Strange Picture

I have no memory of this picture being taken. It features myself, (curly hair, snub nose) my sister, (bonnet) and my older cousins Eilish and Roisin. I haven't a clue who the half-faced boy is. I guess it was taken in 1957/58. Bert wasn't even born! I am four, sister two, cousins 11 and 8.

I like the picture because no-one (except the unknown boy) is looking at the photographer.

A Shooting At The Pub

On Friday 24^th May 1974, Day 10 of the UWC strike we went, as usual, to evening Mass in Tannaghmore chapel. As always we were in good time and there was the regular group of men standing chatting at the chapel door. This had recently become an ordeal for me, passing those men, neighbours and family members, for I was 20 years old, six months pregnant and unmarried. Forty years ago this was no light matter. John Heffron and Uncle Sean smiled and nodded at me but Uncle Brendan was not on speaking terms with me and made no acknowledgement. This was hurtful but understandable. I'm sure, that if given the chance, once my daughter was born, he would have come round. Brendan had a great fondness for children and was a very well-loved uncle.

After Mass my parents went to visit Mum's family in Randalstown. The first hint of something wrong was a series of strange phone calls. My younger sister took the first call that alerted us to something badly wrong. A shooting at the pub. A neighbour called to the door and took my brother down to Randalstown to inform my parents. I took a call from a woman who did not identify herself.

“Is that Byrne's?”
“It is.”
“Tell Sean we'll be over for a carry-out.”

There was laughter in the background. It sounded like they were having a party. I took it to be a malicious call.

The younger children were hysterical with fear. They thought that maybe the gunmen were coming to our house too. I tried to reassure them. By the time the tragic news came to us the gang had left the Wayside Halt and were already in police custody.

The thing is, the RUC were well aware of the gangs' activity. They were a ramshackle band of UVF, UDA and other loyalists who had come down to our area to reinforce the strike. Around thirty in number, they were armed with cudgels and sticks and at least one carried a loaded firearm. A neighbour of ours saw them at their work in the Harryville area of Ballymena where they smashed up pubs that were open in defiance of the strike. Their way back to Belfast took them past the Wayside Halt public house and it was there that a gun was used to shoot my uncles. That is when the police went in pursuit. That neighbour reported their activities in Harryville at the time. Had the RUC moved in Ballymena my uncles would not have died that night.

So there it was. Two devastated widows, eight fatherless children, a community torn apart, a loss felt as keenly today as on that terrible evening 40 years ago.

That link above is well worth reading as it is my sister's account of the events of that night and there are details that I have not included here.

Forty Years Ago

In my last post I wrote a little about the Dublin-Monaghan bombings that occurred 40 years ago during the Ulster Worker's Council (UWC) strike. I did not add that I was pregnant with my first child at this time. Perhaps it was being pregnant that made me feel so thin-skinned about everything that had happened. I remember walking at dusk feeling as if a cloud of dread was enveloping me. I felt terribly apprehensive to be bringing new life into the world at such a dangerous and precarious time.

Daddy brought the terrible news to us. A young man, Michael Mallon, from Cargin, near Toome, had been found beaten and shot on the outskirts of Belfast. He was twenty years old, a student at Queen's University in Belfast. I did not know Mickey but my sister did and our family knew his family. My father and my sister went to his funeral. So did my Uncle Sean, who is supposed to have remarked that the funeral was a big one and he hoped not to be at such a one for a very long time. His own funeral would be held less than a week later.

Mickey Mallon was the closest that the Troubles had come to us but it would be closer again within days. I will write about it on the anniversary.

Michael Joseph Mallon was found murdered, at the age of 20, forty years ago today.

Looking Back In Anger

In February 1973, during the first Loyalist Workers Strike, I was working in the Ballymena branch of Crazy Prices. There was a prolonged power cut and all the freezers powered down. Urged by our managers we worked on. Until the cry went up, 'the Tartan Gangs are coming!' And sure enough, gangs of youths, wearing denim, big boots and tartan scarves were rampaging along Broughshane Street, smashing windows as they went. Managers hastily locked the doors and told us to get ourselves off home but not before allowing us to help ourselves from the freezers. So it was I phoned Daddy to come and rescue me and my big cardboard box full of frozen food. Seamus was not afraid of any Tartan Gang.

