The Last of Them

It's my father's 21st anniversary today and it occurred to me that when he died I was almost exactly the same age as my oldest daughter is now. I thought I was a right old age when Daddy died but these days when I look at my first born I think she's just a slip of a girl.

Also, it was today that I learned that I have completely run out of uncles as my father's brother Dessie has just died in Australia at the age of 95. He was the last of his generation. I never knew him as he emigrated to New South Wales when he was very young. A family story has it that when he left his family home on the now Lisnevenagh Road the only one of his family who waved him off was his older sister Mary. His mother did not even come out to the bus stop to see him on his way. I don't believe he ever returned to Ireland again. His mother was a hard woman.

Anyway, Dessie made a good life for himself in Australia. Married, had two sons. He is the only one of my father's siblings to have made it to his nineties.

My mother knew him. She said he was a bit of a teddy boy. I think when they talked about teddy boys they meant any young man who didn't dress just like his da and his granda before him. There is one photo I have of Dessie, probably taken by Daddy and he's along with Mammy. It would have been taken in the early 1950s.

Photograph taken just up from the Wayside Halt, Dessie's home place. I think he looks more like James Dean than a teddy boy.

Myself and the da when he was in his prime and I just a slip of a girl.

The Hidden Orchard and Other Rooms

I really should have posted this a few weeks ago because the apple blossom has fallen from the trees and, if successfully pollinated, the fruit should be starting to form.

We have an orchard of sorts closer to the house but it has been neglected. It contains one ancient cooking apple tree and two crabs. There used to be damsons but they are broken down now. Recent plantings of fruit trees have not been successful. A greengage and pear never took off. The Katy apple tree that Les planted is doing OK and the currants and gooseberries are reasonable if we can get to them before the blackbirds. For the past few years Bert has been planting other trees in there including a tiny apple that Mammy grew from a pip. Who knows how that will turn out.

A few years ago we applied for and received a number of native Irish apple trees from Trees on the Land which were not planted in the orchard. They are in an out of the way spot and I'd forgotten all about them. Then, a few weeks ago Bert said that I really ought to go see the apple blossom before it dropped.

What apple blossom?

He reminded me where it was so I grabbed a camera and went out to see.

I've heard that professional gardeners advise making 'rooms' in a garden so that all is not visible at once. It's a good idea. But I'm not sure that they mean that the rooms are hidden by overgrown raspberry canes, great clumps of nettles or fallen laburnums. That's what here is like. Our outside is packed wih rooms. For instance, if you want to see our climbing hydrangea you need to go round the back of the long shed where it grows profusely with a clump of yellow welsh poppies at its feet. Bert put it there because it prefers a north facing aspect. He wasn't bothered that it faces a big dungheap.

We seem to have forgotten the 'room' hidden under the sweeping branches of the big beech trees. This was a den created by Martha and friends.

Why we can't have nice things

Five years later

Enraged

I've been trying to make a post about why I lost my temper with a visitor to our home when he expressed unasked for views supporting the Orangeman in the White House. This, despite knowing that my political alignment leans strongly to the left. But what really pissed me off was when he asserted that RFK Jr was the best person to have charge of the health department. His reasoning? Because Kennedy is an old man, yet he has a six-pack and this must mean he 'looks after himself' therefore best man for the job in hand.

How does one argue with that? I didn't even try. It was too stupid.

Instead, I said something like this,

Have you any idea what if feels like for me to sit in my own home and listen to you and people like you spouting your stupid shit? Do you know that I so often wish that I could just say, there's the fucking door, why don't you just fuck off!

Then I stormed out, to sit it out until he had the decency to leave.

Which he did, almost immediately.

I heard Bert in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. He looked quite unperturbed.

I said,

Has he gone?

Yes. He said to me, tell Nelly I'm sorry I offended her.

And what did you say?

I said, you didn't offend her. You enraged her.

Is it any wonder I don't have much to say about politics in this blog. I'm just not cut out for it.

I thought of finding a picture of that oul fella with the six-pack to illustrate this post but any I saw were too horrid. Instead, a picture of Cleo running through a wood with a stick in her mouth. Her ears don't normally look like that. Nice capture.

