I blame it on Saint Begnet (dillydallying in a Thorny Place)

I am easily distracted

Or maybe it is more that I like to change direction on a whim.

Its not as though I go round in circles chasing my tail.

I just let the sequence of the day dictate and I am always satisfied with the outcome.

It is probably why I travel better alone.

I could be seen as an embarrassment as I grumble and stumble, wandering down alleyways , tramping up steep steps, crossing rickety looking bridges, wading through streams, pushing the yellow bike along railway lines (yes really! I did that once) or lowering it down into hard to get back out of places.

I am not a follower and like to go wherever it pleases me, when it pleases me, without having to consult anyone else.

Selfish of me? Probably.

But a lot of my life is spent doing things for other’s so this is my not so guilty pleasure.

When my children were small, they would groan when they noticed a certain look in my eye or a certain determined bounce in my step,

They would shout ‘no’ and sit on a rock, stubbornly refusing to go any further, before I could even start to utter that sentence I became famous for….

‘Lets just see what’s over the top of this hill/mountain/sand dune or beyond this road/forest/bog or across this river/ravine/inlet’.

But the years have passed and I didn’t lose either of them to fall’s or drowning’s and they are safely and independently and happily (for them) out of my grip, with good men who take good care of them.

Today I am heading out with the yellow bike to have coffee with my eldest daughter.

But we both know that although this is the plan, it may not necessarily be the end result .

She lives presently in Dun laoghaire about 14 kms further along the coast.

The suburban railway line built in 1834 cuts out an unnecessary piece of uphill cycling for me.  That is, the road up past Wind-gates and down into Bray town.

I often see racing cyclists struggling up this stretch. But I do not need such bulging thigh’s, plus though I cycle almost everywhere, I am a lazy creature by nature.

My planned stop is Dun laoghaire, still a few stops away, but I find myself suddenly struggling to unlock the yellow bicycle from where its held to stop it sliding about the carriage and we squeeze out through the gap just before the train doors close at Dalkey Station.

Not the best idea as I forgot this small station has neither a lift or a bicycle turnstile.

After hollering in vain though the SOS speaker for the station master to release the gate, I finally give up and manage to lift the yellow bike over the pedestrian turnstile, drop it onto the other side and then let myself through with my swipe card.

I was grateful I was not in a wheelchair or I might be still there.

I ring my daughter.

‘Don’t tell me’ I can hear the smile in her voice ‘you’ve got off a killiney and are going for a swim first?’

‘Now there’s an idea, ‘ I reply ‘But no, I’ve got off at Dalkey, I just want to have a quick peak across at Saint begnet’s church,I’ll see you in half an hour instead’?

She Laugh’s ‘Ok and if you’re late I’ll blame it on a saint’

‘Maybe give me an hour’ I say.

She sigh’s in a resigned fashion ‘Tell you what, mom, ring me when you’re five minutes away’

‘I’ll do that’ I say, hanging up and tossing my phone into my front basket’

We both know there are no distractions within a five minute cycle of her place.

The sun has come out as I trundle down through Dalkey village,

The Irish for Dalkey is ‘Deilginis’ meaning ‘thorny Island’

I like that name.

I take a right and pass Finnegan’s pub on my left,

Bono’s local (or so I am told).

I pass some cute artisan cottages on my right. I think Maeve Binchy (the Irish novelist) lived in one but I’m not sure.

An Bord Failte would certainly NOT want me as a tour guide.

I stop at a junction.

Which way will I go?

Left or right ? I relish the delicious luxury of this decision and even tease myself.

left? no! right? no! left? no.

The ‘beep’ from a large BMW Jeep behind me spoils my game and I take the right hand junction.

Unfortunately so does the driver and the road is so narrow she cannot pass.

Even though I’m whizzing down the hill and probably going as fast as she would be able on such a small road, I take pity on her and hop off onto the pavement and let her pass by.

I’m glad I stopped. There, inserted in the wall is a still functioning post box.

Last collection 5 pm it states.

I try to peer in to see if there are any letter’s but the over lip prevents me.

An old man passing with a dog ask’s politely if he can help me, but I know what he’s thinking. (what devilment is this middle aged woman on her scruffy bike, peering into our letter box, up to?)

I step back off the pavement guiltily and cross the road to the harbour.

Beautiful Coliemore! with its boats pulled up on the slipway and it’s perfectly constructed Stonework.

I wander down the slip way.

The tide is out.

