One From 13 Years Ago

 So this is what I was up to 13 years ago today! I've returned several times since then. But really, I should go every year as long as I'm fit, especially now that I can travel there for free. 

A Visit To Rathlin

For many years now I've been meaning to visit Rathlin Island. But somehow the months slipped away and it was winter and then I'd have to defer it for another year.

But this year I was determined to get there. Swisser was up at the weekend and I asked her to come with me. She had been many times before but was more than happy to go again.

We went over on the old ferry. There weren't that many people on it and I'd say about half of them were members of the PSNI. Swisser and I were intrigued. We wondered if there was a serious crime wave on the island and the police were going in mob-handed to sort it out. There was a Massey Ferguson tractor and bush-whacker on board as well as the police Land Rover and an unaccompanied trailer load of building blocks. When we got to the island the crew asked the police to take the trailer off the boat and they happily obliged. It looked odd to see a police vehicle hauling building materials but Rathlin seems to be that sort of place. People just do what has to be done.

We set off walking to visit the RSPB bird sanctuary. It was a fair walk on a hot day but glorious. There is no intensive agriculture on the island and consequently the meadows and verges are teeming with the flowers and wildlife that I remember from fifty years ago. We saw harebells, wild angelica, meadowsweet, a variety of thyme and all the meadow grasses and flowers that are rarely seen at home.

I enjoyed the reserve. Although there were lots of other visitors the ambience was pretty wonderful. Just people of all ages delighting in the spectacular views of the colonies of birds. We saw guillemots, razorbills, fulmars, puffins, cormorants and many other seabirds. The guides were helpful and informative. I'd recommend this to anyone with even the slightest interest in wildlife.

Of course by this time my big silly face was as red as a tomato from the sun, so we decided to take the Puffin bus back to the harbour. That too was an experience. The driver was packing punctured bicycles into the back compartment, rescuing cyclists, everyone who got on had to clamber over a dog called Theo and no one minded and meanwhile the Puffin driver had us all in stitches with his banter and nonsense. He gave a running commentary of the history of the island and a bit of current affairs as well. We got dropped off at a little bay where grey seals were enjoying the sun at the edge of the water.

We weren't the only ones either. I'm sure there must have been twenty other people, most of them children, observing the seals. The animals did not seem too perturbed. I got the impression they are well used to it.

We never did find out exactly what the police were up to (even though we asked them) but I don't think it involved anything worrying for they all looked pretty happy and were enjoying the views, taking photographs of each other and they seemed to like the bird sanctuary. It will ever remain one of life's mysteries for me.

We took the new fast ferry back which was smooth and speedy but not nearly as much fun as heading over with tractors, trailers and the polis.

I can't wait to return to explore the rest of the island although I'll be lucky ever to hit on such a beautiful, beautiful day.

And I can't believe I waited so long to visit somewhere practically on my doorstep yet one of the locals told me that there are many people in Ballycastle who have never visited the island. Imagine!

Third Generation, Boy One

Our family, the one Seamus and Matty started, is big on girls, and short on boys. The parents had five daughters, two sons, six granddaughters, two grandsons and, so far, eight great-granddaughters and three great-grandsons. That works out at three times as many girls. 

The story goes (probably made up) that Seamus and Matty wanted two of each. And started off with two girls. Time for the boys. First another girl. Then along came Eamon, blessed with three older sisters. Matty and Seamus press on for the boy, two more girls, then came Joseph, blessed with five older sisters, lucky boy.

The next generation consisted of six girls and two boys and three of those girls were mine. The generation after that, eight girls and three boys. Boy one in that generation is James, my only beautiful grandson who is nine years old today. 

Happy birthday James, we love you dearly.

Both pictures featuring James taken by Zoe.

Long-eared Owls

There are many things I could write about this evening. There always is, despite me being in the twilight of my years. And being in the twilight of one's years means that one finds oneself having many funerals to attend as one's peers are, as daughter one exclaimed, 'dropping like flies'.

There was a first this week, two funerals in one day. J died last Thursday, and the funeral was to be the following Tuesday. A lovely person, when she was well a frequent visitor to our home, always a lady. She had been unwell for a long time. Then on Sunday the news that R had died. We'd known him for decades, me first for when I met R, Bert would still have been at school.

His funeral was also planned for Tuesday. Both services would be held at the same funeral parlour two hours apart. The first service (R) was non-religious, a first for me. Likely a first for many who attended, as our part of the world still clings to the notion that funerals must involve a minister, priest or pastor. Awkward when the recently departed has had no truck with religion. R had the courage of his convictions and dispensed with all that. 

