Winter dreamtime of summer camping

Tags

camping., families, flowers, hollows, painting, photography, tents, weather

It is morning. The last morning of winter, and its raining heavily.

large fat drops tapping on the window keep in time with my tapping on the keyboard.

I watch the cars swishing by in the wet.

A family on their bikes, heading to school or work or shopping or all three, sensibly muffled in rain gear. The children lift their feet off the pedals as they swoosh through the puddles. The Mom or is it the Dad (its hard to tell male from female in this weather)checking back anxiously and keeping them all together. Ah!, There is the mom now(or the dad) bringing up the rear…ducks in the rain.

Tomorrow it will be my turn. Cycling through the puddles to catch the train to work.. No sitting cozily at my table writing (this blog) with a homemade cappuccino at my elbow.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining! Since my illness I’m grateful for what ever weather the day brings and am happy to be alive and kicking BUT forgive me if sometimes I begin to dream of summer camping .

When spring starts tomorrow (st Brigid’s day IS the first day of spring). Our talk will turn to summer and ‘Hollows’.

The conversation might go like this…

‘What Hollow are you hoping to get into this year? are you going for the same one again?’

And the answer might be..

‘No I didn’t find that Hollow great last year, so I might go for the Hollow nearest the well’

The reply to that might be..

‘But Tom(or Susan or Mary, I’m not giving away family names here)was in that Hollow last year and might want it again!’

‘well first come first served I say’

‘I know, but be fair, they have kids and need to be able to watch them’.

‘But I need to be sheltered from the prevailing wind’.

Another might pipe up, ‘But the horses come up through that hollow you know ‘

Or even, ‘ I don’t want to be in a Hollow too near/too far from everyone’.

Or ‘

‘There is a downside to having the hollow nearest the well! you end up making coffee for everyone that comes for water’

A swift inward breath of disapproval from us all and the speaker hangs her head.

‘I’m just joking’ she mutters sheepishly.

But she is right. Its counted as good ‘hollow’ manners to offer all passersby a coffee which, when not having a sink and running water, entails more work than you would imagine.

The conversation continues, backwards and forwards through the spring days , in the pub and at the dinner table, by phone and by email and you would forgive anyone listening for thinking they were eavesdropping on a bunch of hobbits.

And we are sort of ‘hobbity’ when summer comes.

For when you wild camp in the same place for forty odd years ‘Hollows’ become a thing of major importance.

There are no tree’s or other forms of shelter there. Just grass and rocks , sea and sky .

And Hollows.

Scooped out sheltered places for our tents especially at night.

‘I must get a new windbreak. Mine blew down in the storm last summer’ One of my sister’s announces as casually as another woman might announce the need for a new handbag.

Yes! windbreaks can be handy, the first line of defense in a battle with the wind. Making the tying down of tents a bit easier as the wild Atlantic storms blow in from the west. whipping up white horses.

And still we cling on, hammering in storm pegs, leaning against the wind, our hair in mad tangles ,whipping across our cheeks.

And if the hollow you are in shelters you from the west, you may be sure it’ll soon swing easterly and get you from that side instead.

No one escapes, but we are all dab hands at surviving it.

And we love it and we cling on veraciously to the hope that we will always be doing it.

We swim every morning without fail, running down across the beach through rain or sunshine and fling ourselves shrieking as the cold water enfolds us…with cries of ‘ooooh its soooo delicious’!!

We wash our hair in bowls of freezing well water.

we collect buckets of mussels at low tide ,our fingers turning numb as we pries the shiny dark blue jewels off the rocks

At mealtimes it is not unusual to see little groups of children running across from the different Hollows,each one carrying a plate and spoon and gathering at an encampment, an adult bringing up the rear, carrying a steaming pot of mussels, hurrying in bare feet because the heat of the handles is beginning to make its way through the tea towel. We all gather and share our food sitting in a large circle on the smooth grass in someone or others Hollow.

But Although I may be wild camping, there is a routine to my day.

First a swim.

Then I make my morning coffee in my little coffee percolator and I heat the milk and foam it by hand and make a perfect cappuccino.

I sit in front of my tent and sip and write and watch my sarongs dry after the swim…that done, I take the bike and go from hollow to hollow to see if anyone needs the basic’s ..milk , butter, bread.

Of course that means fending off invitations for more coffee and I may well sit and chat for a while but eventually head off to the village.

Which brings to mind my favorite shopping trip story……

A (known to us) seasoned ‘Hollower’ (I shall name him Tom) came instead one year by sailing boat and moored it in the natural harbor just down the beach from us.

When the tide was in, his boat was moored with an anchor, but as the tide receded he lowered two long poles which propped the boat up on the sand.

As was the custom of picking up requests for the shop and the tide being on the turn I was able to cycle across the sand to get his order (A litre of milk).

I headed off again along the grassy track and then the boreen, stopping now and then to take photo’s .

The weather was fine , the sun warm on my back as I cycled and when I reached the shop I had (another) coffee and sat outside with it in the sun, watching the tourists pass by.

Needless to say, by the time I got back to the harbor, the tide was in and the boat fully afloat.

I called across the water but no sign of movement from on board. I knew Tom must be there as his little dingy was dancing gaily on its rope attached to the back of the boat.

Leaving down my bike I stripped to my swimming togs and swam to the boat holding the litre of milk out of the water. The water was crystal clear and warmer than it had been for my earlier swim. and as kicked my legs and pulled with one arm it occurred to me that this was one of the nicest and oddest moments in my life and I didn’t want it to end.

As I swam on I imagined I was turning into a mermaid, I would stay forever in this clear water, maybe even hook up with Neptune.

But toms laughing face, appearing over the side, pulled me from my day dream. I climbed the ladder(not too elegantly) and delivered the milk. I gratefully stayed for a cup of tea, and refusing the offer of being rowed across,  dived in and swam back to the shore and by the time I reached my hollow, I had dried out and pulled my dress over my togs again and smoothed it over my legs.

And when I had delivered milk and bread to one and all, I took  my camera and lay and watched, through harebells, the color of the summer sky

And so it will be next summer and hopefully the summer after but at the present moment, while I am winter dreaming of summer coming, I will push away my laptop and pull a large sheet of paper towards me and paint the blue’s and browns and creams and whites of my dream time summer picture.