That is my abiding memory of the 1973 Loyalist strike. Tartan Gangs and a surfeit of frozen food to which we were certainly not accustomed. Of course the power cuts meant that we couldn't refrigerate the food and a good deal of it had to be thrown out anyway.

This month is the 40^th anniversary of the second, and even more sinister, Loyalist strike, the one that brought down the power sharing executive, and the one that Ian Paisley and his ilk supported to the hilt.  

Today is also the 40^th anniversary of the co-ordinated bombings in Dublin and Monaghan. On the third day of the UWC strike thirty-three people died, the greatest number of people killed on any one day. A full-term unborn infant is not included in the list of dead but tiny sisters Jacqueline and Anne Marie O'Brien are. They were 17 and 5 months respectively and their parents died with them.

No-one has ever been charged in relation to the murders in Dublin and Monaghan.

It was thirty-three years later, again in the month of May, that Ian Paisley, who had been so vehemently opposed to the idea of power-sharing, accepted the post of First Minister of Northern Ireland, in an assembly that included Martin McGuinness of Sinn Fein as Deputy First Minister. It is rumoured that the two of them got on so well they were dubbed the Chuckle Brothers.

Boring Post About Being Happy

Apparently accounts of happiness are rather tedious, whereas tales of misery are tremendously interesting. This makes sense. If happiness were interesting there would be no country music, no soap operas, no Game of Thrones, no murder mysteries, no Celeb Culture. Imagine a world where Kerry Katona had a trouble-free birth or Katie Price had a happy marriage. How horrific would it be that a soap opera wedding should pass without incident, or a Game of Thrones wedding pass without mass carnage and regicide? Unhappiness and misery are very newsworthy.

This is why today's post will be boring.

I started my day with an early morning dream.

Other people's dreams are so very tedious, are they not? But this is my blog and I'll be boring if I want to.

My dream was tremendously entertaining and quite surreal - as dreams often are. My younger brother and I were driving slowly down the length of the road we lived on for most of my young life. And where he still lives. It was the gloaming. Things had changed. There were new houses on the road and  many of them had the same interesting flower growing in the gardens. It was tree height, but not a tree. It was a sky-blue campanula, gigantic, with flowers bigger than a human head. And there were birds roosting in plum trees at the side of the road. At first I thought they were magpies but then saw they were jays, hundreds of them. Just as campanulas do not grow higher than houses, neither do jays flock in hundreds. We decided to visit our neighbour. She was just as she always was, always has been for more than fifty years. And this too was surreal for, in real life, our neighbour is not as she was.

I was wakened by someone calling - Mary. For this is my real name, not Nelly. I pretend to Nelly. It was part of the dream and it called me to wakefulness.

An enjoyable dream can just set up the day. There was good weather. I did necessary chores then I spent the rest of the day gardening. Nothing makes me happier. I did not have to go out, visitors were scarce. At six I started dinner, at seven we ate it, at eight I poured us a gin, at nine I had a bath. Happy all day. What an achievement. What a delight.

Dinner Plans

I have had a busy few days. On Friday I went to Garden Show Ireland at the Castle Grounds in Antrim where I heard a very interesting talk by the delightful Alys Fowler. The talk was a tiny bit shambolic as is, apparently, her own garden, but no less charming and interesting for all that. I know it has changed my mind about a few things and I am determined to make great improvements to my soil and adopt the no-dig approach to growing. I will also be more tolerant of slugs. Apparently they are doing us a favour by eating seedlings that we'd never get around to planting anyway. Still feeding any I find to the hens.

Alys Fowler - my heroine

Plants people in search of treasure

On Saturday I went to cheer on the participants in the Giro d'Italia as they raced through Ballymena. Very exciting even though they were out of town again in a matter of moments.

Photograph taken by ZMB on Flickr 

Tonight Nellybert went for drinks with the First Husband and His Beloved. The carers were late in coming to Pearlie and the most curious one commented on me being 'dressed up.' I told her I was going into town to meet the First Husband. She said,

I don't like the sound of that.

I said,

Don't worry. Bert is coming too.

That seems very strange to me.

It's not. Far better that people get along. 

What does Bert think?

Oh Bert gets on well with FH.

Does he?

Oh yes. I only hope he gets on as well with my next husband.

You! You're not near wise!