Back to Bellaghy

 

Last Saturday, Zoe and I went to the Seamus Heaney Homeplace to hear local writer Jan Carson in conversation about her work, particularly her most recent publication which centres on fictional inhabited islands on Lough Neagh. As I expected, it was a really interesting evening.

Obviously, as Jan Carson is only a couple of years older than my youngest daughter, we’re from different generations, Nelly boomer, Jan Carson Gen X. Despite that, I was getting older-girl vibes from her. Not that she isn’t young and vibrant compared to me, but it felt as if I was back in grammar school, in first or second form, and she was one of the cool sixth-formers.

What brought that on? It was when she spoke about the camaraderie among this generation of Irish novelists, how they support each other, enjoy meeting up at literary gatherings, and how the craic is mighty, and as she chatted about Anne Enright and Louise Kennedy, I could just see myself at age 13 or so, hero-worshipping Jan and her cool friends.

Which is why, as she was signing my copy of her latest novel, I was thrilled to pieces when she complimented me on my Uniqlo/Marimekko shirt. I think she was even a wee bit jealous. 

One From Ten Years Ago

 

The Daily Photograph 9

Wouldn't it be a fine thing to have even a quarter of that energy?

I was weary today so I just had fun with the girls. 

Sheena passed away shortly after midnight.

I will spend tomorrow in the garden.

Speaking the Names

 

I went to a wake last night for a family friend, the last of her generation. It was well attended, as she was a much loved woman from a well respected family.

As is often the case, I met people I hadn’t seen since the last time I’d been at something like this. Among those around my own age or a bit younger, the refrain was familiar, we only ever seem to meet these days at wakes and funerals.

Many of the conversations circled the same ground, bereavements - parents, partners, siblings, and in the hardest cases of all, children.

At one point I found myself sitting beside a younger man. We got talking. He said he was from Creggan. I told him my mother had lived not far from there.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“McAnespie.”

He didn’t recognise it. Didn’t know anyone of the name. I explained that there’s no one left of the McAnespies in that area now.

My mother and her sisters, so I’ve always been told, were fine-looking girls, much sought after at the ceilidhs and fairs. All of them gone now and not a one left to carry the McAnespie name on as their one and only brother never married.

Later, speaking with another old friend, we talked about our deceased parents, about all the people who lived on the road where we were, about those who had died recently and those long gone. And it struck me then how these gatherings have become less about a single person and more about a kind of reckoning. A quiet taking stock. Who’s still here. Who isn’t.

There’s an idea that no one has really gone from this world until their name is spoken for the last time and that one day that will happen to most of us. So I won’t say every name that was spoken of on Saturday evening in the house beside the moss, in the townland of Drumkeeran, in the Grange of Shilvodan, but here are some of them in no particular order,

Pearlie Orr, Pat McKeown, Joe Byrne, Joe O’Neill, Martha Byrne, Seamus Byrne, Paddy Heffron, Susan Heffron, Sadie McAuley, Brian Heffron, Martha McKeown, Malachy Robb, Shaun Byrne, Brendan Byrne, Jonny Steingold, Bridie Lavery, Clare McAtamney, Father Felix McGuckin, Sammy Heffron, Sheena Heffron, and Sarah Fox nee McCrossan.

The person listed last was born in rural Tyrone in the 19^th century and is still being named. She was my great-grandmother.

Out and About

One very good reason why I have been neglecting this blog is because I've been getting out and about. Today Miss Martha and I hopped on a train and took ourselves off to Holywood to peruse its excellent charity shops. We do that a lot. Martha took the selfie at the railway station and we are both sporting some of our Holywood finds. The silk scarf I'm wearing (too tightly) is one I found on a previous visit and the sage green cashmere sweater was today's bargain. Martha's best buy was the vintage tweed cap she's sporting. You might notice that it's my granddaughter that seems to be wearing the cashmere sweater. The reason being that she set off without a coat (as youngsters often do) and when it turned cold and showery she asked if she could borrow my jumper. I agreed and because it looked so good on her I'm letting her keep it. On her it's oversized but that works.

I wish my beautiful silk scarf didn't look as if it was strangling me.