Barefoot in the Burren

Tags

barefeet, Barefoot walking, cycling, faeries, meditaion, the burren, the yellow bicycle, walking

I am standing on the top of a hill.

The Atlantic breeze is ruffling my hair .

The sun is warm on my back.

Down below, the sea is blue, with white sea horses.

Overhead the sky is blue with wisps of white cloud.

If I stood on my head I would be confused as to which was the sky and which was the sea.

The hill is of white/grey smooth flat stone, as far as my eye can see.

In terraced platforms, this stone wends its rocky way till it meets the sea.

Then, the vast stony stage slips lazily into the foam.

And its very beautiful .

So beautiful I am willing to risk leaving my yellow bike to its own devices .

For whilst other women (and men ) go to a Spa for a hot stone massage and the like, I go barefoot walking across warm burren stone.

But not all things of great beauty are accessed with ease .

First I have to cycle past the barking farm dogs which have waited all day in this remote place for a car to chase.

and if no car comes by, a bike will do.

I kick out at them but they are really cowards.

If I dismount and shout loudly enough they slink away, tail between their legs.

My next obstacle is a hill which eventually proves too steep for the yellow bike and I get off to walk the last section of the road.

Rounding a bend, the last farmhouse disappears from view, then its down hill at last.

I lift my feet off the pedals and stretch them out like wings and fly, down, down, down.

All the way into the secret valley below.

St Macdara built a small church in this valley centuries ago, and I would guess the peacefulness remains the same.

The church is now a pile of stones covered in briars but you can sense the holiness of the place.

Its to the sanctity of this heap of stones that I entrust my yellow bicycle.

I give the saddle a pat and set off down a grassy track.

Past a ring fort and some gnarled Hawthorn trees.

Is it my imagination or do I get a distinct feeling of being watched?

I look back but there is no one around.

Only the yellow bike leaning forlornly against the stones.

The whispered tinkle I hear is of a nearby stream.

I follow a path worn smooth by cattle, foxes, badgers, hares and maybe other invisible beings .

The grass on either side is soft with flowers and steep rocky outcrops hold us in.

The only sounds now are the far off bellow of a cow and the sigh of the breeze coming up through the valley .

I walk along steadily, jumping over the odd muddy patch where cow’s hooves have sunk into the soft earth.

I glance up at the rock’s towering over the valley, they are solemn and still and look as though they feed on their young (Who knows what really goes on in this valley when night falls)

Around the last outcrop and my way is barred by a hazel wood.

A large spider has closed the entrance with her web.

She sits royally bedecked in brown and bronze, her web bejewelled with late dew.

I search and find a tight gap to squeeze through further down .

The hazel woods are of another world.

Gnarled twisted branches grasp and pull my hair as the cool greenness envelopes me.

Now and then I have to squeeze sideways between the tree’s as though the path was not made for the width and tallness of humans.

I scramble over moss covered rocks and kneel and dip my hands in still dark pool’s.

I am hot now for all the wooded green coolness.

I pat the bracken water on my face and feeling refreshed, continue on, when suddenly, as if a pair of theatre curtains swing open, I am out on a giant stage.

The sun blinds me for an instant and I blink and breath deeply.

Then I bend and take off my damp sandals and lay them on the rocks.

Like the yellow bike, it will be a few hours before I see my footwear again.

I stand tall in bare feet and flex my toes.

I mould my feet to the contour of the stone. warm now from the sun and as smooth as Italian marble.

I feel the heat rise up through my soles and reach my heart.

I start to walk, cautiously at first, watching where I place each step, but, after a while I forget to look down as my feet find their own way.

I begin to spring confidently at an even pace and even leap across the crevasses in which alpine, tundra, and Mediterranean flowers grow. Lady’s bedstraw. Crows foot. Gentian. Rock rose. Geranium.

All growing side by side, their delicate heads sheltered from the wild Atlantic storms.

I am moving faster now but without effort my feet taking on their own rhythm.

I take care not to stretch out my arms for I fear I might discover I can fly!

At one point a flock of goldfinches swoop and keep pace with me, scolding loudly, their tiny heads a flash of red until they disappear over a rocky edge, and I am alone again with my stones.

I am working my way parallel to the sea but heading downwards all the same.

I trust my bare feet and let them lead me.

I pass the bones of some unfortunate cow(who perhaps thought she could fly).

And suddenly a startled Hare leaps from its shelter between two stones and bounds gracefully away.

I begin to understand how it works here. Some hare dropping in a crevasse, some rain and a single seed of a magenta geranium. that’s all it takes.

I feel guilty, large and awkward and human, and very unnecessary in this bleak but magical landscape.

Here and there it looks as though giants from another world were at war, flinging boulders at each other.

I stay here to eat my apple and lean my back against a rock .

The sun is now high and the breeze has dropped.

The white horses gone and the sky is a clear blue. A hawk is circling above me probably watching a field mouse or a shrew.

My eye’s droop……

.A small figure with a white owls feather in his cap rides the back of a hawk.

Another small Being with speedwell threaded through her silken hair, is feeding flies to a giant spider.

A group of tiny noisy individuals are dancing madly around the twirling yellow bike to the sound of shrill music.

I open my eyes.

The sun has dropped in the sky.

…The Hare and the hawk are gone.

And I am gone too, racing back across the now cooling stone, pulling back on my shoes running down through the hazel wood and back to St MacDara’s church where the yellow bike stands blinking innocently in the evening light.

But what about my feet you ask?.

Ahhh My feet?

My feet are soft and silky and warm and as smooth as the limestone marble of the beautiful Burren.

A door is just a door, when all is said and done.

Tags

doors, feng sui, G B Shaw.

(A yellow door indicates a house with a sunny disposition, a red door a symbol of a safe haven)

Besides bicycles( and mountains, skies, tree’s, rivers and the sea) I adore doors.

I adore door’s the way my friends adore bag’s.

While they are drooling over the latest Chanel or Marc Jacob’s in the shop window, I am drooling over the shop door. especially if its the old fashioned type. but alas when I tug their coat sleeve’s to draw attention to its marvellous lines or well chosen colour, the best I can hope for is a cursory glance.(mostly they just shake off my hand impatiently).