I'm sure I was not the only one there who was heartened by his send-off. And encouraged. I could not help but think that anyone there who did not actually know the man would have been left wishing that they had.

J's service was more traditional, which was fitting as she was a person of faith. And funerals are deeply personal, both for the departed and those that remain.

Then today, I heard of another approach, a person who chose not to have a funeral. Again, their personal choice. Hard though, on those left behind, without that closure. 

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Bert's going to a wedding on Saturday. I was asked too, despite having requested to be excused. I declined, Bert will go for both of us and I will drive him there, and may well have to collect him too.

When I made my excuses to the groom he said,

No pressure. Whatever suits you. But, seeing as you're not going would you be OK looking after our dogs?

What could I say? Yes, no bother at all.

Tonight, after the funerals, before the wedding, I delighted myself by going outside and noting all the different areas where young long-eared owls were calling for food. There were at least four of them, some only yards from our door. That's the joy of living surrounded by trees.

My Lord Bertram

Bert and I watched a silly and enjoyable show on Amazon Prime, My Lady Jane. It's set in Tudor England and is an alternative historical drama featuring the Nine Days Queen, Lady Jane Grey. It also features shapeshifters. In My Lady Jane, almost every other person can become an animal at will. Always the same animal which is unfortunate if one is only a tiny mouse or an insect but rather useful if one is a large brown bear.

One important character becomes a horse. For some unexplained reason, he cannot change at will but transforms into equine form at dawn, becoming human again as night falls. 

When we'd finished watching the show I said to Bert,

I'd love you to be like him - the horse guy.

He said,

Because he's so good-looking and fit?

No, not that. It would be great if you could turn into a horse every morning and gallop around the fields all day, just stopping to eat grass. Then when it got dark you'd be you again and we could eat dinner and settle down to watch something silly together. I'd love that. You'd be out from underneath my feet all day and we'd save a fortune on groceries. 

The Twelve, July 2024

 

Another six books have been completed since I last posted.

Two by Tana French, The Secret Place and The Likeness. They were enjoyable although both were far too clever for their own good. As crime fiction should be. I think that itch has been dealt with for a while although I do have a Denise Mina waiting in the wings.

And speaking of crime - I'll Be Gone  In The Dark by Michelle McNamara, a true account of the search for a serial rapist and killer in California. I liked it. Very well written. McNamara died before it was published and I found myself more interested in her than the killer who, like most of his ilk, was mediocre and underwhelming.

I raced through Pet. Five stars. I want to read everything Catherine Chidgey has written and I am grateful to my Irish/Kiwi cousin for the recommendation.

Then I completed reading According to Queeney by Beryl Bainbridge. It didn't grip me as much as some of Bainbridge's other books. Still a decent read. And, at times, bloody comical. I shall read it again when I'm eighty.

I picked up a copy of The Seventh Son by Sebastian Faulks somewhere last week. Tesco charity bookshelves, Oxfam? Cannot remember. Read it in four days. (Remember I'm also reading eleven other books concurrently.) Could not put it down. There were some of the same themes as Human Traces but it was much more accessible. An exhilarating and enjoyable read that left me thinking about what it is to be a human being. I loved it.

Not reading but I did start listening to All Quiet On The Western Front. I will never be able to gather strawberries again without recalling the suffering of horses on the battlefield. I know the men suffered too but there must be something less harrowing to listen to whilst gardening. 

Dealing With The Past

A post from 13 years ago.

IDLE THOUGHTS

The alarm goes off at 7am and I hit the snooze button.

7:05am RINGGG! I'm wondering what to do about the vintage Orange Order collarette in the attic. I hit the snooze button.

7:10am RINGGG! Trying to figure out the names of Adam Lambsbreath's cows in Cold Comfort Farm. Let me see - there's Pointless, Aimless, Feckless and what is the other one called? I hit the snooze button.

7:15am RINGGG! Pondering the minister's reading at yesterday's funeral service. Dorcas/Tabitha. Would those be good names for girl twins? Technically they are the same name just as Zoe and Eve are. I hit the snooze button.

7:20am RINGGGG!!!! There's this clairvoyant in Randalstown I'm going to later. She channels through an eel. Holy shit! I'm dreaming! Time to get up.