An Apology

 Springhill, March 2026

Dear Reader,

I am very sorry - very, very sorry that I have been neglecting you. The truth is Nelly's Garden is very, very old (for a blog) and is getting tired. It's not that she wants to actually kick the bucket - just that she wonders if there is any point in rambling on and on about dogs and crocuses (croci?) and other stuff even though the internet is full to the brim of people rambling on about their opinions, dogs, obsessions and that is even before AI gets properly started.

I will try to do better. That is if you can bear to listen to my nonsense.

By the way, I despise Drump, Fartage, Netanyahoo and if that bothers you, you can do one.

Anyway, in the meantime, here are some photos of the croci (crocuses?) in my garden.

Kind regards, 

Nelly.

 

Conversations

 

Enter Bert who comes out with this statement,

I have to say, you shock me.

Me, sewing my knitted blanket,

What point are you making?

It’s a lovely day, and here's you sitting knitting and a ball of stuff to be doing outside.

Well! It’s alright for him. He’s got a new toy to play with – a battery operated lawnmower. He got me a leaf blower at the same time but that’s two seasons too late, or early depending on how you look at it.

When I told Swisser about the leaf blower, I told her I felt a bit guilty about getting it, and she had a lot to say on that subject.

A leaf blower! What’s wrong with a rake and a brush?

I admitted that she had a point. But said,

Have you seen the amount of trees we have? The size of this place? I need a leaf blower as well as a rake. I’d be weeks, months gathering up all the leaves that fall here. And anyway, they all go to the compost heap in the end.

She argued on,

They’re so loud. so antisocial, so unnecessary. I hate them. Bloody men with all their noisy machinery.

I say,

We have no neighbours so won’t be bothering anyone. And it’s the beech leaves* that are preventing wild flowers coming through at my would-be meadow. Maybe if I could get the leaves gathered up in the autumn the orchids and cuckoo flowers would spread and there’d be more orange-tip butterflies.

But I couldn’t convince her. So changed the conversation to another of her annoyances, the volume of tourists that clog up her personal beach at PBT. It’s my opinion that she would be far happier if she lived up a long lane with no-one near her.

To return to Bert and his remarks about me doing needlework on a rare sunny day. I was raging at him but knew he was right. I put down my needles and went outside where I took pictures of the crocus then watered and tidied up my potted herbs.

*Beech leaves can form a tight seal on lawns or low-growing meadow areas which prevent low-growing or delicate wild flowers from growing.

Ash Wednesday

 I couldn’t remember whether Ash Wednesday is a Holy Day of Obligation or not. That’s how lapsed a Catholic I’ve become. I only realised it was today because when Bert came back from an appointment he mentioned that one of the women at the surgery had the greasy, ashy smear on her forehead and started quizzing me about it.

I was surprised for I’d always thought she was a Protestant. Ash Wednesday is certainly the sort of day when a devout Catholic stands up to be counted.

Of course, I’d also completely forgotten that yesterday was Shrove Tuesday. Not a single pancake did I make.

I’ve spent today getting ready for a short trip to Norfolk to see Katy and her family, and I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll be back late Monday with new photographs and stories to share. I’m going to miss my knitting terribly. If the pangs become too much, I may have to buy needles and yarn in Fakenham.

To get myself all excited about seeing my Norfolk family, I've been looking at lots of old photos of them and set the file up as a screensaver. It has really brought back some lovely memories. But the nicest family picture I've come across is not my memory.That memory belongs to Katy's aunts, my sisters Ganching and London Sister. I'm going to use it as it deserves another outing. I think it might have been taken by Ganching.

Katy and family on a day trip to London.

I wonder this - are knitting needles allowed on planes?

A Year On The Dry

 I don’t recall the day I took my last alcoholic drink but I do know it was towards the end of January last year and that drink would have been a very nice glass of red wine or two. Or three? Maybe four? It did not make me sad that these would have been my last drinks because I fully intended that I would resume taking alcohol after a month. That was the idea.

For quite some time I’d been thinking about cutting down on the number of days during the week that I’d drink wine. Maybe I’d just have a drink on the weekend, or on some special occasions. I knew that I was drinking more that the recommended amounts and definitely far too much for a person my age.

So when Bert was diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes and decided to quit his nightly glass or two of cider, I joined him in going alcohol-free, partly in support and partly out of curiosity about what a break might do for me.