So, FH and Beloved are taking the girls out for the day tomorrow so that First Daughter can get a wriggle on with her sowing and planting. I'll make dinner. We are having vegetable lasagne and rhubarb crumble as FH doesn't eat meat. Another busy day ahead.

Throwback Thursday

There is this thing on Facebook called Throwback Thursday and, as far as I can see, it is an excuse for oldies (like me) to upload pictures of ourselves of when we were young and gorgeous so that our Facebook Friends can comment on how adorable we were.

So - as this is Thursday and in the spirit of Throwing Back, here are a series of snaps of  Bert when he was a young lad just turned 46 after a night camping out in the poly tunnel.

He has quite a history of sleeping under glass and plastic. There was that time when he slept in the greenhouse but that was before I knew him. He was about 17 at the time and had been to a wedding party where he got rip-roaringly drunk. Concerned that his parents would be displeased at the state he'd got himself into he decided to sleep it off for an hour or two in the afore-mentioned greenhouse. It must have been comfortable in there for it was mid-morning when he staggered into the kitchen in his best suit, covered in dead vegetation and compost.

Daytime napping is another thing and on a pleasant day a poly tunnel can be delightfully warm. One day, a few years back, when Bert was producing and selling bedding plants, he glanced at a mound of protective garden fleece and thought it looked so inviting. Before he knew he was trying it out and the day being balmy, and the temperature inside the tunnel so warm and cosy, he was soon asleep. Until, some time afterwards, he was awakened by a nudge from a matronly Clarks shoe and opening one eye, saw he was being gazed upon by two concerned looking elderly ladies one of whom was saying to the other, "Do you think he might be dead?"

Wouldn't that be a picture worth having?

We Go To The Bann

Judy writes...

Moms said to Hans, shall we go to Portglenone Forest, check the bluebells? I'm sure the dogs would enjoy the walk. My ears pricked up. Whenever did a dog not enjoy a walk? And Portglenone is particularly good. Lots of other dogs. Lots of pungent smells. Lots of sticks. And the river.

First of, I found a ball. Hans threw it into the river, stupid Jess got it and lost it. I looked everywhere but it was gone. Gone forever. I was gutted. Meanwhile Hans starts throwing sticks. Jess was in like Flynn but I wanted my ball. No joy. Gone forever. I loved that ball. Only had it for two minutes but it mattered to me.

Winning

Ah well. Sticks it is then. I'm a far stronger swimmer than Jess. Beat her by a mile. Ziggy the wimp wouldn't go in any farther than his knees and, as we all know, that's not very far.

Then disaster struck. That rotten sneaky wee bitch mugged me. Snatched my prize right out of my jaws. I was gutted.

This was turning out to be a rotten day. That thieving, smug wee shit was grinning all over her face.

Thought she was so bloody smart. I've never been so upset in my entire life. This was worse than that time Rusty tossed me up in the air. And it got even worse. Moms made me and Smug Face sit in the back of the van on the way home while Wimp Face Ziggy got to sit in the front. She said it was because we were wet. Moral being if you are a cowardy custard like the Zigster and barely dampen your paws you'll be sitting up front in luxury while good dogs (well, one good dog and one filthy cheating rat bag dog) have to rattle about in the back.

As soon as I got home I told Dawds all about my rotten day and he was very kind to me and let me go to sleep on him. I'm sure I'll feel a lot better when I wake up.

The End.

First Day Of May

When I was a child the month of May was a period of special devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. At home our mother encouraged us to make a May Altar. I loved this. A deep window sill or table would be cleared and various holy statues, pictures and a crucifix would be placed and among this would be arranged wild flowers in vases and jam jars. We picked primroses, celandine, kingcups, daisies, dog violets anemones and bluebells. Most of these flowers soon wilted but they were easily replaced. I remember once bringing in May blossom but this was strongly discouraged as it was considered 'unlucky'.

I wouldn't have picked dandelions myself because they had a bad reputation and were supposed to make you pee the bed and bringing such a noxious weed to Our Lady's Altar would have shown a serious lack of respect. But daisies were a different matter. Those little Shippam's paste jars were just the right size for posies of violets or daisies. I remember being affronted when one of my aunts mocked us for having daisies on our May Altar. She called them weeds! I was shamed not to know this.

Shippam's Paste Jars

Having the May Altar in our house always made me feel extra holy and I said more prayers in May than I would in any other month. I was always sorry to see it cleared away when May was over but I think that Matty was relieved to be rid of the jars of wilting flowers.