I try to imagine how it looked in the 14th  to 17th centuries when it was used as one of the main ports for merchant ships when the River Liffey silted up.

I have read that a lot of the castles in Dalkey village were actually store houses for wealthy merchants to keep their goods in when they arrived off such ships. Though the harbour itself wasn’t completed until 1868.

I look across at Dalkey Island (thorny Island) There is an open boat making it’s way back across the strait’s .

The current is pulling it down stream but it has a good engine and the Ferryman knows the journey well.

It pulls in safely within minutes.

I can easily see the Martello tower

But it is the ruin of 9 th century St Begnets church to the left that catches my eye.

How it must have looked to the pilgrim before the Martello tower was built (1804)

On their way to pray or to visit Saint Begnets Holy well with its cure for Rheumatism.

There is a bit of mystery about Saint Begnet (some say ‘she’ was a ‘he’ but I prefer the female version).

Here below is a link to her history. An interesting read and I will leave it to the experts to fill you in as I could be distracted and side track you to other things

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Begnet

I am glad to know her feast day is the 12 of November which makes her a Scorpio just like me.

I promise myself a trip to the Island to take a closer look at the church when the weather improves and also a visit to her holy well ( I have no sign of developing rheumatism but that may change in the future  if I continue to linger here in the cold on the harbour wall).

I lean my yellow bicycle against the newly red painted doors of Dalkey rowing club, which started in 1931( see I do remember some things )

And return for a final view.

The sun has vanished behind a cloud, giving an air of mystique to the thorny Island.

Cycling back down the road I see the woman with the BMW.

This time she pulls in for me and smiles and waves like a long lost friend.

Her Jeep is now packed to the gill’s with school aged children whom I hope she will never whisk off on mad cliff top/ over sand dune/down ravine type excursions .

I am now within five minutes of Dun Laoghaire and I dutifully ring my daughter.

We arrange to meet in the Promenade cafe on the seafront.

I am about to get back on the yellow bike when something catches my eye!

A beautiful sculpture? is it a sea urchin?

I’ll just cycle over and take a quick look…..

Oh I know she will be cross…

But she should be happy I named her Hanna, after her Grandmother , I could easily have named her after saint Begnet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can try and take the garden from the gardener but………..

My first forays into the art of gardening were disastrous.

In fact I was having a cup of tea with my mother recently and as we sat in the living room looking out onto the garden she suddenly pointed to the hill at the end of the lawn and shouted. ” That fecking Russian vine” (the term ‘fecking’ was the nearest my mother ever came to cursing and she only used it when very vexed)  “where on earth did it come from” She continued “its taking over the hill, just look at it…its RAMPANT”!

My disasters didn’t stop there.

As, with the creamy lacy flowers of the Russian vine that I fell in love with in a garden centre in my mid teens and brought home to plant on the hill in my parents back garden, I made a few more similar mistakes….(Interestingly I also fell in love with bicycles around the ‘Russian vine’ time).

For who would not be fooled by the loveliness of these flowering but cleverly invasive plants.

Oh the wondrous smell and the blue flowers of mint!

I planted it successfully in my first serious garden in Co Sligo, along with potatoes, cauliflowers, carrots, pea’s, bean’s, courgettes, salad crops, onions, leeks, garlic and even asparagus.

In fact so successfully, that, loving the rich manured soil, it grew joyously and exuberantly over everything.

I learned to recognise its worm like roots, which to give it credit pulled up easily. But it seemed the more I pulled, the faster it grew and when it began to appear in the goats shed and in the middle of my husbands immaculately raked driveway (he was Dutch) I gave up my battle with mint.

And started battling with my husband instead.

And no!  Its invasiveness wasn’t the reason we sold this house and moved to the north of Sligo.

Honestly it wasn’t!

Even in this third garden I STILL hadn’t learned my lesson.

I planted a clematis against a Hazel tree.

The idea being, It would climb and reach its pretty tendrils across to another Hazel tree and form a cacophony of flowers over the path to our water well.

Unfortunately even the romantic appearance of this path with its pink flowered bower couldn’t hold my failing marriage together.

I left,

Leaving my husband with the job of hacking down this very invasive creeper.

A job he was good at I might add, as one of our major fallings out happened when I came home from work early one day and caught him pulling up(by means of a rope and a car)A beautiful climbing rose that I had planted at the door of our cottage.

I agree that the rose (Albertine), which initially had climbed as I had intended (around the door and up the wall a bit), was now spreading itself rapidly across the blue bangor slates and making a beeline for the velux windows under which my daughters slept rosy cheeked each night.

