The Oldest Blogger

This blog, Nelly’s Garden is twenty years old today. Back when I started I believed I was the Oldest Blogger in the village and maybe I was. Two decades later I’m certain sure I’m the oldest blogger in Cully and maybe even the only one – for blogging is not what it used to be.

So, how did I spend my blog's big day? Quietly. My only outing was to the pharmacy to collect my meds. The rest of the day I spent tootling around the house and garden. There was one big excitement – a blue butterfly on the borage.

This year has been terrible for butterflies and moths. Usually, in August, we see lots of Red Admirals, Small Tortoiseshells and Peacocks. The month is nearly gone and I haven’t spotted one of those. A few whites and browns but that was that. So the blue one caused quite a stir. I’ve never seen one in our garden before. It was difficult to get a good photo ID as it flew quickly and kept its wings folded when it fed. But it was lovely in flight, almost as if some of the borage petals had taken wing.

I'm not sure which of the blues this is. I think maybe Holly Blue?

Other pictures taken after I got tired of chasing my solitary butterfly visitor.

New Zealand flax grown by me from seed collected in Fanad, Donegal. It might be a pest in the Antipodes but to me it is exotic. Sadly no starlings but they will come.

My new wine-coloured hydrangea. I bought it from Ben Vista and it cost me the price of a couple of decent bottles of wine (or three from Tescos). I treated myself to it as I'm currently taking a break from alcohol. 

And that concludes Nelly's twentieth birthday post.

Thanks for reading!

One From Eighteen Years Ago

 

Hunting The Rhubarb

Yesterday was Kerry Sister's mumbly-mumbleth birthday. As her birthday was almost totally forgotten last year we decided to mark the occasion with a Rhubarb Hunt. I told them I'd found rhubarb growing in the moss but no one believed me. So I led an expedition to prove that I was right.

The Kerry Sister and the Leitrim Sister on the hunt for The Rhubarb. The Kerry Sister is kicking spoor for clues. The Leitrim Sister prefers to sniff the air for that elusive Rhubarb scent.

The Rhubarb has been spotted! Leitrim Sister says it is a lot of bollocks and that it is False Rhubarb.

The Rhubarb

Bert is horticulturally highly qualified and he thinks it is Rhubarb. It looks like, smells like, tastes like, and smokes like Rhubarb.

Macy prefers to wallow in a moss hole.

The Mystery Solved

Rhubarb growing in Drumkeeran Moss remained a puzzle until, six years later, I met Bobby.

Bobby was Lord O'Neill's man on the ground, the mossy ground, to be precise. The day I met him he was admiring a patch of narcissi that he'd planted the previous autumn. He told me that his wife was throwing the bulbs out so he thought he'd plant them in the moss to see how they'd do. Now, as far as I know, he just got the one year out of them as I never saw them again. I did ask him If he'd ever tried rhubarb and he said he had but it hadn't made much of a plant. The mystery solved!

Teach Your Grandma

 How do I know that my two oldest grandchildren are growing up fast?

1. They have to bend down to give me a goodbye hug.

2. The younger one showed me a far better way to put a fresh duvet cover on.

3. They are house-sitting for Nellybert on Saturday night while we are visiting Doctor Dede and Dmitri in Leitrim.

Re number 3. I might have slight reservations about this, as I had dreamed this morning that an acquaintance of ours had brought Gary Glitter to visit us. In this dream, I was very pleasant to the predator until it dawned on me who he was. Then I was horrified for two reasons. The first was that my siblings (especially Gan) would be disgusted with me; the second was that my older granddaughter was upstairs. I ran to warn her then I came to my senses and ordered the fiend and my now ex-acquaintance out of the house never to darken my door again.

I learned something from this dream  This acquaintance cannot be trusted. I may ban him anyway. It's what my subconscious wants me to do.

One more thing -  no need to worry about the young ones house-sitting on Saturday night as there will be a fierce Aunt and an even fiercer dog on-site at all times.

Fierce dog. Remember, appearances can be deceptive.

Upcoming Anniversaries

On the 16th August, Bert and I will have been legally married for 16 years. 

I wrote this post the week before our big day.

The fellows on the site are threatening to give me a 'doing' tomorrow. For those who might not know a 'doing' is a form of ritual humiliation visited upon a person who is about to embrace the matrimonial state. It can involve flour, water, balloons, bondage and a host of other embarrassments.

Obviously, I've informed them that under no circumstances need they dare come near me. After all, I am old enough to be their mother and it would be most undignified. I have cited Health & Safety regulations, the wrongness of wasting their employer's time and the promise that if one of them lays as much as a finger on me I'll be bringing charges of sexual harassment and assault.

I think they've got the message.

On the 27th of August this blog, Nelly's Garden will be twenty years old.

This was my first post.

I've been threatening to do this for some time now so while speaking to daughter one on the phone tonight I said "Tell me daughter, what shall I do?" She said "Go to Blogger." So I did and several moments later here I am writing my first post.

So shall I introduce myself? I am old enough to have three daughters all left home. I live in the country. I like flowers & dogs (among other things) I work in the 'caring professions' and I spend far too much time on computers.