Crataegus, hawthorn, may blossom

When I asked her why May blossom was unlucky and she said it was because it shed its petals so quickly that it made a big mess. I knew she was palming me off. Maybe she did not want to tell me the truth, which was, that hawthorn in the home was associated with death, or worse still, 'unregulated love.' And of course, for a good Catholic, the thought of death might be acceptable but unregulated love? Unthinkable.

Vine Weevil Blues

You may speak of snails and slugs

And other filthy bugs

But no pest is quite so evil

As the ugly, vile vine weevil

The tenth visitor of the day

I like to pretend that I am a kind, considerate person but the truth is I am not! The truth is that I am hateful and harbour murderous thoughts. In fact, I sometimes carry out murderous deeds and not always in my imagination.

This is my Kill List.

In alphabetical order:

Aphids - I set ladybirds on them. If there are no ladybirds available I squirt them with soapy water.

Bores - cannot stand them and, believe it or not, I am not easily bored. 

Carrot Flies - I hate them so much I buy all my carrots in Lidls. Let someone else worry.

Cold Callers - I have no tolerance for these people at all. I have been known to be rude. Or I tell lies. "I'm sorry this is not a good time. There has been a death in the family." And they hang up on me. How rude!

Cruel People - I don't believe in an eye for an eye but often cruelty, especially cruelty to animals, is not properly punished. More jail time needed. And not comfy jail either. Something like the sort of dungeons they have in Game of Thrones. Chained up, bread and water, gruel. That sort of thing.

Other Drivers - shouldn't be allowed. The roads should just be for me and my special friends.

People Who Call To The House Just As We Are Sitting Down To Eat And Comment, “Youse Are Always Eating.” - just fuck off back to your own house then.

People Who Park In My Spot - bloody cheek!

People Who Pee On The Toilet Seat - mainly Bert but he has other good qualities that compensate for an occasional fail in this department.

Preachers - I'm fairly tolerant of religious people and try to be respectful of other people's views but sometimes they are not respectful of mine. My tolerance does not stretch to include the exuberance of those belonging to our local cult. No! I do not want a free hug! I may hit you if you try it.

Slugs - I take great pleasure in feeding them to the chickens and hardly feel guilty at all.

The Tenth Visitor Of The Day - sometimes we get a lot of visitors. It is because we are both at home and because we are both so lovely and hospitable and nice. But when it's been a very busy day I do sometimes fantasise about moats and drawbridges and a hired sniper in the tree house.

Vine Weevils - hateful, hateful critters. I can never find the adults but I do take a delicious pleasure in squishing the life out of the larvae.

Third Anniversary

Family Time

A Nice Memory

I'm recycling old blogposts again. This one is from six years ago, when our darling Matty was still with us. Back then Ronni made this very apt comment,

Sounds like a lovely day, to be cherished later, when you need a nice memory to get you through.

Tomorrow is the third anniversary of Matty's death. 

Saturday, April 05, 2008

Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey

Matty and Hannah and I took a trip to Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey Our Lady of Bethleham Abbeytoday. I wanted to get a Mass Card for a friend of ours whose father died earlier this week. I don't really understand the etiquette of Mass cards so I thought it would be a good idea to take Matty who knows all the ins and outs.

Matty usually goes to Antrim with her favourite sister-in-law on Saturday mornings so I phoned first.

You not out with Maud this morning?

No. I told her I just didn't trust my legs today.

Bert and I discussed this over our porridge.

Says she just doesn't trust her legs to go out shopping with Maud.

Why not?

Maybe she's afraid they'll go shoplifting or slope off to score some weed. Or maybe they'll slip into a betting shop and blow the pension on the Grand National.

Happily she felt that her legs were trustworthy enough to go on a jaunt with Hannah and Nelly.

The Abbey is, like all repositories of rosary beads, Mass cards and religious paraphernalia, a weird and wonderful place. You go in. The first thing that you see is a miniature set of priest's Mass vestments. You wonder why? Who'd want that? There are shelves and shelves of religious pictures and statues, there are rosary beads galore, there are stands and stands of pre-signed Mass cards. There is a monk sitting in the corner to bless the holy stuff you buy for it's no use if it's not blessed. There is Status Quo playing 'Whatever You Want' on the sound system. Whether this was the monk's choice or the delightful young shop assistant's choice I do not know. Probably the monk as he was 50+.