(the beautiful traditional door and pub front just off Grafton street, home to Brown Thomas’s ,the main culprit of ‘bag’s in windows’ dangling)

Where does this obsession come from I have often wondered. The need to constantly carry my camera with me for fear I might spot an interesting door, is a bit ridiculous when I can sketch quite well and could always capture it on a old scrap of paper (As Patrick Kavanagh used to do when he was out thinning turnips and a poemly thought would occur to him).

Once I fell over a door lying in the long grass and thought I might drag it back to my rented apartment and use it to adorn a wall, but it was too heavy, so I propped it back into the door jam of the old derelict cottage and admired it for a while (and yes you have guessed correctly ) took a photo of it

Initially I thought maybe this obsession came from not owning a house, a sort of need  within me. After all a door does signify shelter and warmth and security.

(though this door in Lisbon is worn and dilapidated it has not lost its homely appeal)

But then I remind myself that it can also symbolize the opposite , A door can mean the locking in of oneself too. A sort of prison with no escape.

But maybe it is not so Freudian , maybe it’s just as it is. Simply the love of a beautiful door and the recognition of the wonderful craftsmanship that went into making it.

(so in love was I with the colour and make of this door that I was swooning to one side)

And then of course there is the whole concern of colour.

(Ahhh! The epitome of a wonderful door, I could not find one fault with it. even the electricity line cannot take from its beauty)

Whether its a traditional choice or feng shui. Coordination with other factor’s or just personal preference . The significance of the colour may be well thought out and mulled over for many weeks. or just a instantaneous ‘on the spot’ decision.

Being of a curious nature I started looking into the traditions of door colour’s.

According to feng sui. A north facing door should be blue, black or white.

A south facing door should be red ,pink or purple.

A west facing door should be Yellow, white or gold.

and an east facing door, green, blue or turquoise.

Then some traditions would say a red door is to ward off evil or is a symbol of a safe haven. Behind a blue door is a calm secure relaxing refuge. A black door is a symbol of strength power and authority. A yellow door , a house of sunny disposition. A turquoise door , a pint of cool Guinness on a sunny day(just made that one up)

But I say I don’t mind what colour the door is as long as its pleasing to the eye, made of timber and if painted then painted with love.

When George Bernard Shaw was asked what painting he would save if there was a fire in the national gallery of art he replied ” The one nearest the door of course”.

(maybe some kind person would put a beautiful door back into the old Dunlaoire baths)

Madame rules the roost.

• 

I was glad to turn away from the canal in the direction of Escalantes. My waterproof’s turned out to be not so waterproof and the rain was beginning to make little inlets through. My bike wasn’t fairing too well either,turning speedily from yellow to brown, as the tow path became a mud bath in places.

(the section of canal near Escalantes on a nicer day)

I had also experienced my third puncture and had a hard job getting the tyre off as my hands kept slipping on the wet rubber …I was very near to tears and maybe even shed a few but perhaps they were just raindrops running down my cheeks.

(despite the rain I had to stop to admire this beautiful dovecot on the way into the village)

I cycled into the main square and there it was,… My haven ,My shelter…

The old town hall, running the full length of the village square was now gloriously restored into an elegant chamber D’hôte..

I approached the main door apprehensively and rang the large bell.

A loud clanging reverberated through the building.

I waited patiently as the rain dripped  into my shoes ,and was about to ring a second time when I heard the faint click clack of shoes.

The clacking got louder and louder and at last door was opened by a tall slightly frazzled looking elderly woman, her hair was a mess and she was wearing a dressing gown.

She didn’t look at all surprised to see me and before I had a chance to enquire about the possibility of a vacancy she motioned me inside.

‘But my bike’? I asked nervously in my best French .’Shall I bring it around the back.’?

‘Non non. Vien! Vien! , Le velo aussi’

Hoping I had understood her correctly, I pushed my bike through the door and followed her down a wide corridor dripping rain and mud all the way down the black and white tiled floor .

She was walking so fast I had to trot to keep up and barely had time to take in the old paintings on the walls and the beautiful antique’s on the various cupboards and tables that lined the corridor.

She took a sharp right and we slithered to a halt. She opened a door ..

‘This is your room. You can bring your bike in (I looked at the pristine Turkish carpet) or you may also leave it in the coach house.’ She nodded towards a pair of French doors which opened into a large courtyard beautifully laid out with shrubbery.
A folly was set in the centre with vine’s growing over the roof. A table and chairs were placed under the vines and my gaze, following her pointing finger, fell on the door of the coach house.

Built from sand coloured stone it lay in shadow of the vast yard.

(below is a photo of the double door’s leading to the coach yard)

‘You may swim in the swimming pool beyond. Its heated’, She looked through the window at the rain, ‘well’ she shrugged in a very French manner, shoulders reaching her strands of wispy hair, her mouth forming a moue. ‘maybe not’ and she shot off.
I was still standing bewilderedly clutching the handlebars of the yellow bike when her head reappeared around the corner…’Drinks are served at 7.30 pm and we don’t do meals’.
I waited till I could no longer hear her clacking heels then I propped the bike against the wall and looked around the dim room.
I stifled a scream. A woman was standing staring at me from the shadow’s beside the window. It took a moment or two for me to realise it was a mannequin, dressed in traditional clothing. I walked over bravely and turned its gaze away from me and out  the tall window.

Through that window I could see the sky getting brighter and pulling the curtain fully open the sunlight streamed in…The rain had stopped ! The sun was out.
I was now looking out across the town square.
The Plane tree’s were neatly coppiced and over in the corner was a war memorial. I could just make out lines of names. The square had an air of gloomy defeat and was empty except for a small boy cycling his bike in circles. His red jumper brightening up the square.
I turned my attention back to my room.