An unpublished one from 9 years ago

Every couple of years I clear the attic but this clearing has to the best one yet. I do have sticking places. Anything that came from Matty's house and all that old loyal orders paraphernalia that belonged to Bert's uncles. What happened to Johnny's stuff? He must have returned it to the lodge when it was dissolved. Uncle Andy died in harness or should that be in collarette?

Banjo Man came in and I was telling him about my efforts to declutter,

I don't know what I'm going to do with all that old loyal orders stuff.

Would somebody not want it? The lodge maybe, part of their history?

All those lodges are no more.

What about Ploppy Pants?

Not his thing. He's independent.

Doesn't seem right to throw it out. I know its not our culture but...

I know. Showing respect and all that..

Or...

What?

You could just burn it.

The Present Day

So what did I do? I packed up Andy's white gloves, apron and collarette and donated them to a charity shop in Harryville. The lady in charge was delighted as she had a customer who collected that kind of memorabilia.

Showing respect and all that. We still have several framed certificates in the attic. They are rather large and the frames are in poor condition. I expect we'll leave them for the next generation to worry about.

A Week In Pictures

 

Above, are my latest purchases from our local Oxfam shop. To be added to the To Read pile. The Richard Flanagan is for Bert. Its subject matter might be too harrowing for me.

The two youngest members of our animal family. They have a peculiar relationship. One minute it's all lovey-dovey, the next... battle royal. Earlier today Chico was trailing Woody around the kitchen floor by the throat. Woody seemed to be taking masochistic delight in it. As I said, peculiar.

Thanks to a few pleasant blue sky days, I was enjoying the garden again. 

After a couple of years in the wilderness, things were taking shape. Even Bert was showing an interest. 

But today. Horrible. Wind, blustery rain, everything being blown about. What I'd give for even three pleasant days in a row.

Which doesn't put the snails off. I've just pulled five of them away from my newly planted nasturtiums. The two pictured are engaging in snail foreplay.  

I am literally experiencing empty nest syndrome. Since my last post the spotted flycatchers have flown away. They are still around, somewhere. I saw them a couple of times but oh how I miss hearing them cheeping and watching the parents fly to and fro answering their pleas for food.

They were not the only ones crying to be fed. A couple of nights ago, after I'd gone to bed, Bert strolled towards the lane. He heard the young owls calling and because he could hear them (he's pretty deaf) knew they were close. He must have disturbed them as they left their perch and flew over his head followed by a parent. I was so jealous when he told me this.

The next night I went to the same spot. I heard the young owls squeaking and then the answering call of the adult long-eared owl. That sounded like a gruff bark. Perhaps that call was meant as a warning. I didn't get to see the owls but was pleased to hear them.

Our snails weren't the only creatures caught in the sexual act.

Lilioceris lilii (Scarlet lily beetle) found fornicating on lilies. 

I've learned a lot about these little pests this past week. They're not native to these islands and have only been around since the 1990s. They have a high sex drive, and lay hundreds of eggs, they squeak when threatened and their grubs hide in squelchy blobs of their own black excrement. They also perform back flips when disturbed, land on their backs and hope not to be spotted as they present their black undersides.

The grubs which survive me will, when fully fed, hide in the soil and emerge next spring and so it begins for another year.

Nice sharp shadows on one of the sunnier days this past week. More of that, please.

Foxgloves and Flycatchers

We decided to change/upgrade our broadband provider. I'd been considering it for quite a while so when the pleasant young chap from Fibrus turned up on the doorstep we decided to take the plunge. The only issue was, there was a bit of a waiting list and it might be a month before the engineers could get around to us. Not a problem. We were content to wait. The big day arrived, and the trucks rolled into the yard bright and early. They poked around for a while, established where all the important points were, headed down the lane for a look-see, headed back up again, knocked the door and said,

Bit of a problem . That's a fast road down there.

I could only agree.

60 mph road. Someone should have come out, carried out an assessment. We'll need traffic management lights.

What could I say? It is a fast road. Stupidly fast. In my opinion, there is no need for anyone to drive at 60mph on a B road. Excepting ambulances, fire engines and, at a pinch, police vehicles on emergency calls. Not dickhead boy and girl racers or farmer's wives on the school run.

I agreed it wouldn't be safe for them and waved them on their way.

We'll reschedule, they said.

Weeks passed, many weeks. I had to phone the company. Eventually, another date was arranged, a month hence.

The big day arrived. The truck rolled into the yard. They made themselves known, said they had to wait for the traffic management guys. They hoked about, found the points, made friends with the dogs, had to get a look into the shepherd's hut. Said they might have to drill a hole through the front of the house. I didn't like the sound of that, indicated the spotted flycatcher's nest above the front door and said that on no account were the birds to be disturbed. For some reason, the one with the lip ring found this amusing. He said,

What are they? Robins?