I quickly choose my Mass card; a bargain at two quid. Meanwhile Matty gets heavily involved in a conversation with the shop assistant on the possibilities of buying a book on the life of Saint Anne but, said saint being slightly obscure, none was to be found. Matty reports that Anne is the patron saint of grandmothers. With Jesus as her grandchild, she would be, wouldn't she?


I experienced Matty's untrustworthy leg in one of Portglenone's charity shops. She does this genuflection thing with it. She says the strength just leaves her leg for a moment. I tried distraction as a cure and pointed her in the direction of a shelf of brand new shoes. No shoes were purchased - just another beige skirt.

The day ended well. After dropping Matty off in Tannaghmore and Hannah in Ballymena, Rosie and I went for a brisk walk in the Ecos Centre. It was there that I bumped into an old chum who shamelessly told me that he'd always had the hots for me. What's not to like about hearing that?

Of course I told Bert the minute I got home. He laughed.

Aren't you raging? Aren't you going to go in and start a fight with him?

No. I'll just congratulate him on his good taste next time I see him.

What's not to like about hearing that?

In Praise Of The Dutch Hoe

September used to be my favourite month. I was young then. When one is young the beginning of the end of things is poignant and sweet. But when one is older it is just sad, and even a little bit frightening. For, if I live as long as my mother did, I'm in the September of my life.

Now in the September of my life I find that I love April best. For new beginnings, the light and all the summer to look forward to and then, at summer's end, September, my second favourite month.

This is the first year since Matty died that I have enjoyed my garden. Between grieving and cold wet springs it had got completely out of hand. Last autumn Bert and I dug almost everything out of the perennial garden with a view to starting over. Only about half of it survived the winter.

I started working on it after Paris and at first I thought I wouldn't be fit for the task. But a wonderful thing – the more I worked the fitter I became and the fitter I became the happier and and more hopeful I became. I started on my vegetable garden too and I have worked harder in the garden this past few weeks than in all the three years since Matty died.

I have discovered the joy of the Dutch hoe. Bert has been preaching hoeing to me for years but I was unconvinced. I preferred to get down on my knees and battle the weeds at eye level. Now dropping to my knees is something I have to give a bit of thought to. There is the getting up again to consider.

I was worried I was overdoing it with the Dutch hoe. I asked Bert,

What if I blunt it?

I'll buy you a new one.

May was always my best month in the perennial garden. This year the show will be sparse. I have a few wallflowers, saxifrage, primroses on the go. I have pushed in nasturtium plugs here and there. The geraniums and potentillas are far fewer than there were. I don't know if my agapanthus will make it. There are no foxgloves and very few aquilegia. But there is something about that well tilled, almost weed free, brown soil that pleases me. It is a blank canvas. I can do what I want with it. So even and smooth and Dutch hoed to pieces. Until today.

My blank canvas

I had been feeling a bit guilty that I hadn't been keeping up with the planting but I was having so much fun Dutch hoeing and seed sowing in the poly tunnel that there wasn't enough time.

Just before they escaped

And then I noticed that the pigs had escaped from their field. I set off in search. The first one I came across was Rusty. Coming out of our house as if he had every right to be there. He turned the corner to the front of the house and there was Lily, standing in my perennial bed, digging a great hole with her snout. I wonder if she was searching for truffles? I was ever so glad I hadn't completed the planting.

I Wish I Had A Pencil Thin Moustache

So Bert grew a pencil thin moustache, the Boston Blackie kind. At least, that was his original plan. A good  pencil thin needs a lot of training and a delicate touch with the razor. I will give him this - he did shave oftener, all the better to accentuate his new facial hair.

Kent Taylor as Boston Blackie

Opinions on the pencil thin varied.

Pearlie: That's a sketch!

Clint: Damnable looking.

Me: You remind me of Blakey from On The Buses or maybe George Roper from Man About The House.

Rod: Really suits you mate.

Bert chose to listen only to Rod. I wasn't worried. I knew that he'd shave it off eventually and that I would be delighted with his fresh, youthful look.

Today was the day. It was like trading in an old worn out husband for a younger model.

Sorry there are no pictures. I couldn't have done that pencil thin justice. But here is one of Blakey from On The Buses.