But I loved it for its peach colored flowers with the scent of summer.

Reaching the gate at the end of the boreen, I took one finally look back at my home .

I could just make out large patches of pinks and purples against the mountain, the colour blurred and hazy through my tears.

I headed rapidly down hill and shamefacedly away from gardens after my divorce, but never gave up my love for them,

And in trying to forget these mistakes I should not forget my odd success.

I won first prize for my vegatables in country shows many times.

Not to mention prizes for my pedigree milking goats which happily escaped from being enveloped by that minty mayhem.

Alas no more large gardens for me.

I live in an apartment now.

On the third floor. With sun from 12 midday onwards .

Important facts because …..

well,

God loves a tryer !

And though you may remove the garden from the gardener, you can never stop the gardener from finding the smallest piece of earth and planting their dreams in it.

So even when living in a small space, high up. I still manage to keep a garden of sort’s.

This year (as in recent years) I plan to have my Balcony filled to overflowing with plants , mostly beans, tomatoes and courgettes.

I love when it threatens to collapse with the weight of my planting enthusiasm.

St Patricks day is by tradition the day to start sowing crops in Ireland.

Probably because with luck, all danger of frost has passed at this time.

I wake the yellow bike early.

The purple diva is not interested in our country escapades. She prefers to laze by the fire. I have tried to tell her its not a real fire but she refuses to believe me. She can be quite stubborn.

We head out through the manicured apartment gardens. No sign of rampant growth here. All beautifully contained lawns and weed free flower beds.

But I get the feeling that these plants are sad and cowed down and wouldn’t dare to have a leaf out of place.

Sometimes I get a mad urge to do some night time under cover planting.

Of a wild and vigorous nature…

Some vibrant colourful carnivally over the top species.

But I nip my urges in the bud (pardon the pun).

Out on the main road we pedal up the hill in the direction of the garden centre.

The yellow bicycle is not full awake and struggles a bit so I hop off and push her for a while.

We stop to smell the wonderful patch of daffodils at the side of the road.

An old lady with a small nondescript dog stops to admire the yellow bicycle, who has somehow made her way further in among the  flowers.

The dog stretches on his lead and tries to pee on the wheel but misses.

The old lady tugs him back towards her and reminisces about when she was young and how she always cycled to school and even cycled up to recently. ‘ But I’ve lost my confidence’ she confides ‘a car nearly up ended me as I turned into the local shops’.

She heads off down the road ‘ It was pink’ she calls over her shoulder nearly tripping on the dogs lead.

The yellow bike is fully awake now and we pedal on up the hill.

We take a shortcut through some derelict land.

squeezing past briar patches and clumps of gorse.

The gorse is very yellow and smells of coconut.

The sun comes out adding more yellowness to yellow.

‘Your kind of day’ I tell the yellow bicycle as we reach a smaller road. She zooms along happily. I barely have to push on the pedals.

I hear my first sky lark of the summer.

The wind is behind us now, blowing my hair across my face. I can feel the sun warm on my head. My kind of day too.

We freewheel down a hill and I lift my feet off the pedals as we fly through a puddle. We make it up the other side no trouble.

I back pedal the brakes and though there are no cars coming, I stick out my hand to indicate a right turn.

My mother once told me that my father was the architect who oversaw any renovations to kilquaide church. But that may have been a romantic notion of hers. She also mentioned that some of her relatives are buried here. Whichever it was, we pull in anyway for look.

Its a beautiful little church. almost Grecian in appearance. The small holy water font is empty.

I lean the yellow bike against it and wander round the tomb stones but I don’t recognise any of the names.

The garden centre is across the road from the church. Two huge wrought Iron elephants guard the entrance. A white price tag flutters from one tusk. I don’t bother checking it, just wonder who would put it in their garden.

I can smell the Hyacinth’s from the gate and push the yellow bicycle over for a better look . Bright in pinks and blue’s, the smell is as over powering as the colour but I love them.

Then I spot some real beauties.

Yellow ‘cowslips’.

I remember as a child, the fields across the road would be covered in these, the cows wading up to their hocks in the yellowness.

And we were allowed pick armfuls with no thought to the environment.

But sadly, a change in farming methods and the over use of nitrogen (not to mention our careless picking) and they disappeared from the fields.

I pick up a pot for my balcony and leave the yellow bike in the sun.

I add packets of broad beans, runner beans, rocket and courgette seeds to my basket.