I suspect he might have been one of those people who think that all small birds must be some class of robin. He was from Dungannon and it has been my experience that people from that part of Tyrone have a disregard for nature. I have never forgiven the contractors from Omagh who, when the Housing Excecutive were replacing the fences in Ballykeel 2, laughed at me when I complained that they were trampling on my foxgloves. It might have been over thirty years ago but I can still see the face of the fat troll who joshed,

Sure them oul things grow in the ditches where we come from!

Bert was able to explain to the fellows that there would be no need for drilling holes as there was a conduit (whatever that is) that made it unnecessary. While this was being discussed a spotted flycatcher flew over our heads on its way to the nest.

So - did we get our superfast broadband? No, we did not. The farmer's wives and the boy/girl racers had to cool their heels at the traffic lights while the engineers investigated the roadside points. Then the door knocked. It was the one with the lip ring.

We can't do it.

Why not?

Too much mud. We'll have to wait until Road Services clear the drains. 

Town folk get broadband sorted out just like that. No need for traffic lights, and no mud. Everything is fine and dandy. But I don't even care for I've got spotted flycatchers. And foxgloves growing everywhere. 

DISCLAIMER: In this blog post I have, with tongue firmly in cheek, suggested that people in parts of County Tyrone do not care for, or appreciate the natural world. Obviously, I don't really believe this.  My maternal grandparents came from Tyrone and despite having relocated to Belfast in childhood, they couldn't wait to get back to country living and whilst there instilled in my mother a deep love and respect for nature.

Out And About

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say Everything

I don’t live in a bubble. No sirree! For it seems now I am surrounded by people who do their own research on YouTube and are coming up with notions far removed from how I think about the world. Was it always like this? Y’know – I’m not sure. Back in the day, with one’s partying buddies, I’d never have dreamed of making enquiries into anyone’s voting intentions. For sure, I knew that certain folks in my friendship circle would be supporting parties that would not be for me. Back then, being a DUP supporter was not a deal-breaker.

I asked Bert this hypothetical question,

If you lived in an English constituency right now who would you vote for?

His answer,

Probably the Green Party.

My response,

This is no time to be voting for the Green Party! Not even hypothetically!

This, even though I believe all parties should be Green.

This afternoon a couple of friends from another (younger) generation called with us. One of them claims never to have voted. He told us that his mother is begging him to use his vote this time and to vote for the DUP.

My response? Don’t vote Davy, don’t go near a polling station. Have the courage of your convictions. Stay at home.

The other friend, comments,

Aah! Democracy in action.

I continue,

Tell me, Davy, right now, if you lived in an English constituency who would you vote for?

The Reform Party.

Aaargh!

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Then earlier today, I ran into someone I used to know. Our former acquaintanceship was never one that would have allowed for the interchange of political views, yet within moments of the meeting I found that she was vaccine-sceptic, anti-Sinn Fein and concerned about immigration. Thinking back I find this so different from how things used to be. Years ago we all avoided political and cultural discourse, now we seem to want to set our cards on the table straight away. Is this a good thing? Maybe it is, even it makes for some degree of discomfort.

But I’m not going to let it lie. The days of Whatever You Say, Say Nothing are over. I am Irish, at home, and in search of views on everything.

My Week

 Monday - shopping with Vee. We also went to the Secret Garden at the Ecos Centre where we found a shared interest in birds of all sizes.*

Tuesday - date with the oldies. The oldies aren't the oldies because we're old. No sirree! We are the oldies because we are old friends.

Wednedsay - a free day which I spent reading and doing chores.

Thursday - Buckna to return an antique scythe we had on loan. Martha and Evie came too and had an interesting conversation with the owner of the scythe about working in movies. 

Friday - the Bonnars called. Old friends and fellow descendants of the Family Robinson we swapped a Chilean Lantern tree for pansies. I believe we got the better deal. 

Saturday - I went to Martha's dance school's recital at the Braid and had the best time. It was so pleasurable and my face ached from smiling. The entire thing was a delight and Martha made us proud. She shone. No doubt, all the other parents and grandparents were just as proud as we were but... she shone.