Well! It was all a bit dull at first. I missed my nightly glass or two of wine. The evenings seemed too long. Two weeks passed. I thought I might carry on until the end of February. But by then I’d got used to an alcohol-free life and I’d started to lose weight. That took my mind off wanting to drink. So I kept going. I was still not going to stop drinking forever.

By the summertime I’d lost 20lbs and was well-used to the dry. Christmas was going to be the decider. By October I knew I was going to have an alcohol-free Christmas and after that I only had to get to the end of January to have completed a year without wine. And you know, I still miss it. If I thought I could just have the occasional glass, just now and again I’d still be drinking.

I heard this recently. No one really wants the second glass of wine. They just want the first one over again. For me that rings true. The first one is wonderful. But then I want it again. And again.

Even though I don’t remember the exact date I had that last drink, I do remember when I stopped smoking. That was on the 15^th March 2004. Almost twenty-two years ago. I wonder what I’ll be giving up twenty-two years from now? Maybe chocolate? Blogging? Living?

By the way, the weight loss eased off but since last January I have lost a total of 25 lbs. I’m still old though.

Days of yore. I'm sure Katy is giving me a disapproving look.

One From 21 Years Ago

Twenty-one years ago, I was working in Mill House, Harryville, which at that time was a hostel for women temporarily without homes. We were in the process of selling number 61 and renovating the house we're living in now.. I still have those shabby paperbacks from 35 years ago, although they have now been cluttering up my bookshelves for 56 years. That is far too long, especially as they would probably fall to pieces in my hands if I were to attempt a re-read.

Those Happy, Happy Days

I’m doing an extra shift this weekend, which I didn’t even have to be persuaded to take on. First I thought – well what else would I be doing? Then I thought – I could catch up on blogging. Finally I thought – extra money! Good oh!

I spend a huge amount of time on my computer. Since it’s been sick I have spent that time house cleaning, packing away, reading and watching Celebrity Big Brother. As this house must be valued, I thought it might be nice for the estate agent to be able to see past all the stuff. So I have been sorting, packing and throwing out. What a ball of crap I’ve gathered up over the years. I still own ancient paperbacks that I bought in Smithfield Market 35 years ago. Looking at those ancient Orwells, Steinbecks, Drabbles and Murdochs reminded me of some of the happiest days of my life, my school days – the days that I was not in attendance.

When school* was dreary I used to play truant, or mitch. One of the dreariest of the dreary classes was Anatomy and Physiology. This class was taken by a local GP called Dr R. It always took place last two periods. Dr R. never bothered to call a roll so our class got into the habit of deciding among ourselves who’d be cutting it that afternoon. There had to be at least half a dozen of us stay for the class or Dr R. would report us to the head.

In good weather we’d head for the Castle grounds, which were much wilder and much more fun than they are today. In damper weather it would be O’Neill’s café if we could scrape up the price of a coffee to be lingered over for hours. How my heart did race when we were joined by some handsome Stanley or Eugene.**

Mitching on my own I started off by going to Belfast Airport and watching the planes take off and land. Then when I got braver I’d hitch to Belfast town. I’d often get a lift with Dan the Coalman and he’d take me round the docks. I think he bought his coal straight off the boats. Another guy who used to give me lifts was Johnny the Gallaher Man. Imagine getting a lift on a wagon carrying (at today’s prices) millions of pounds worth of cigarettes. Nowadays Gallaher's sends Dublin’s cigarettes via Liverpool rather than run the risk of hijacking at the border.

My favourite places in Belfast then were Fresh Garbage (still going) and Smithfield Market (not what it was.) That is where I bought all those second hand books.

And what of Anatomy and Physiology at ‘O’ level? A big fat fail was my deserved reward. But I still know the names of nearly all the bones in the human body and I can tell you the places where you’ll find squamous epithelium. Some of them are a bit rude.

*Antrim Technical College – Pre-Nursing Class 1968-1970
** Any reader familiar with this era or place please note that I do not refer to the publican Mr M. who would have been a child and unknown to me at that time. 

The Robin

It snowed heavily over the weekend, and outdoors became a veritable winter wonderland. For the cats, it was a great hunting opportunity, as the garden birds were both easily visible and stupefied by the cold.