A large bed fit for a princess
Some tables holding ,what appeared to my eye, to be very valuable antiques.
I creaked open the doors of the huge Armoire in the corner ,more to make sure that there were no other surprises hidden , than curiosity.
A waft of fresh lavender hit me and row’s of crisp white linen ,some thread bare but of obvious quality, met my gaze.
I shut the door happy that there were no skeleton’s lurking there.
Time for that swim.
Relieving my bike of its panniers and basket, I grabbed my swimming togs and a towel and pushing the bike headed out into the sun.
In the coach house (which was also filled with antiques but these being Victorian children’s prams , rocking horses , then saddles and bridles, even an old carriage fully restored.)I left my bike  beside two blue bikes propped haphazardly against the wall.
The pool was warm and I swam the length and back with such pleasure. My leg was in its element and I realized I hadn’t thought of my cancer or surgery or treatment for days now. A good sign I suspect, I was obviously well on the mend.
Heading back across the courtyard I heard voices coming from the coach house. Two women were standing examining my bike, and discussing it in length in Dutch.
‘Goed dag’ I smiled as I passed by. They turned towards me in surprise. ‘ You are Dutch.? the taller of the two( I will call her Anja) asked. I explained that I had been married to a Dutch man for twenty years so yes did speak some.

       (the beautiful courtyard  as seen from the swimming pool)

‘We were admiring your bike’ The other woman (who I will refer to as Anna)exclaimed. ‘Where are you heading to? or better still, where are you coming from?’

Well! As like minded women do, we fell into easy conversation changing from English to Dutch and back to English again and wandered back into the house, Anja leading the way.
She seemed to know the ropes so we let her take charge and soon we were curled up comfortably in the large armchairs of a vast sitting room.

‘This is our second day here’ Her voice became muffled as she got down on her hands and knees and began to root in a low cupboard .

‘Ha here we are’ she peered into a tin ‘Almond galettes! My favourite!’

She laid the tin on a coffee table. and turned to pour tea from a pot sitting on a stand and kept warm by a tea light.

I looked nervously over my shoulder expecting to see Madame  bearing down on us crossly at any minute.

‘Don’t worry ‘Anja saw my anxious look ‘ She has gone to the Hairdressers in preparation for the drinks tonight…you are coming to the drinks ?

She must have seen my doubtful expression.

‘Oh you can’t miss the ‘drinks’ Ana pleaded ,

‘An unforgettable experience and not one to be missed’

They glanced at each other and laughed.

At 7.30 I stood outside the door gathering the courage to go in.

I could hear an Imperious voice inside.

Drawing a deep breath, I pressed down handle and took the plunge.

It took me a few seconds to recognise the glamorous well coiffed woman in a linen suit. Her neck and ears adorned in large pearls and a slash of red lipstick across her mouth.

I could only pray that my mouth didn’t drop open.

‘Ha! the Irish woman ,come in and find a seat’ She instructed haughtily

It was like being back in school and I sat as near to the back of the room as I could and what a room It was.

Ornate gilded ceilings ,  Florentine murals of naked nymphs bathing in wood land pools. Chinese vases of gigantic proportions and amongst all this grandeur a small man scuttled.

Between the overstuffed sofas and arm chairs and coffee tables laden with bowls of nuts and olive, he wended his way, pouring drinks for the other guests(I counted six other couples balanced nervously on the edges of their sofa’s all looking very uncomfortable).

The two Dutch women were seated bravely up near the front . They waved down at me and Anja patted the space beside her, but I shook my head shyly, I felt safe where I was.

Monsieur approached and asked me gently in French what I would like to drink. I looked around wildly for a clue. Madame’s glass was filled to the brim with something amber coloured which she was downing rather speedily.

Everyone else was drinking something clear. ‘A gin and tonic maybe’ the voice at my elbow urged…I nodded gratefully.

If Monsieur was Madame’s husband then he was everything she was not. Small in stature, his rumpled clothes hung on his skinny frame. He had a kind smile and a whispery voice.

Meanwhile Madame was in her element… She was holding a complete monologue in French, her loud voice ringing out across the room

Everyone was nodding, I presume in agreement as I tried frantically to understand the jist of the conversation.

Every now and again she would fire a question at someone and as they did their best to answer she would soon shoot them down.

I sipped away at my strong gin and tonic, noticing that Monsieur was refilling Madame’s quite frequently and as she droned on she began to tilt to one side.

As that tilt got more noticeable he went and sat beside her, leaning into her, all the time smiling at us benignly untill he was the one at a slant and she appeared to be sitting upright.

I must have drifted off because I woke with a start. The two duch women were standing up and gathering their bags at the same time and, in perfect French, they were explaining to madame that they had a reservation booked for dinner in the resturant across the road. ‘Pfffff’  Hissed Madame nearly knocking her husband to the floor. ‘Go! Enjoy your meal’  and she turned back to her other victim’s.

somehow I didn’t think she meant it.

Anja singled to me frantically

I stood up and clearing my throat stammered ‘moi aussi Madame’. and was out the door after the two women before Madame had a chance to reply

We ran across the village square laughing and giggling like school girls and down a side street. Anja pushed open the door of a cafe and we Handed ourselves over to the young handsome waiter.

‘I don’t think it will be herself who will serve breakfast in the morning’ i laughed as we ate our delicious sea bream and sipped Sancerre.’ Now why would you think that?’.said Anja.  ‘Poor monsieur how does he do it?’

Little by little the other couples wandered in sheepishly and plonked themselves down with obvious relief.

The waiter grinned from ear to ear..I would guess he knew what our laughter was about.

(Next day we parted company, Anja and Ana heading west and I heading east).

Mr Monet Mends my Bike.

Tags

camping., dunlaoighre, James Joyce, libaries, Monet, the yellow bicycle, Ulysses

“The bicycle, the bicycle surely, should always be the vehicle of novelists and poets” _ Christopher Morley.

If you cycle along the coast road at Dunlaoire, passed the pier stretching her long arm out and coiling it protectively around the boats, you may hear the strains of the lone banjo player playing ‘Ellis Island’ or some other emigrant song.

‘Isle of hope, Isle of tears, Isle of freedom, Isle of fears

But it’s not the isle you’ve left behind.

That isle of hunger, Isle of pain, Isle you’ll never see again.

But the Isle of home is always on my mind.’

As he plays, he stands looking towards England and if the wind is coming off the Irish sea, the melancholy sounds will follow you back up the pier.