The Banjos were here when I got back home. Jazzer made a delicious dinner but she lost it at the rice. So I made the rice. There was music (YouTube) and dancing (Jazzer). I wish I could dance. Still, I give it the occasional go. Bert never, ever dances in public. I asked him today if he ever danced when no one was around and he admitted he did. If it's a good tune. Jazzer might be able to dance but, as usual, her music choices are shite. Gabrielle? Taylor Swift? 

Sunday - a quiet day which I needed. Finished reading my Tana French and can now speak a version of snotty-nosed teenager. Apparently, I only need to say Hello? and Excuse Me! a lot.

Tomorrow I go shopping with Vee. I have to buy a new kettle.

*There are a nest of coal-tits nesting at the top of my window. A few feet over from that, over the front door, the spotted fly-catchers are sitting on eggs. And at night we can hear the young long-eared owls calling for food.

One From Nine Years Ago

 

Dunminning Cottage, 22nd most viewed. 785 views

This picture was taken ten years ago. The cottage has been re-thatched since then, and according to the internet, it is up for sale. Whether or not it sold I do not know but the asking price was around 60 thousand. It seems reasonable except that it is tiny and needs a lot of work. It dates from around the 1830s and was originally inhabited by the toll keeper of Dunminning Bridge. Cousin Margaret says she went to school near there and she remembers it having a shop where she bought her sweets. Back in the 1950s and 60s people would have a little shop in their house selling sweets and a small selection of groceries. Agnes Hughes ran one from her house at the top of our road. I'd go there sometimes instead of our Granny's petrol station because Agnes did not moan at us the way Granny did. She did give us 20 questions as to what the neighbours were up to. I tried very hard to keep my guard up but it was difficult not to let things slip.

22nd most interesting on Flickr, 179 views

This picture was taken in November 2012. My lovely Bonnie died the following June. She was slowing down by then but still enjoying her life.

The light was beautiful and the dogs blended with the Autumn foliage. And Bonnie was having a perfect day.

Another picture of those two, was taken by Hannah, whose animal photography is excellent.

The Twelve, June 2024

I finished six books in May.

Hagseed by Margaret Atwood, a most enjoyable romp.

Five Days At Memorial by Sheri Fink – I’d been reading this forever. Is it right to dose the elderly and infirm with opiates in a disaster situation? The jury is out.

Dusklands by J.M. Coetzee. The first part was a struggle, the second less so. It was brutal in parts.

The Fifth Risk – I read this fast, enjoyed it, learned stuff, and then forgot it.

The Axeman’s Carnival by Catherine Chidgey – where a magpie ( Gymnorhina tibicen) is the main protagonist. This was so good, a recommendation from my New Zealand cousin, also called Catherine. I passed it straight on to Hannah and I expect that when she has finished it, Zoe will love it too. Thank you, Kiwi Catherine!

Back Home by Michelle Magorian, a children's book by the author of Goodnight, Mr. Tom. I read this one quickly, a story set in the post-war years. Moderately enjoyable, the heroine was a cheeky brat and there was rather too much psychological and physical abuse of children described and not enough censure of said abuse. 

Onwards to the June Twelve.

These are the books in my reading basket right now. Failing Peace and Pet are recent additions, yet to find their way to the front of the queue. In other words, not cracked but I am so looking forward to Pet. The Sara Roy will be a duty read. I need to educate myself about Palestine and Israel and this book has come recommended.

Hannah has been urging me to read The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure forever and I’ve only just started it. Maybe too soon to say but I think I will like it.

The Kingsolver is going slowly as are the Feeney and Bainbridge. None as slow as Lost Children which I picked up in a Sue Ryder in Fakenham. I’ve been reading that since last October.

I’ll Be Gone In The Dark was recommended by Mel and I like it. The Cabaret of Plants has not lived up to its early promise. I’m on Bird’s Eye Primulas and am underwhelmed. I’m expecting to enjoy the Tana French and the Elif Shafak is beguiling.

Easter 1916, is an educational read, so far I’m unmoved.

Since I posted the long list of all the books I’ve read since the multi-book project began I found that I left out a few.One was Prophet Song by Paul Lynch, a recent read on loan from Zoe. Did I enjoy it? I believe I did. It was dark and dystopic but I think,  just the smallest bit hopeful. For life goes on. Until it doesn’t.

Another one, finished a long time ago was André Alexis, Fifteen Dogs. Sad and beautiful and it made me cry. I may need to go back to it.