It probably wasn’t a good idea for Bert to scatter breadcrumbs right outside the glass double doors. It’s charming to see the robin come so close to the door for its feast, but it was also close enough to make the cats acutely aware of the birds’ presence, or availability.

So, when I spotted Woody carrying a limp body in his mouth, my first fear was for the robin. But there appeared to be a long, dark dangler hanging from his jaw. A young rat. That would be all right, better than killing one of Bert’s robins.

Then Hannah’s wee dog Chico spotted it. Chico likes to bullyWoody and steal his kills. He got outside and took the little dead thing. I pulled wellies on and went out into the snowy garden to take the creature off him. It wasn’t easy persuading him to give it up. And when I did, I saw that the dangly thing wasn’t a rat’s tail. It was a long, limp bird’s leg. A robin. All bedraggled, yet unbloodied. Did Woody kill it? Or did he find it after it had perished? It might have died from the cold. I decided not to mention it to Bert and put it in the bin.

Bert was away when all this occurred, driving Hannah to work. When he got home, he went straight to the cats, both standing to attention and looking for their breakfast. He petted and stroked them both. It is funny to think how he used to dislike cats. Harry de Cat changed his mind, then Holly. He adored Holly. Big Fat Fred was another favourite. All those cats are gone now, but Bert still has a lot of time for Pippin and Woody, especially Pippin.

I was wondering why I feel less uneasy when cats kill rats rather than robins. Surely rats have as much right to existence as robins. But rats have such a bad reputation, disease, dirt and all that. That’s not entirely fair, for the wee birdies are pretty disease-ridden too, and when our cats eat them, they can pick up parasitic pests. Despite their worms and mites, I still prefer robins, wrens and goldfinches to rodents. Apart from shrew mice*. It’s so sad when the cats get them, for they are so sweet and cute, with those little pointed snouts. Adorable. Yet it feels wrong to make the distinction. Who knows where that might lead one?

Woody and Chico

Happy to report that the robin Bert was feeding by the door has survived another day. The feeding station has been moved further away.

*Not rodents, although cats don't make a distinction. They are one of the most common mammals in the British Isles.

Last Post Of The Year

Bert has been reminiscing today about parties long past and about what we might have been doing on New Year’s Eve twenty or more years ago. But time moves on far too quickly. We all, those of us who once partied together, have moved on and grown old. Some of us have even died.

He asked me,

Do you miss those days?

I had to think a bit about that, then I told him,

Not really. But I'm glad we had them.

Our plans for tonight don’t involve drink, drugs or rock’n’roll. Well, maybe a little of that last one for me - I might watch Jools, and Bert might even have a Guinness. We’ll see.

Wishing all who read this a good New Year. May you live long and prosper.

The Legend, Jonny Steingold

 Earlier this evening, I knew exactly what all four of my sisters were doing, because I was doing the same thing. We were all listening to one of Jonny’s Christmas shows on Mad Wasp Radio. Maybe we were all doing other things as we listened. I was doing a bit of tidying, since Leitrim Sister is calling with us tomorrow.

That show was one he recorded some time ago. It must have been from quite a while back, because at one point he talked about Hogmanay, for he was Scottish, and how London Sister and he would take the Parkland Walk on the way to Alexandra Palace, where they could enjoy a fine view of the London skyline and watch the New Year’s Eve fireworks. That walk would have been far too difficult for him in recent years.

It’s poignant listening to his show, knowing that he’s no longer with us. It must be even more poignant for London Sister. Yet I know, because she has told me, that it comforts her to hear his voice again and to listen to the music they both loved.

Jonny had excellent taste in music and a deep knowledge of it. His preferred genre was Americana, that broad church that includes rock, folk, bluegrass, country and the blues, all of which he loved for their shared roots and storytelling traditions. Even when it became hard for him he would still go to as many gigs as he could fit in and for many years he made an annual trip to the United States to go on the renowned Cayamo music cruise.

Cayamo is a week-long music festival at sea, bringing together artists and listeners who share a love of Americana and its many branches — folk, rock, bluegrass, country and the blues. It’s less a conventional cruise than a floating community, with intimate performances in small venues, spontaneous collaborations, late-night jams and the rare pleasure of musicians and fans mingling freely throughout the ship.