Heading back down towards the sea, the yellow bicycle trembles with the weight of our purchases. my small cowslip cowers in the front basket, dipping her head out of the wind.

Later drinking tea on my balcony, I notice something moving out of the corner of my eye. Its a tiny red ladybird and its crawling up the stalk of my cowslip.

I smile as I remember my first year ‘ balcony gardening ‘.

Afraid that the bee’s wouldn’t come up three flights high and fertilize my runner bean flowers, I started doing the job myself with a paint brush, gently brushing from flower to flower.

That evening as I sat relaxing with a glass of wine. a single bee appeared up over the balcony wall and landed buzzingly on a flower followed the next day by many more.

I think there is a moral to this story.

But for now, when I’ve finished my tea, Its time to start sowing again.

White lace and a womans scent. (from Dreamhouse stories)

Its a fine spring day.

Benedict Bartholomew is up with the sun,

He lets Beauty the sheep dog out of the shed.

We don’t know the dogs age but unlike her owner she is fat and covered in burrs.

He retrieves three warm eggs from a patch of nettles under the fuchsia bush and throws some grain from his pocket to the hens.

He feeds Beauty next, stale crusts soaked in cold tea.

He washes his face in the rain barrel and dries his beard in a hessian sack hanging from a nail in the doorway.

The sack is damp from last nights rain, the only hope it has of ever being washed.

‘God made rain for other things besides annoyance’ Benedict remarks stooping to pat Beauty’s head, but the old dog, finished her food is too busy rooting out an indignant hen from the nettles.

Breakfast for Benedict is a fresh egg and fried bread washed down with strong tea.

The tractor starts easily, He leaves it ticking over.

Beauty licking her jowls in the hope of stray crumbs is too fat to make the jump so Benedict hoists her into the tractor box with difficulty.

He climbs breathlessly into the cab and they head down the hill.

Susie the sheep is due to give birth. She is in the field down by the river.

Benedict plans to bring her back to the shed and keep an eye on the proceedings.

The lane is lined with blossoming Hawthorn tree’s.

White lace and a Woman’s scent.

If he’d married she’d have smelled like that.

He sighs.

A flock of goldfinch flash by and a thrush sings.

Beauty leans forward, ears back, tongue lolling, enjoying the breeze.

Susie is standing at the gate, lamb at her side, umbilical cord still wet.

Benedict lifts them both into the tractor box anyway.

Beauty sniffs the lamb and Susie butts her crossly.

The old sheepdog squeezes into the cab beside her master, tail wagging.

Benedict lays his hand gently on her head.

A sudden breeze picks up and the hawthorn blossoms blow across the lane covering the passing tractor in confetti.

(Cycling around the west of Ireland I met many bachelors living in isolation, who never had a chance of marriage. This is a story about one of them. Benedict was not his real name but I think he would have liked it. )

‘Oh the places you’ll go’ (In search of Smock Alley)

‘Ring a ring a Rosie, as the lights decline, I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times’.

I want to go back in time.

To an old Dublin.

To a time before this song was sung about.

To a medieval Dublin.

I spend a lot of time on my laptop looking up old images and reading snippets of history or following Pat Liddy( Dublin historian)as he walks and talks his way around this intriguing city.

Sometimes my reading goes off in a tangent and I get totally lost in a different world.

Drifting from fact to fact, my middle age brain is interested and enthusiastic but unable to retain all the information.

I read about the river Poddle which pooled and met the liffey beside Dublin castle. I’m fascinated by the river Steine which merged and joined the liffey. Here the Vikings landed along the beaches (now Townsend street ).

I pour over maps and watch how Dublin changed and grew over the centuries.

From a small settlement (Dubhlinn) to a major city (Dublin).

I hang on to odd bits of information.

I read that there is a lane called tennis court lane near John street and that in 1609 an assignation interrupted a match at a tennis court off Thomas street.

How come I was never told of such interesting events in school. These are the facts that would intrigue a class of unruly children.

And I listen one Sunday to a program on the radio about an old theatre called the Smock Alley Theatre which opened in 1662 (the first theatre in these islands I’m told)and lies off ‘fishamble’ street.

It is near the Street where Handel’s Messiah was first performed in 1742.

I can hardly wait for my next day off to take out the yellow bike and go in search of it

Though originally from Dublin, I now live a good 16 kms south of the city in Co Wicklow, but we have a glorious suburban train which allows bikes on all day at weekends( week days have some curtailing of times which is fair enough as it can be quite jammed with commutors and school children).