My Week

 On Monday I picked Vee up and we went grocery shopping. I had my list and whizzed around Tesco in no time, then raced out to the car and read my book (The Axeman’s Carnival). Vee must have been in nippy form too as I only had a few pages read before she was out piling bottled water into the back of the car. I never buy bottled water. Am I odd? Afterwards we went to the Ecos Centre coffee shop to find it closed. Why do places close on Bank Holidays. I find that odd. So, it was on to Creative Gardens for a light lunch. I took a photograph of mine and sent it to Bert for complete badness. Am I a bad bitch? Answer – yes.

Back home I baked Bert a birthday cake and made a start on a curry, Mangalorean Catholic style. Don’t know about you but it was new to me. And it was hot!!! The reason I was preparing Tuesday’s food on Monday? I had a coffee date.

So up on Tuesday morning, chores, shower, ironing… Ironing? Yes. Ironing. Meeting one’s peers one wants to look one’s best. As I was about to leave the house there was an issue with a mouse. A shrew mouse in the slavering jaws of Woody de Cat. I saved it and deposited a protesting Woody in the house. I was going to be at least 5 minutes late and me well-known for my punctuality.

Off to Portglenone, found the coffee shop, a new one. Despite being slightly late I was first to arrive. Again. I bagged the best table in the shop. (Won’t they be pleased.) Settled down to wait. Five minutes pass. Then another five. I had a little niggle. I knew I was in the right place but was it the right time? I checked our WhatsApp group. It was the right place and the right time but I was early. A whole week early. All I could do was laugh.

Back home to finish the preparations for Bert’s birthday supper. Frosted his cake (chocolate orange cake, Nigella recipe) and complete the curry. It was hot, hot, hot. Decided to make a milder one for the girls, Thai red curry. They do like spicy food but not too spicy.

All went well. The curries were good, and the cake was rich and delicious.

Waiting for the cake

Wednesday was an at-home day. I started cleaning the larder and became overwhelmed. So much stuff came out of it, I wondered how I was going to fit it all back in, although dumping all the out-of-date stuff helped. I abandoned the project and had an early night which I needed as I’d been wakened by the dogs at five am and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

Thursday. I finished the larder and was so pleased with the achievement that I kept opening the doors, looking in and feeling delight. The rest of the house a tip but the larder was clean, fresh and well-ordered. Then off to pick up the girls who are very happy to have finished their summer exams. They asked if the could have Netflix and I agreed and half an hour later I found them watching Bridgerton. Oh dear. If I remember rightly the first season was quite risque in parts. M said she was coping but that E was finding it a little cringey.

Friday. This morning, when I woke up I found myself recalling a not unpleasant dream. I tried to bring it back – something about Donald Trump in court, being found guilty of crimes. Then it dawned on me that this had really happened. What a way to start the day.

Despite this, I was irritable this morning. My larder joy had dissipated and I had to deal with other chores. Of course, just as I’d finished mopping the kitchen floor, Bert got up and he and the dogs trampled all over it. I told him about Mr Trump and he said, Who told you? This annoyed me. It’s as if he thinks I am not capable of finding out things for myself and must wait until someone else informs me. Which is how he (mostly) experiences the world. 

Later on we were called upon by two young lads, one anti-woke and the other fearful of Islam. They annoyed the fuck out of me. I wonder where they get their news?

 

Best part of the week? Finding that the spotted flycatchers have taken up residence in their old home above the front door.

Same Time, Same Place: A Memoriam

St MacNissius Church, Tannaghmore

Earlier tonight, my daughter Zoe and I attended a memorial Mass in Tannaghmore for my father's brothers, Shaun and Brendan Byrne, who were shot dead by loyalist paramilitaries during the 1974  UWC strike, a strike that brought this province to a near standstill and ultimately collapsed the power-sharing government. 

That shooting was exactly fifty years ago. We'd been to Mass that night too. Friday night Mass in Tannaghmore Chapel was an institution, everyone (that could) attended. After Mass we went home to a dark house, the power being off again. Our parents left to call on family in Randalstown and were away when the news came. A shooting at the pub

I wouldn't have been the only person tonight who found themselves in the same church they'd prayed in fifty years ago. There would have been others who had knelt at those pews a few days later when they attended Shaun and Brendan's Funeral Mass. Yet there weren't that many of us tonight. It took the younger people, some of them Shaun's grandchildren, grandchildren he never got to meet, to make the crowd. Fifty years is a long time. 

Forgetting Foxgloves: House & Home 1

 

I have been looking through my external hard drive for inspiration for a blog post. This picture comes from a file I've named House & Home and it was taken about six years ago. I wish I'd remembered to sow foxgloves last year because I love them so much. Even though they are prolific self-seeders, two years of neglecting my garden has depleted them and those coming on are sparse and growing in the oddest places. Next year will be better. If I remember to buy seed. Making a note of it right now!