Further along you will see the royal Marine on your right and hurrah! The new Library is well in progress.

(Peter Golkin once said ‘My two favourite things in life are libraries and bicycles. They both move people forward without wasting anything. The perfect day: riding a bike to the library’)

But the old public baths is sadly becoming more and more dilapidated.

Empty of water and the sound of children splashing.

The Kingston hotel is next with it’s wonderful views of the sea and on down along the coast road, freewheeling at first, then stopping to admire the view across to Sandycove.

On up the steep incline towards the forty foot.

Alas! You will see no sign of Stephen Dedalus, Buck Mulligan and Haines going for their morning dip

.

But the Martello tower, The home of those three characters from James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’ (now the James Joyce museum) still stands and as you can see from the photo below , is getting a facelift.

.

Finally you will arrive down to my favourite spot where you may catch a glimpse of me, sitting in the sun on my favourite rock, with a coffee and a book (not always Ulysses).

Today when I arrive, there is an old camper parked beside the pavement and a man is standing outside its door sipping from a mug.

Small in stature, his bare feet are trussed into worn leather sandals, The pair of faded jeans and an equally faded blue jumper keep off the still chilly wind coming off the sea . A wide brimmed hat covers white curly hair and the lower part of his face hidden by an unruly beard.

If he had a set of paint brushes in his hand I would have blinked and thought he was Claude Monet (yes I am still in 1904 and Monet would have been alive then )

He lifts his cup in greeting.

‘Nice Bike’ he takes another sip. ‘A bit noisy though. I heard you rattling from a long way off. Woke me from a wonderful sleep.’

He smiles to show he was teasing.

‘Nice van’ I answer coolly. ‘ But it’s usually fairly vehicle free down here’

I am stung by his criticism of my beautiful yellow bike and a bit miffed by the intrusion into what I deem my private spot.

‘Ah I’m sure it is’ he replies reassuringly. ‘ But we’re very quiet folk and sure we won’t be staying too long’.

At that a woman puts her head out of the van door. Grey haired with the most wonderful hand knitted jumper, she smiles warmly.

‘Would you like a cup of tea ‘ she enquires. ‘The kettle is on’

And so instead of sitting on my favourite rock, I find myself sitting in a cosy van admiring shelves made from driftwood and wonderful exotic coloured fabrics covering the bed. And best of all a small spinning wheel and a hand loom.

‘We come over to buy fleece from Donegal and sometimes stop here for a day or two when we get off the ferry. It’s so peaceful’.

‘Does’nt anyone object ‘ I ask in surprise because this is a very posh area of Dublin and I can’t imagine the locals being too happy waking up to see an old van pulled up.

‘Himself has them all charmed’. The woman laughs. ‘He knows everyone now. Sure he was in there having a cup of coffee yesterday morning’.

She nods to a large Mansion with direct access to the rocky shoreline .

Just then, through the van window, I see a group of elderly elegantly dressed ladies passing by.

They wave over at ‘Monet’ who is now perched on the wall.

‘Good morning ladies’ He calls out in greeting and jumping down, gives a deep bow, still clutching his mug to his chest.

‘Beautiful Morning.’ He remarks . They wiggle their fingers at him and giggling like schoolgirls, scurry off around the corner.

‘Off to mass ‘ He informs us through the window, nodding at the parting ladies.

‘How do you know ?’ the woman raises her eyebrows at me.

‘Oh’ Monet says airily ‘They told me yesterday when I met them at the forty foot, seems they go to mass every morning in glasthule.

‘They were swimming at the forty foot? ‘ His wife asks in amazement.

‘Nope’. He replies. ‘I was’.

‘But you don’t own a swimming togs’. She looks at him suspiciously .

‘That’s true.’ He raises one eyebrow and draining his cup, throws the dregs over the wall.

We have lots in common, his wife and I , and we sit chatting about life and poetry, painting and weaving and spinning.

The hours float by unheeded.

She makes some coffee this time.

‘I really must go’ I  say.

‘Don’t go’ comes a voice from outside. ‘She’s enjoying the chat with you. God love her having only the company of me on our trips’

He is tinkering at something. I can hear the clatter of metal tools.

When I peek out, I see my bike turned upside down and he is finishing oiling the chain and checking the tightness of the screw’s.

‘Throw us out one of those kitchen sponges’ he calls to his wife and catching the flying object, deftly inserts it between the back carrier and the mudguard.

‘That’ll stop the rattle’. He announces happily. ‘Though sadly we won’t hear you coming next time’

He lifts the bike upright, leans it against the seawall and gives it a reassuring pat on the saddle.

Then he looks at me imploringly.

‘Ah go on ‘ I smile ‘take her for a spin’.

The gentle art of Constant Pedalling

The word ‘Constant’ ,according to the Oxford dictionary, is defined as 1. occurring continuously, 2. remaining the same, 3. faithful and dependable, 4. an unchanging situation.

As I cycled across France,  I noted I was becoming a constant pedaller.

After all, what was I doing but turning the pedals continuously, remaining seated all the time, on a faithful and dependable bicycle.

Maybe number 4 was the only definition that didn’t quite fit. The situation of The yellow bike and I changed continuously.

But first lets go back to the continuous pedalling.
Some cyclists would find this most aggravating. I spoke to a friend recently who exclaimed ‘But one of the nicest things about cycling is the reward of freewheeling down a hill after the struggle uphill’.
‘But continuous pedalling has none of the struggle part and all of the freedom part’ I replied.

She didn’t get it! and in fairness, unless you have a chance to be somewhere where you can practise the gentle art of constant pedalling you probably wouldn’t get it either.

Another friend described it as ‘ boring’ and when I tried to explain that it was as far from boring as a mouse is from an elephant, she just smiled a smile that said ‘Stephanie has lost it’ and maybe I had. Maybe the year of interferon treatment had twizzled my brain.

But maybe it had also helped me to see repetition in a different light, not as boring, but more as soothing and meditative.

I mean a horse loves the gentle art of grazing. it does not thrive on the excitement of the unexpected.