Interestingly this suburban railway line was the first in the world. Built in 1834 it hugs the coast. A delight for all but the rainiest days and even then its lovely to watch the gulls, cormorants and other seabirds soaring the cliffs of Bray head.

I wheel the yellow bike on.

It knows the routine by now and I lock it to the rail to stop it running all over the place and find a seat…

Its early morning.

killiney beach, bathed in sunshine and dotted with early morning dog walkers, slides by.

Dalkey follows , then Glenageary, Glasthule, Dunlaoire and now we have reached Dublins leafy suburbs which by end of march will be a sea of cherry blossom.

I debate which station to get off at(Pearse street is the worlds first suburban railway station), but I choose the earlier landsdown road.

Cycling along Shelbourne Road , busy even on a sunday, I quickly reach the old gasworks now turned into luxury appartments mostly lived in by the ‘google gang’ (the google offices are just close by)

I cycle some of the smaller cobbled streets to avoid the traffic and arrive out on grand canal dock.

I count twenty-five barges moored in the basin.

The boland mills (scene of one of the standoff’s in the easter rising) looks dwarfed against the larger modern buildings.

Over the bridge I stop at grand canal square.

Once a scruffy run down place, its now a trendy café, apartment area where rents are high.

Women are gathering in lycrad gear talking excitedly about their planned route for a jog. Gathering in large numbers, they have the appearance of exotic hens, hair tied up in pony tails, some jogging on the spot.

I feel large and lazy as I sip a (full milk ) cappuchino and eat a warm sweet pain au raisin.

A girl appears from the appartments wearing a hang over but still managing to look glamerous in pink lycra.

she is immeadiatly surrounded by the rest of the sqwalking females who ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ at such bravery, after presumably a night of heavy cocktail drinking. But she shrugs her slim shoulders and with a toss of her ponytailed head leads the posse away down towards the liffey.

I turn my face towards the sun and try to imagine what was here in medieval times.

I can’t quite remember what I read but I think this whole area was beach and estuary, so I try to visualise people out gathering oysters and other shellfish all the while keeping a sharp eye out for Viking long boats whatever it was, it was a definite far cry from lycra and pony tails .

I shake myself out of my revere and hop on the saddle once more.

I’m at the start of the canal proper now…. A lovely designated cycling path runs all the way up to my turn off at Portobello bridge.

En route I stop at baggott street bridge and look in the window of what once was Parsons book shop, but no ghosts of behan and Kavanagh stare back at me , just the balls of pizza dough. But no wonder. Alas I have blamed Milano’s when in reality Parsons was not here but across the road. Still how sad this book shop is gone. I would have stopped and browsed there.

I’m doing now what I love best, cycling a canal bank.

The reeds are white with winter colour,

A single swan lies statue like on the still water,

A few dog walkers stroll by, their canine friends sniff eagerly and raise their legs against the tree trunks…

An Elderly man sits on a bench with the sunday papers.

He licks his thumb to turn the page. His small arthritic jack russel doing a good job at keeping the noisy sparrows at bay.

A young couple jog by looking smug and cool.

A young lad cycles towards me. Hands in pockets, he is leaning back on his saddle(look Ma no hands. Look Ma no teeth! as my Dad used to say) He nods a greeting.

For an instant I forget my age and lift both hands off the handle bars. My bike wobbles nervously under me and I laugh at myown foolishness.

A breeze is getting up.

Looking back along the canal I see the swan moving off regally and I reach the statue of Patrick Kavanagh his hat strewn on the seat beside him.

Supposedly a rural Poet, he was described more as a ‘Flaneur’ , a poet of the city streets, who wandered looking for their meaning.

But I don’t dally as the day is wearing on and I was only halfway there yet….

In medeval times this canal did not exist and being outside the city walls I would probably have not dared to linger, let alone talk to strange men.

With wolves and wild irish men, I would have been scurrying along through forests and swamps.

Once again I realise I haven’t done enough or have just forgotten what I spent a lot of time researching

Maybe the wild Irish men would have been Kind and showed me the way along a well worn track used by monks and other travellers coming to sell their wares or to pray at Christ church catherdral.

I reach another bridge (leeson street) and cross leeson street and continue along the canal to prtobello bridge .

I turn right and down Camden street, past O’ Connells pub ,.being Sunday its not open yet , its too early for a pint anyway .