One From 12 Years Ago Featuring Father Vincent Davey

This post refers to events that happened in the late 1960s so almost ancient history. Father Davey, the Parish Priest of Antrim during my childhood, was quite the character, a sportsman, missionary and community worker. He got on so well with the people of Antrim that he was sometimes referred to as the Protestant Priest. He was also the first dead person I ever laid eyes on when his body lay 'in state' in St Comgall's in 1970.

And so, on to the recycled post.

In A Graveyard

So that is St Patrick's Day and Mother's Day over for another year. We had a few friends around last night and the talk came round to parading. Swisser complained that she had been held up earlier by an Orange parade and Bert and me had a little disagreement when I opined that I thought Orange Men only paraded on St Patrick's Day for complete twistedness and he opined that I was a sectarian bigot.

Usually on Mother's Day it slips my mind that I am a mother and have been so for 37 years. It always seemed far more important that I was a daughter and I had a mother. I visited her grave today and left a little posy that I plucked from my garden. Hannah went with me. I took her photograph by the grave and afterwards I said, “Were you smiling in that picture?” and she said, “Yes. Everybody puts on a solemn face by a grave. I didn't want to.” I've never been in St Comgall's cemetery with Hannah alone and we walked around and I told her stories about the people I knew who were buried there.

There was an Aunt who died of cancer when I was a teenager. She had the most beautiful smile and she loved to laugh. Her daughter was seven years older than me and she had a really quirky sense of humour. One day I went to visit my Aunt and my cousin was there as well. She came out with some remark (I forget it now) that I found so funny that I laughed until I wet myself. My Aunt was tickled pink at this disaster and she laughed until tears ran down her face. She died not long after this.

I knew so many stories about people who were buried there. There wasn't the time to tell her all of them but I did tell her one about Father Vincent Davey who was Parish Priest in Antrim when I was a girl. In those days the Parish Priest was a figure of authority and although Father Davey seemed to be a jovial sort of man, we children were taught to fear him. Father Davey had been a missionary priest in Nigeria from 1922-1932 and was still devoted to that cause. He was very skilled at raising funds or, to put it another way, squeezing money out of his parishioners. As I remember, the bulk of his sermons were fund-raising drives and exhortations for money. Still the people of the Parish would far rather have given their money to the Missions or the Parish than to the Government.

I would have been around fifteen and becoming very wilful and defiant and my parents were despairing of me. Matty had the bright idea of sending me in to Father Davey for a good talking to and I was given the busfare to Antrim and instructed to go and see him. I can't have been that bad a girl or I wouldn't have went near the Parochial House but anyway I stood at that bus stop and I got on that bus and I was trembling with fear and I'm sure there are people who've gone to the scaffold who were not as afraid as me.

I got off the bus at the Chapel Corner and presented myself at the Parochial House. I knocked the door and, after what seemed like a long time, it was opened by the old dragon of a housekeeper. She looked down at me with great disdain. “Yes. What do you want?” I quaked and said in a very tiny voice. “I'm here to see Father Davey.” She went off and a few minutes later he appeared at the door. I must have interrupted his meal for he was wiping his mouth. He was pink and shiny and not terribly cross looking at all. I said, “My mammy sent...” He stopped me, looked at me benignly and he said, “Now – you're to be a good girl, say your prayers, work hard at school and do what your Mammy and Daddy tell you,” and with that he smiled at me and closed the door. I was delighted to have got off so lightly and made my way home with a far lighter heart.

I did not make Matty much wiser as to what had passed between me and the Parish Priest and I'm afraid that I did not take his advice to heart for I did not say my prayers, nor did I work hard at school or do what my parents told me. But I probably should have.

Missing the Northern Lights

 I woke up on Saturday morning, early as usual, let the dogs out, made coffee, then went to my desk and completed Wordle in four tries. As always, I opened Twitter/X and posted my results so that a fellow Wordler west of Dingle might see it. I think he and I are the only two folks left in the world who still do this. But what else had he posted? Only the Aurora Borealis over Mount Brandon! I was delighted for him and just a little envious.