(passing these horses between Narbonne and Port la Nouvelle, I sat and watched their calm presence as they searched for tussocks of grass amongst the brackish water of the lagoons)

But constant cycling didn’t mean you could just dream about other things and cruise along and not even realise you were on a bike. If that was the case you might as well be in a gym on an exercise bike.

No! constant cycling meant that you could enjoy the sensations of your legs turning at more or less the same speed, getting into a gentle rhythm. working with them.

Looking down now and again, I would admire the length of mine, the muscles working happily under the skin, the ligaments lengthening and shortening, pulling muscle to bone and releasing it as needed. Indeed the wonder of what legs are all about and how their actions can propel us for great distances at ease.

Am I thinking this way because I thought I would lose mine ? probably. Its only maybe,when you fear you might lose something that you begin to appreciate it.

So I looked down at my right leg and thought ‘wow look at you, recovering wonderfully , a little swollen at the end of the day but healing well.I would often pat my thigh and say ‘well done leg, when we find somewhere for the night I will rest you on some pillows’, and my leg would just , well, keep constantly twirling, I suppose.

Some people also like to give themselves the distance challenge. ‘oh I did the 700 kms across France in five days. that’s …let me see 140 kms a day’…well! well done them I say, if that’s how you like to travel or maybe you only have a weeks hols to do it in, but I was more interested in spontaneity and diversions.

(A floating shop..here I bought the freshest baguette, the sweetest tomatoes, the smelliest brie) 

I clung to only one schedule and that was,buying my bread, cheese, tomatoes ,honey and figs for my lunch before the shops shut at twelve.(they didn’t reopen until two ) Missing that twelve o clock deadline meant a constant rumbling stomach and a miserable calling out of ‘bon appetite’ to the wiser cyclist’s, who sat smugly on the canal banks chomping on their goodies whilst swigging bottles of excellent local Bordeaux.

And speaking of these speedy cyclists I will add a quick remark about the  French ones..A merry lycra’d clad bunch, looking for all the world like colourful parakeets swooping along the velo trails.
I noted with interest it was the men who were the most colourful, ‘les Femmes’ sticking mostly to black…like birds? or maybe black being the more slimming colour.

However there was never any snobbery by them towards me and my slow trundling constant yellow bicycle .

In fact the calls of ‘ courage’ and ‘bon journeau’ filled the air like the squawking of the birds they resembled as they flew passed.

Gel padded derriere’s in the air and colour coordinated matching helmets (if your lycra was pink, then your helmet was purple and vice versa)between the handle bars, they would raise their hands in friendly greeting and disappearing round the bend, the dust would settle and once again I would be enveloped into the peaceful stillness of the canal, the silence only broken by the birds or my wheel breaking a twig as I continued on my constant pedalling.

And veering again (a constant habit of mine) I would like to add how friendly the French are to anyone on a bicycle . You could be soaked to the skin and covered from head to toe in mud with your bicycle resembling some piece of scrap iron pulled out of a pig sty and smelling of such a place but the Maître D’hôte would, with a spread of his pristine arms and a smile from ear to ear, welcome you (and sometimes even your bicycle) into his five star establishment as if you had just won the yellow jersey(more of these experiences in another post).

But back to Constant pedalling

And so I would pedal along and admire the scenery and veer off to the markets or go into a church and light a candle and thank the gods of the canal for my lucky escape and my healthy leg.

I would stop for coffee’s at the canal bank cafe’s when the humour took me or watch the boats tackling the locks, or admire the traditional windows of the old lockhouses.

                   (delicious fresh mushrooms at the country markets)  

               .          (and old barge, calm and tranquil resting itself against its moorings)                                            (oh How I loved the colours and the lace curtains of the lock house windows)

Or I would sit on the canal bank and sketch the plane tree’s or the barges and the day would roll on peacefully. I might doze on the grassy canal bank,the yellow bike propped up against a tree ,after a lunch of baguette and brie with figs and a drizzle of honey and a glass or two of vin rouge.

And when the sun hung low I would brush the grass and crumbs off my dress and getting back on the yellow bike, head along the tow path in search of a bed for the night , pedalling gently and of course …..constantly.

 

 

 

A soft landing (looking for the Alcock And Brown Memorial the hard way)

On June 15 1919 John Alcock and Arthur Brown made the first non stop transatlantic flight from Newfoundland to Ireland.

They crash landed, having mistaken a piece of greenery for a flat field when it was in fact it was bog.

The plane was damaged but neither men were hurt.

Last summer, ninety four years after the landing, I decided to cycle to view the memorial but not by the sign posted route.

No that would have been far too easy and sensible. I wanted to get there by crossing the bog and pretend that I was back in the time before a lot of these roads had been built.

I set off leaving my small green tent to cater for itself for the day.

The cows watched my departure with interest probably planning an inveritable feast as soon as I had disappeared from view..

I left the beach behind and headed for Clifden. The sky was blue and the birds were singing.

On the main Clifden road Cars shot passed at a verocious speed but I wasn’t alarmed . I knew this road so well , every bump and bend .

I had cycled it so often over the years..

The wonderful thing about being on a bike as opposed to a car is, you can stop whenever the humour takes you or when you spot something of interest in a field or along the sea.

Poor motorists! They have to look for somewhere safe to pull in and by then its too late, the donkeys have moved off , the fisherman has pushed the boat out to sea, a cloud has crossed the sun or they are just going so fast they miss things of interest.

After stopping numerous times to take photo’s, smell the meadowsweet, breath in the sea air, talk to the donkeys, have a paddle I now reach the bridge at Ballinaboy and head inland…The twelve pins come into view and I admire their majestic splendour.

Almost navy against the blue sky the shite clouds throw shadows across them. I imagine at any moment I will see the dark shapes of dragons flying between the twelve valleys .

I note the neat banks of turf of such gorgeous designs. and the footed turf ready to be taken off the bog.

And turning right down a sandy road I head towards lough Fada (The long lake)

Here the road ends and the fun begins.

Oh how still the lake is and despite talk of a ‘ness ‘ type monster, I just have to take a dip. Swimming across to a small island covered in wind bent Hawthorn the goldfinches go crazy and a wren kicks up such a racket. I smile and turning ,swim back again leaving them to their wonderful paradise where they are safe from cats and rats.