The Cayamo meant a lot to Jonny. He heard new music, found new friends and listeners and got to chat with many of the musicians he admired. Despite many setbacks and trials, he never missed a Cayamo - right up until March of last year. He knew that would have to be his last one for the Parkinsons was making everything too difficult. And that was going to be a hard thing to bear.

His sudden death in Norway meant that he didn’t have to face the prospect of a Cayamo he couldn’t make. But it is so sad to think that there will be new artists coming along that he’ll never hear, and new music that he won’t know about. We’ll just have to be glad that he did love the music, that he shared it with so many people and that he left a world of it behind for us to listen to.

These shows, years and years of them, will continue on Mad Wasp Radio for the foreseeable future. One of the legacies that Jonny has left us. Mad Wasp Radio hails him as The Legend, Jonny Steingold. We were lucky to have him as part of our family.

The Trees We Put Up Early

Last night London Sister sent us a picture of her seven-foot tree. She’s early this year. It’s not even mid-December, yet there it was, beautifully decorated, tastefully lit, standing proud in her high-ceilinged living room. This will be a poignant Christmas for her, her first without Jonny.

It reminded me of last year when Elle put her big tree up in November. Robin was in the last days of his life then, although I’m not sure she fully realised it. Maybe, somewhere in her mind, she sensed that if she waited until December, he’d never see it. Or perhaps she felt that if she didn’t put it up right then, she’d never have the heart to do it at all.

I’ve been watching the weather forecast all day. Storm Bram is in full swing, and if it doesn’t blow the polytunnel away, I’ll bring our own tree in tomorrow. We used to wait until Christmas Eve, but storms and years and losses have made me a little more positive about celebrating the season. After all, who knows how many more there will be, or how long we’ll have with each other?

And truth be told, the tree helps, a lovely corner of brightness when the days are short and the nights too long. So I’ll wrestle ours indoors tomorrow, if Bram allows. I feel the need of its cheer.

At least until January, when it’s back to the polytunnel with it.

A picture from the olden days, maybe around 40 years ago. It was the first one I turned up when I searched for 'Christmas Tree' on my EHD. Just as well it did as it's Katy's birthday today. My best Christmas present back in 1978. Happy Birthday Katkin!

And We Never Went Near The Christmas Market

 It’s not that I dislike Christmas shopping - for what could be nicer than giving someone a gift that pleases them. No, that’s the part I love. What I struggle with is finding the right thing, because it’s awful to imagine the recipient opening a present that sparks little joy.

Then there’s the pressure. Every year, once Christmas is over, I resolve to start putting presents away from January onward. This rarely happens – and when it does, I find myself staring at the item I bought months before, that thing that has languished in a paper bag, in the depths of my wardrobe, wondering why on earth did I ever thought it would suit anyone, let alone the person I bought it for.

And then there are the crowds. Each year, as I brave the shops, I remember that Christmas Eve, so many years ago, when in a thronging Dunnes Store, I literally sat down and wept. On the floor of Dunnes Store. Thankfully, everyone passing by pretended not to notice.

So, when my eldest grandchild messaged to ask if we could go to Belfast together to shop for her Christmas gifts from Bert and me – just as we did last year, I was, at first, slightly dismayed. She must have enjoyed it to want to do it againbut it wasn’t as enjoyable for me. I remembered being exhausted and a little bit cranky. But then I thought about it. She’s sixteen now, and won’t always want to spend a day shopping with an ageing grandparent. And if she thinks I’m able for it, if she believes in me, then perhaps it’s time I started believing in myself, too.

I got myself into the right frame of mind. Laid down only one ground rule, which was lots of sit downs and coffee breaks for me. I actually found myself looking forward to the outing.

And it was worth looking forward to.

Despite the train being jam-packed full of eager shoppers. Martha got on at Ballymena and had to stand most of the way to Belfast. She was unable to make her way to my carriage so we met for the first time at Grand Central.

Despite me needing lots of loo breaks. For it was a cold day. Martha was very understanding.