I sipped my coffee and noodled over to the WhatsApp family group. And there was another photograph of the Aurora. This time it was Leitrim Sister who’d caught it in the bog. Wow! Aren’t they lucky dogs in 26 I thought to myself. I carried on scrolling. What’s this. The Northern Lights in Crumlin? County Antrim! Where I live. This was my niece Neesh who’d seen the amazing light show. Her photos were the best too. I might have to steal one. Or two.

Photos by Naoise

Next to Facebook to see whose been looking at Nelly’s Garden and what do I find. Vee’s brother Geordie, over at Cardonaghy, only a few fields away from here, okay more than a few, I went on Google Maps and counted them, fifteen fields away but that takes into account that the fields around here are quite small. Anyway, I digress, Geordie too had photos of the Aurora and there’s me slept through the whole thing. Raging!

At least I had Evie’s concert to take my mind off it. This took place at Wellington Church near Galgorm. I passed Geordie’s house on the way and there he was, the lucky beggar, sitting sunning himself at his front door. Evie’s concert was wonderful. I did not take any photographs and was cross with all the people who did as they kept obstructing my view of Evie and her cello. The crossness did not last as the concert was so good. I was feeling happy on the way home and when I passed Geordie’s house we waved at each other. No hard feelings about missing the Aurora.

There were high hopes that it would be visible later that night which is why I found myself standing in a silage field with the Haribos at 11 o’clock, way past my bedtime. Ditto Zoe and the girls. Dave is a night owl so was normal for him although he’d be more likely to be on the sofa than a field at that time of the evening. It was not to be. At the crucial time the sky clouded over and there were no Northern Lights for us.

I was back down the lane, past the silage field today, all by myself, headphones on, plugged into a podcast, fast forwarding to episode 8 to hear my own voice in my ears. This from was the interview I gave at the BBC back in March.* I was slightly in dread of hearing myself but it was OK.

Later on, I listened to the entire series and I'd recommend it to anyone interested in the history of the Northern Ireland conflict.

* Ganching and I were both invited to take part in a BBC Ulster programme about the UWC Worker’s Strike.

The Things I Learn From Books

 

Don't even ask me where I picked this one up, for I don't recall. This week it went into the reading basket, as I always want at least four of the twelve to be non-fiction. I read the introduction this morning and know I will love this book.

The new thing I learned was on the first page. Welwitschia mirabilis, a plant found in the Namib Desert, never grows more than its first two seedling leaves, leaves which grow to an immense length and which can live for thousands of years. How amazing is that? 

Welwitschia is named after an Austrian botanist, Friedrich Welwitsch, who was the first to describe the plant in 1859. The 'mirabilis' means marvellous, amazing. Latin may not be spoken much today but, thanks to Linnaeus, all plant people have a bit of it, even me. 

Some folk think that Welwitschia is an ugly plant and yet some people still want to grow it for themselves. I checked eBay for availability and a company is selling 10 seeds for £47.99. I'm not going to bother though as the company is in China and I couldn't be certain that I wouldn't end up  with some other plant. Also, I don't even have a heated conservatory. Coming from a desert I'm sure the plants wouldn't appreciate the climate in Cullybackey.

Still, I would like to see Welwitschia in real life. Preferably without visiting Namibia or Angola. Nothing against those countries except they're a bit far away. I must have missed it when I visited Hortus Botanicus in Amsterdam for, according to Flickr, it was there in 2012. Unless it perished before I got there.

This illustration would suggest that Welwitschia has more than two leaves but over the decades the desert winds shred them so that there appear to be many more. Then, over the centuries the ends of the leaves disintegrate and blow away. Truly amazing.  Another thing. They can be eaten*. I wouldn't. 

*Indigenous people eat the cone of this plant by eating it raw or baking it in hot ashes. One of its names, onyanga, translates to 'onion of the desert'. (Wikipedia)

The Twelve, May 2024

 

It's been five years since I began reading multiple books simultaneously and, since then, I have read approximately 224 books. There may be a few I still need to record. To be honest, I've been slacking. That works out at less than four a month and at that rate, should I live to be eighty years old, I'll only be able to read another 448 books. Some of  which are yet to be written. Recommendations, please.

Hagseed is my favourite of the current batch, with the Michael Lewis and the McNamara a close second. The Sheri Fink I've been dragging through and the J.M. Coetzee (his first book) has been a struggle. I've just completed The Vietnam Project and will be moving on to The Murderous Boer (my words, not his). I've barely started the Feeney, the Chidgey and the Shafak. All three seem promising and, coincidentally, two of them feature magpies. 

The following is a list of the 224 books I've read or am currently reading. Only look at it if you can be bothered. I won't mind.