I could have just lingered  there , peacefully in the sun. but I had a bog to tackle.

I pulled my bike across a bank of turf and followed a small sheep trail through the heather..it was tough going ,I lost the path many times and it became very boggy in places.

Once I stepped into a bog hole but clinging to my wonderful yellow bike(how many times she has saved my life that yellow bike) I pull myself out.

A few times I nearly gave up and headed back the way I had come but the sun and the skylarks urged me on.

I had no map , or watch, but I could make a fair guess by the height and direction of the sun as to where I should be going.

Eventually, probably two hours later, after pushing the bike up a turfy hill I stood among the stones of an ancient ‘rath’ and looking south westwards spotted my target.

I wondered if the locals at the time had stood on this very spot to watch a small plane splutter from the sky

Did they put there hands over their eyes or watch in horror as the plane landed nose down into the bog?.

Did they run a cross the bog in relief to greet the two pilots climbing out of the plane ?

Was the sky as blue ?

The above is the scene I like to imagine, women picking up their skirts and racing across the bog in the morning sun, laughing at the excitement of it all, as the skylarks singing and scolding overhead.

In reality The Marconi station was already here and in action  but as I leaped from tussock to tussock using the yellow bike to support me I didn’t want to think there was any technology involved.
Needless to say, I took the easy way home…by the road.

 

 

 

 

 

A Penchant For Pumkins .

Cycling away from the canal, which I now considered ‘Home’ ,was always carried out with some intrepidation.

I loved the calmness of the water and the colour of the autumn leaves, which I crunched over more frequently as the days flowed by.

The stunningly Beautiful bridges with their mellow hues particularly caught my attention and often, rounding a bend in the canal, I would have to stop just to contemplate their beauty, take a photo or even sit and sketch them..

(one of the many beautiful stone bridges I encountered enroute )

But cycle away from the canal I must ,up to Montelieu and then further afield, way out of my comfort zone of Mediative cycling.

To an Old Cistercian Abbey in the hills,

Now Le Monsieur of the abbey had a penchant for Pumpkins.

A fascination for the oddness of their shape,

They were everywhere! Painted ,sculpted, engraved ,carved into bowls,even jugs

My first morning at breakfast there were at least four different types of pumpkin jam.

some were made with rosewater, some with Cointreau, the ever present fruit flies were drunk with ecstasy.

we had to keep pushing them off our bread.

‘Ahhhh ! but you must try this’

Le Monsieur’s face loomed near mine, pushing a teaspoon of sweet syrup against my mouth .

‘you like it? 2009 was a good year for pumpkins’

‘Mmmm’ I said, widening my eye’s for effect.

‘And ziz?’ He persisted, dipping the spoon into another pot.

‘This turned out too sweet so I added some ginger, what do you think? different n’est pas?’

‘Qui, qui’ I murmured, savouring the hot sweetness, tres different.

He smiled,

‘And today’ He announced ‘you must paint’

‘No more gallivanting on that velo jaune, that yellow bike. Non you must stay in the garden and paint pumkins .

‘come! I will show you the best place’

I followed him out into the coolness of the morning. Our sandals made a flapping sound on the ancient flags of the cloister floors.

We headed up some steps and across the grass to the Grecian tower.

A few birds were up as early as us singing blithely in the nearby magnolia tree but otherwise all was still.

At the base of the tower was an open courtyard screened from the abbey by giant bamboo’s.

An ornate pond glistened in the morning sun.

I could see the shapes of goldfish flitting and hiding among the lily leaves.

The soothing sound of water trickling over stones relaxed me.

Placed around the courtyard were two old bedsteads. On the rustier of the two lay many pumpkins of the oddest shapes.

The remaining bedstead was covered in a throw of some exotic fabric and a few silk cushions were strewn casually against the head of the bedstead.

‘You may sit here’ He said, patting one of the cushions. ‘This is your studio, but first, go fetch your materials! vite, vite!’

And so I , usually such a strong independent woman, and certainly not one to be bossed about by a man, found myself scurrying off to do his bidding.

I hurried back across the lawn, past the magnolia tree, past the window filled with pumpkins, past the zany sculpture made of willow, past the blue wheelbarrow filled with pumpkins, down through the cloisters I ran and up the stairs to my room.

The mirror on the landing showed a flushed face of a woman of middle years with the smile of a teenager.

Back in the garden Le Monsieur stood waiting.

He had donned a ‘Monet’ hat, white and wide brimmed ,complete with black ribbon, he looked for all the world, like the great impressionist master.

On a low table sat an elegant Basket with a silver handle and clasps. He undid the clasps and lifted the lid with a flourish.

I peeped in curiously. A dainty ceramic teapot and two equally delicate bowls nestled in the padded silk interior .

He lifted the teapot and placed it on the able, followed by the two cups, then, with all the ceremony of a geisha, he poured the fragrant green tea.

the steam coiled up and the scent of jasmine wafted into the air.

a soft wind rustled the bamboo and the sunlight flitted and played with the shadows across the spear like leaves.

A few late butterflies danced and dipped among the hibiscus flowers.

The clinking of wind chimes hanging in a nearby peach tree  added a meditative feel and now and again a leaf broke loose and sea sawing  through the air, landed gracefully on the pond surface to be immediately investigated by the goldfish.

Le Monsieur finished his tea. ‘and now’ he announced smiling under the wide brim of his hat, ‘I will leave the artist to work’ .

He walked away ,and turning once by the willow sculpture, he raised his hand in farewell.

I sighed, took a deep breath and reaching for my paint bush I began to paint.

My bedroom at the abbey was the last window on the left, a serene room where I could escape the madness of pumpkins if necessary.

The Two Irish Moira’s of Montelieu

Montelieu. a view from place du esperu down into the valley below.

I woke this morning with a plan.
A sort of late New Years resolution.

I would tidy my book shelves, Maybe categorize by genre or by Alphabetical order.

Now I am not a tidy individual by nature so there was an element of excitement about this.
I made a coffee to encourage me with its boosting properties.

A few minutes later I was sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of books.
I groaned, already feeling overwhelmed by the sight.
I took a deep breath and a sip of coffee.
amongst this pile were my diaries of various sizes, shapes, and colours.
I counted twenty six in all.