Not Bert

Haying In Marshland

Hannah's birthday today! Happy Birthday Hannah.

The birthday girl is good at anagrams. Can she work out the title of her birthday blogpost?

Wine & Cemeteries

The Banjos came over on Saturday night. Mrs Banjo brought her first ever wine for racking. It was a raspberry made from Asda's finest frozen fruit. To be honest I wasn't expecting much from it but it is coming along very nicely. A good ruby red colour, clear, tasty and alcoholic. Of course we judged this on the merest sip during the racking process but I will be looking for the recipe. I might need to use frozen fruit as we replaced our raspberry canes this year, and thanks to the very wet Spring they were late in getting into the ground.

Tonight I racked one of my elderflowers and a rhubarb. The elderflower was made from fresh flowers. I'd previously used dried flowers. The flavour is good but it is rather too sweet for my liking. I'll try it again this year but will go easy on the sugar.

Rhubarb. What can I say? It never disappoints me but looking back at my notes I see I was very adventurous with this one. I started it in February 2013 and used a pint of pineapple wine as a starter. Then, racking it in October I seem to have lashed a bit of birch sap and rhubarb into it. It didn't clear that well but is strong. Not one for entering in the County Show.

And now, back to Paris. This is an illustration from Ludwig Bemelmans' Madeline's Rescue. It features the Père Lachaise Cemetery which we visited on our last day in Paris. As Bemelmans did not see fit to include the last resting place of Marcel Proust here is my photograph.

I quite liked Bemelmans' depiction of Oscar Wilde's grave. There was no point trying to take a picture of the tomb as it was mobbed by school parties and middle-aged women in lipstick kissing the plastic barrier.

Interestingly, as London Sister and I were wandering around a handsome Frenchman approached us and enquired, “Proust?” We were so pleased that we had not been taken for Jim Morrison acolytes.

The Incident on the Champs-Élysées

Eating breakfast in Paris was a real pleasure. On the Rue des Abbesses we found a popular wee place where we got a breakfast based on croissants, fresh orange juice and café au latte. The best part was that it took ages to eat. The French really enjoy their food but they don't eat huge portions and are rarely overweight.

There was a police presence on the street. A van had reversed into some scaffolding creating a potential health & safety hazard. There were two officers gesturing that pedestrians should walk on the other side of the street. There was no officiousness, just Gallic shrugs as if to say, 'this idiot, what can one do?' I can assure you, the PSNI or the Met would have been a sight more straight-faced.

After le petit déjeuner we took the Metro to the Place de la Concorde and proceeded towards the Champs-Elysées. Such a gorgeous walk especially the part where gardens and beautiful buildings abounded. When we finally got to the shops I was slightly less impressed. Fancy stores are fancy stores no matter where one is. The closer we got to the Arc de Triomphe the thicker the crowd became. It was interesting to be there but I am not that keen on jostling crowds. At one point I was knocked slightly sideways and a young woman who I took to have bumped into me looked over her shoulder and smiled a disarming apology. I thought no more of it. A moment afterwards I stopped to take this picture.

We wandered on towards the Arc de Triomphe and decided we had seen enough. As we descended into the Metro I reached inside my bag for my wallet. It wasn't there. I realised straight away that the bump from the smiling girl must have been the exact moment I was robbed. My wallet, the last birthday gift my mother gave me, had contained more than €200, my bank card and my three-day metro ticket. I'd been wearing my bag over my shoulder and it was hanging in front of my body.

This is how I was wearing my bag

There must have been two of them - the woman who bumped into me and an accomplice. I suspect I had been noted and followed as a promising looking mark. The way I was wearing my bag had lulled me into a false sense of security and I was relaxed and very engaged with my surroundings. Typical tourist.

After the shock came the shame. I felt bad that I had let this happen to me and because it put a shadow on our trip. I have to say that London Sister was brilliant. She remained calm and practical and that helped me to keep my head as well. I made a quick decision. I was not going to let this incident put a damper on things. Despite it we were going to continue to enjoy our break.

The theft was reported to the police and my bank card was cancelled. I wasn't the only one making a report either. There were at least two other incidents being reported while we were in station. Afterwards I found that I kept reproaching myself about the incident for I'd made a lot of silly mistakes. Firstly, I had more cash on me than I needed. Secondly, I had too many valuables in one place and biggest mistake of all, my bag didn't zip closed. But I had to put it behind me. We were going to keep on having a good time!