Despite getting swarmed by eleven year old girls beside the cosmetics in Primark. I was standing in a dangerous place. The panic attack only lasted a few minutes after I dashed outside.

Despite Martha finding it impossible to decide between two cardis in Urban Outfitters. That was my favourite shop of all as I had a sofa to sit on and lots of interesting people to watch.

I was easily the oldest customer in OU that day. 

Afterwards, I was so pleased that I had managed to go shopping in Belfast, on a Saturday, braving all the crowded shops and managed to stay chilled. Except for when I was in Primark, of course. I’d say that as Christmas shopping experiences go it was actually enjoyable. I’m already looking forward to next year. If I’m spared.

Christmas Is Coming

 Are you feeling Christmassy yet? I can’t say I am. Not properly. But this year, instead of brushing the thought aside the way I usually do, I find myself letting it linger. After all, this will be my seventy-third Christmas on this earth. It has never been my favourite season, but there’s no point in pretending it isn’t going to happen. My stock of Christmases is not what it was. I might as well make peace with it all and enjoy what I can.

I’ve more or less chosen a tree - either a very small one or a medium-sized one. Maybe both if Zoë doesn’t want them. They are standing potted in the polytunnel, so I haven’t far to go. I’ve already bought a few presents, and I know where the wrapping paper is tucked away. Christmas dinner is sorted too: free-range turkey again. It might be the last one for a while as the local supplier is threatening to quit the turkey game.

There will be one change, though, and it’s a big one. This will be a teetotal Christmas. I don’t think I’ve written anything about it, but I stopped drinking alcohol at the tail end of January and simply never started again. So here I am, approaching December with a clear head, or as clear as it ever gets, wondering what the season will feel like without the whisky and wine. I think it will be good.

A Good Dog

 

Hannah asked me to go with her to the garden centre; she wanted to buy some houseplants. It’s the first time she’s shown any real interest in horticulture since she started a couple of bonsai projects a few years ago. She bonsaied the life out of an ash seedling and a hawthorn. The hawthorn still survives; the ash succumbed to dieback.

While we were there, I found myself tempted by tulip bulbs. I resisted, having only today managed to plant the tulip bulbs I bought more than six weeks ago. Thankfully, they’re all in the ground now, though I still have a good number of daffodils waiting to be planted.

My original idea had been to plant the bulbs on Judy’s grave, but the area has become rather grassy, and I was reluctant to start digging it over - and it’s far too wet to hoe. I don’t know why I worried, for Bert planted her deep.

Phoenix, Locky’s husky, lies not far behind her, with Dora, Jazzer’s dog, resting between them. Locky once talked about getting little plaques, but he hasn’t got round to it, and I rather hope he’s forgotten.

I had thought about painting stones for them instead. I even bought the paint, but, like so many things, I’ve not got around to it. Locky hasn’t been to visit since he buried Phoenix.

I miss Judy a lot. She died on the 5th of September, in the time between Jonny’s death and his funeral. That was very much on our minds then. People are more important than dogs, are they not? It felt wrong to make too much of Judy’s passing when we were mourning a dearly loved member of our family. But I do miss her. She was a good dog.

Judy and Dora

Judy and Phoenix

At the beach

Culture Vulture

I’m writing this while listening to the brilliant fiddler Colm Mac Con Iomaire, who I had the pleasure of hearing perform at Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy a few weeks ago.

I went along with Bert and Zoe to hear Colum McCann in conversation with Rami Elhanan and Bassam Aramin — the two bereaved fathers whose friendship and shared loss inspired McCann’s acclaimed novel Apeirogon.

Which, I’m sorry to say, has been on my “to read” list since the last time I saw Colum McCann appear at the HomePlace, just over a year ago.

One of the most sobering things about growing older is realising how much I still haven’t read, and how much I still don’t know. For instance, I hadn’t realised that Colm Mac Con Iomaire was in The Frames with Glen Hansard, even though Glen Hansard also appeared in The Camino Voyage with Kerry Sister’s husband.

Nor did I know that it was Colm Mac Con Iomaire who accompanied the artist and poet Kae Tempest at Other Voices in Dingle - even though I watched a documentary about that venue and thought they were the best part of it. I’d love to see Kae Tempest perform live. It would be handy if he should ever come to Bellaghy.