Sighing I pulled one towards me and flicked through the pages randomly.

Oct 25 2010 caught my eye.

A sketch of an old water trough in the village of Montelieu.

I took a sip of coffee stretched out my legs and began to read…

at this entry I had been cycling across France for three weeks,starting at Arcachon on the Atlantic through Bordeaux then following the Garonne in parts until I reached Toulouse.
From Toulouse I followed the canal du midi eastwards towards the Mediterranean.

Because there was no uphill’s to tackle, neither were there downhill’s to coast, so pedalling constantly was necessity to keep the canal passing,(more about this form of cycling in a later entry)

I found the meditative quality of this form of cycling wonderfully soothing…I just left my legs to it, they knew exactly what to do…even my ‘shark’s bite’ leg behaved itself and didn’t swell, in fact it became less numb and more alert.
I was able to just sit and watch the canal go by.Some barges, not many now as the locks would close on the first of November. A lot of water birds, a few other cyclists…once even a nude man (just casually strolling along ,apparently without a care in the world).
I even saw a coypu. these large non-native species, seemingly do a lot of damage to the banks of the canals.
but once again I am veering...and need to veer northeast to the village of Montelieu.
I heard of Montelieu from a Dutch woman who was cycling with a friend from Sete to Toulouse.(was I the only ‘sad woman cycling alone)?.
‘If you love books you will love this village’ she exclaimed enthusiastically’ ‘its full of bookshops’.

so I left the plane lined canal and the barges and headed along a poplar lined road into the hills.

The good news was that Montelieu was only about fifteen kms from the canal.
The bad news was it was uphill nearly all the way.
I was no longer used to hill’s
My ‘shark bite’ leg began to whine.
‘What ARE you doing’ it said.
But I ignored it and persevered, finally getting off the bike and pushing.

Eventually we arrived in Montelieu and I found a wonderful Chambre D’hote which allowed the yellow bike inside too.

The thought occurred to me maybe because of the long uphill struggle ,that maybe I should stay here for a week, rent a house , catch up with my writing and painting.
I fell asleep to this new plan.

The next Morning I rang a number. an irish voice answered .’ Hold on i’m just pulling in off the N11’a gentle female voice informed me.
I nearly cried as a wave of homesickness washed over me…What was I doing here.

My third grandchild only one month old. I suddenly missed my beautiful daughters and my grandchildren.

I made my request.

‘Oh dear’ was the reply ‘Yes I do rent out my house in montelieu but I’ll be out there myself this evening, I’m just heading to the airport now’

We chatted for a few minutes as she asked what I was doing over there.

‘I would really like to meet you’ she said ‘ why don’t you stay in the same b and b tonight and we can meet for coffee tomorrow, at my place…I’ll be organized by then.
By the way my name is Moira’ and laughing she hung up before I had even time to say ‘Safe flight’

So I spent the day browsing the wonderful bookshops of Montelieu whilst the yellow bike happily rested safely beside the piano and at three o clock I walked up to Place du Esperu and sat waiting till around the corner She came.

Impeccably dressed with stockings and brogues I heard her click clacking before I saw her.

She shook my hand warmly and said ‘Come! ,The coffee is on and my friend, also, Moira is dying to meet you’.

So I sat with Two Moira’s of Montelieu well into the night, in their little cottage and we regaled our stories as the
stars came out and coffee turned to tea and tea to wine.

I wish I could tell you more about these wonderful Ladies and I will at a later date , but for the moment my old laptop is playing ‘puck'( happily I am getting a new one at the end of the month)and driving me crazy (I have lost this ‘story’ quite a number of times). So I close my diary and look at the mess of books yet to be sorted and realise its now afternoon.
And think of that wonderful cycle across France on my yellow bike following surgery and my year of interferon treatment when all I needed to know was that my ‘sharks bite’ leg could last the journey . and it did! but that’s another Story.

I Fall down, I get up, I fall down again. But meanwhile, I keep on cycling.

About Two weeks after my surgery, I was cycling along wearing my post surgery garb.
A pair of wide pyjama bottoms to which I could pin my surgical drains, to prevent them getting tangled in the spokes.

(These drains were still in place because my body was not yet diverting the lymph to the next set of nodes, now that the groin one’s had been removed) and a long skirt to hide my swollen leg, which, with its zigzag scar (think shark bite appearance)was no longer a pretty sight.
It was hot and I was feeling grumpy.
It was one of my ‘not fair why me’ days.

I did my shopping and began cycling home by the sea.
Oh how I longed for a swim!
But with the drains in, a swim was not an option.
I turned away sadly, caught my foot on one of the drain tubes and over I went, shopping and all.
I wasn’t hurt and thankfully hadn’t pulled either of my drains out but I sat on the ground feeling very sorry for myself.I just wanted to sit there miserably FOREVER!

After a while my rear end began to grow numb and I began to feel hungry and I realised that no matter how my head felt, my body would just continue on doing its ‘thing’.

Back home sitting in my favourite chair with my bamboo rustling behind and surrounded by my pots of flowering bits and pieces, I made a promise that what ever came my way I would always look for the good side and that I would leave that grumpy side back where I had fallen..

Easier said than done!
I had a long way to go yet.
I hadn’t even started my year of Interferon treatment, which by all accounts would not be pleasant.

I needed a project to look forward to when all this was over.
Something I could spend the long winter days planning and dreaming about when I was too weak to do anything.

But what?.

That night I dreamt I was cycling endlessly along a river, pedalling and pedalling without stopping. My leg was getting tired but in my dream I was smiling.

Next Morning a friend came for coffee.
She handed me a book.
It was about cycling the canal du Midi..

‘That’s it’ I cried in amazement!
‘That’s the river in my dream’!

I thought for a moment…
‘You know’? I looked at her seriously.
‘When all this is over I won’t just cycle the canal du Midi! I will cycle from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.

‘You’ll need to sell that Yellow thing so’ she laughed ‘And buy a mountain bike instead’.

I looked across at my lovely Yellow bike.
‘Nope’ I shook my head ‘We’re in this together! the yellow bike and Me’
.
And so we were.
But that’s another story.