We maybe lost an hour of that beautiful afternoon in the police station but, as LS pointed out, if it had been my passport that had been stolen our carefree break would have been over from that point. Thankful for small mercies. I still had a passport and the theft occurred without me noticing. Imagine if I’d been mugged. I'd be shaking!

After The Incident.

Jef Aerosol street art close to the Centre Pompidou

 Participants in a loud and exciting drum parade

 Paris is full of pet dogs. LS noticed that there were very few Jack Russell terriers. After she made this observation we saw lots of Jacks. This one didn't like the noise of the drums. Poor pet!

 Centre Pompidou

Street scene in the Marais district

 We had dinner here. Le Basilic on rue Lepic, Montmartre

Interesting piece of street art in Montmartre

And so to bed. Another full day. Just before dropping off I permitted myself to experience a little sadness about having been relieved of my cash and Matty's last gift. Then I put it into perspective. I was in Paris, not as rich as I had been but still in Paris and still having a good time. And tomorrow still to come.

Paris For Real: Weddings and Pigeons

When London Sister first suggested Paris as a possible destination for our weekend break I was ever so slightly underwhelmed despite never having set foot in France in my entire life - not even to Lourdes or Calais. I'm not sure why this was but perhaps it might have been that I had seen so much of the city in films that I was under the impression I'd already been there. But that turned out to be the most exciting thing. For, like London and (I suspect) New York, Paris seems terribly familiar and yet, like London, it is even more exciting to see it for real. And now that I've been there and come home again I cannot wait to return.

On the Saturday we bought 3-day Metro tickets and headed to the Place de la Concorde and the Jardin des Tuileries. The weather was delightful, sunny, balmy, Spring at least three weeks ahead of Ireland. We checked out the Louvre but it was far too lovely a day to hang about in queues and then be indoors. The Louvre isn't going away. Another time.

Just wandering around, taking in the sights, walking by the Seine, enjoying Spring. That was enough for me. In the afternoon we went to La promenade plantée, which is an elevated planted area follows an old  railway line. We walked its entire length for LS and I are both very keen on gardens and plants. Over 30,000 steps we walked that day. Tired and happy. That evening we dined well in the Quartier Pigalle and later that night we were asleep before our heads touched our pillows. A great day indeed.

Everywhere there were brides having their photographs taken, on the Seine, by the Seine, by churches beside the Seine. 

Next: A very unfortunate incident on the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

An Evening In Paris

This time last week when I was packing for my weekend in Paris, Miss Martha said,

Maybe you'll see Madeline.

She was referring to the central character in the children's book Madeline's Rescue by Ludwig Bemelmans. This was a very lucky find in Bellaghy's one and only charity shop. The girls love it and I've read it to them over and over again.

The trip to Paris was a birthday gift from London Sister who arranged both flights and accommodation. She flew from London, I flew from Belfast. Very convenient for us both. Of course I had pre-conceived ideas about one of the most visited city on earth. For a start I expected the plane to contain vast numbers of philosophers, poets and lovers. I had forgotten about Disneyland Paris. The plane actually contained vast numbers of over-excited children and their equally over-excited parents and grandparents. The little girl sitting behind me spent most of the journey exuberantly kicking the back of my seat which I bore with great fortitude.

I met LS at the airport and we continued on to Montmartre. Getting off at the Gare du Nord did not give the best impression of Paris for it is a rather seedy area. Rather that take the metro a few stops to the station nearest our hotel we decided to walk. It did not seem that far on the map. And it wasn't. We knew it was close to the Sacré-Cœur Basilica so we kept heading up and before long we were within sight of  the church.

We then took around 40 minutes to locate the hotel although I'd guess we were never any further than 5 minutes away from it. But those little places and streets are confusing. So, by the time we were checked in, it was near midnight. No matter, for this was Paris and a Friday night. We found a lively bar where we wined and dined and had a great amount of fun. I do love bar staff who look like they are having every bit as good a time as the patrons and who ululate to North African music and do, right in our faces, the thing that is now described as 'twerking'. This rarely happens in Ballymena where bar staff neither twerk, ululate or enjoy themselves. 

Next: We nearly visit the Louvre

Iffiest Joy

Happy Birthday Joe!