along with his wife and daughter. I felt so proud of them all.


The film should go on general release in October of this year. If it comes to a movie house near you go and see it. You won't regret it.

Sunflower Field

Our environmentalist friend Rachael called round yesterday and had a look around my garden. She was absolutely delighted with the number of pollinators we had. Said it was the most she'd seen anywhere this year. I am pleased with our Don't Mow, Let It Grow trial, not to mention the Don't Weed, Let It Seed campaign. We are rather lucky though as we have enough space around here to have a little bit of flowerbed and grass and still have loads of nettle patches, self-seeding herbs and general weeds to keep the insects happy and if the insects are happy the birds are happy and so it goes on.

While she was here Rachael told me about a farmer in Portglenone who has sowed an entire field in sunflowers with a wide strip of wildflowers surrounding it. He has cut paths through it and welcomed visitors. So, of course, we had to go and see it.

A venture like this is quite a departure for a Northern Irish farmer. As I said to Bert,

It's like something you'd see in Norfolk.

Today they were accepting donations for a local community project and we were happy to hand over a few quid. Sure what else would you be spending it on?

They hope to sell some of the blooms for cut flowers later in the month but Rachael informs me that the most of the sunflowers will feed the birds.

We visited later in the day and there were still a lot of pollinators around but earlier in the day there were masses of them doing their thing.

In this part of the field, the sunflowers were still coming on. Where they were in full flower they were as tall as Bert. He's six foot.

I felt quite inspired by it and hope that maybe we can do something to encourage wildflowers. Maybe we won't plant sunflowers but I am hoping to transform our unmown front garden by cutting and lifting in September and seeing what comes from the existing seedbed. Maybe we'll even persuade the Common Blue butterfly to breed in our garden and to enchant us as they did in Paddy's Field in childhood summers long, long ago.