Blogs are a recent thing with me. Daughter one has been doing it for a year and I've been pondering it for 6 months. Where it will take me I know not.

Then, on an unspecified date near the end of this month, the First Daughter celebrate her half-century. And it only seems like a week or two since she was 40. Where does time go??

There were no blogs back in 1974. No mobile phones, no laptops or internet. I may have written something in a diary. I don't believe she even had her photograph taken until quite a few days later. 

As you can see, I was very pleased with her.

And I still am.

Belfast

I have been getting out and about recently and have used my rail card three times in nine days. 

My first outing was to Portrush with Bert, Hannah and the girls. That would be the annual trip to Barry's Amusements, which is now known as Curry's Amusements. As Martha and Evie are now taller than everyone except Bert they no longer go on the tamer rides. Instead, it is all the scary ones like The Beast and The Waltzer. They may have gone on The Beast five times. 

Of course, Bert and I refused to go on anything as we don't like having our bones shaken about. Instead, we strolled around Portrush like the oldsters we are and looked after the incredibly well-behaved Chico for Hannah. It was, while doing this, that we decided that it was time to lead-train Cleo so that she too could enjoy excursions to the Port. She is, after all, more than 15 months old.

The girls and Chico

My second train journey was a jaunt to Belfast with Vee. We went to the Botanic Gardens to visit the Palm House, the Tropical Ravine, the Medicine Garden and the Museum. It was an enjoyable outing, especially as Vee had never been there before. My favourite parts were the Medicinal Garden (which is new) and the Carravaggios, which are currently on display at the Museum.

Then today, Bert and I took the train to Belfast to visit Smithfield and St George's Market. I knew there was to be an anti-immigration (racist and anti-Islam) protest but did not really expect it to amount to much. But on our way back from Smithfield we found ourselves amid the protest. There were protestors flying  British, Irish and Israeli flags at the top of Royal Avenue. There didn't seem like that many people and most of them seemed to be onlookers. There was a long line of PSNI land-rovers parked bumper to bumper across the road, each with at least one officer in riot gear standing beside them. On the far side of the police vehicles were the counter-protestors. We went to that side.  Both sides were chanting at the other with the counter-protestors making the most noise. There were more of them. Yet, they seemed less threatening. Maybe that was because I agreed with their stance.  

After all that we headed in the direction of St George's Market. I re-upped my Cordyceps Tincture at Spore Shore and we had a coffee and a delicious (shared) brownie. We were joined at our table by a lovely woman who asked us what was happening in town. She was waiting for her daughter to collect her and was concerned that there would be disruptions. We chatted. Our companion was an artist, of Armenian descent and had been born in Haifa. Her family had suffered turmoil both in Israel and Cyprus. I wish we could have spoken to her longer but there was a train to catch. I could not help but think that if the Irish people who are so nationalistic and anti-immigration had any idea how lucky they are to live here at this time of relative stability we might have more compassion for those who have had to uproot their lives and go elsewhere.

Back home I heard that things had turned ugly in Belfast when the anti-immigration crowd headed to South Belfast to protest outside the Belfast Islamic Centre. On the way a Turkish Cafe was attacked, windows broken, outdoor furniture smashed to pieces. Vee and I had walked past both places on Wednesday. I was telling her how much I loved the diversity of the area never dreaming that a couple of days later both places would be attacked. At the time of writing I don't know what will have happened other than that the mosque is under police protection.

Anyone who visits this house in the coming weeks had better not utter one word of support for the racists or they might find the welcome mat pulled from right under their expensive trainers.  

The Twelve, August 2024

 

Five books were completed in July.

Remote Sympathy by Catherine Chidgey

This was incredibly good,  and I'd recommend it. I passed it to Bert after I'd read it.

How They Broke Britain by James O'Brien

If you know James, you know James. He was hard on  Jeremy Corbyn who must have found himself in unholy company.

Animal Dreams by Barbara Kingsolver

I enjoyed this less than other books by Kingsolver.  The heroine was more than slightly annoying. Still, I did learn a lot about Mojave culture.

The Story of Lucy Gault by William Trevor

Lucy Gault reminded me, a little, of Elsie Dinsmore with her scrupulousity and pig-headedness. Thankfully William Trevor is a much better writer than Elsie's creator, so I enjoyed Lucy's story very much. Passed it to Hannah.

10 Minutes 38 Seconds In This Strange World by Elif Shafak

At first, I wondered if I could get into a novel that introduced its main character, a prostitute dumped in a trash can, after she had been murdered. It might have been brutal but it was marvellous. It's my first book by Shafak but it won't be the last. Passed on to Hannah.

Incidentally, it was the cover of 10 Minutes that first appealed. Which just goes to show that covers do matter.If it is done right even the blurb can be part of the design.

Books added to The Twelve. 

Let The Great World Spin by Colum McCann

The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry

The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard

The Emigrants By W.G. Sebald

The Colony by Audrey Magee

Of these, I expect to enjoy McCann, am already irritated by some of the characters in The Colony which may well be the point.

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.