Guiltily I miss the 8th century St Kevins church but, though tempted to stop, I am aware of my habit of being easily distracted and veering off the plan. I keep going promising myself a return visit to these churches on a later cycle.

I turn left up Peter row which runs onto white friar street again missing White friar church and the burial place of St Valentine.

Turning left at golden street and I pass Bull alley (Oh these names intrigue me so) I do stop to admire St Patricks cathedral(1192) and the reputed site of St Patricks holy well

The bells of St Patricks are ringing out as I cycle slowly up the hill that is Patricks street . The sound of traffic doesn’t manage to drown out these great bells and it occurs to me that in medieval times with no traffic they could probably be heard ringing as far away as the Dublin mountains.

I Imagine relief on the faces of Pilgrims making their way across the hills when they hear them and of course I remind myself of the pilgrims link from St James gate to follow the Camino de Santiago.

And there on the crest of the hill or at least just over it lies Christ Church Cathedral.

I push my bike through the gate.

The doors are open and I am swallowed by the sounds of the great organ and the choir.

I stand and listen.

The old stone towers reach towards the heavens.

I don’t go in but linger outside and read the information board.

Tourists are taking Photographs and I and the yellow bike are in the way so we cross the road to Fishamble street. According to a map 1604 this area was called the fish shambles which meant an area for gutting and cleaning fish.

The liffey came in at this point and the fishing boats moored here.

I turn down Cows lane where Handels messiah was first performed in 1742.

And there it is…..Smock Alley Theatre.

the back entrance.

The front entrance, which may have been the back entrance in 1662.

Some of the interesting facts come to mind. e.g. There was a small hatch under the main door where you could pass in a piece of paper requesting which play you wanted to see that night..the requests were tallied up and the most popular play performed. This meant of course that the actors had to have many plays in their heads.

The wealthier patrons could rent a chair on the stage. This of course was not always welcomed as it proved a hinderence to those acting on the stage.

The audience was different then too.

Not the quiet reverend hushed audience of these days, where even the thought of a rustle of a sweet paper is frowned upon.

In the 1600’s  the audience was a mixed bundle. The wealthy rubbing shoulders with the ordinary man.

A running commentary was quite the norm with the audience holding full blown critiques as the play was in progress. Munching noisily on oysters and other sustenance was also the norm. (Mounds of oyster shells, pipes and fish bones were found in recent excavations)

I catch up with what looks to me like an actor type walking down the street.

With Long Shakespearean curls, he is sporting a velvet coat. He is Happy to hold my bike and fill me in on some of the historical facts of the area. But ‘no I’m no actor’ he tells me.

He points out ‘ Isoldes Tower ‘ Only the base of which remains.

It was discovered when the foundations were being dug for new apartments. but at one time it soared three stories High.

We talk about the greed of the building boom of the 80’s and 90’s when archaeologists rushed ahead of mechanical diggers to try and preserve what they could of this Viking and then medieval settlement.

We crane our necks and try and see down into a building site. I want to see a Viking sword but all I see is the gremlin who guards this spot.

There is still so much to see but my daughter phones me to invite me to a late Sunday Lunch.

There is a promise of wine.

I’ll be back to explore further, I’ve only skimmed the surface.

I say goodbye to my friend of Smock Alley and head away passed the Turks head, the yellow bike rattling on the ancient cobbles.

Back along the canal, I spy magnolia trees beginning to unfurl their wax like flowers.

I lift the yellow bike down the steps and into Darmouth square to get a closer look.

This new route has taken me away from the canal and I arrive out further down on leeson street.

Where the beauty of the perfect Georgian doors capture my eye.

And the refuse bin brings me back to earth.

The end.

The wonderful Art of getting lost(In search of Father Ted’s House)

Once upon a time in a far off land in the west, someone removed all the sign posts and burnt all the maps.

At first no one noticed as they were in their usual hurry getting from A to B.

But it didn’t take long for them to begin to lose their way. for they were so dependant on sign posts, even when only travelling short distances, they had forgotten how to look at anything else to help direct them in the right direction.

And as the people travelled too and fro losing there way, they began to slow down.

And wandering aimlessly down small roads and laneways they began looking.

Looking in the hedge rows and over cliffs and up at the sky and even down at there feet.

And they saw the earth was beautiful and they saw that it was good.

And it made them happy.

They met many other travellers who were also lost but no longer in any rush to get anywhere and they sat together and became friends and sometimes love emerged from these meetings and they had children who wandered contentedly with them.

Sometimes They came upon a shop where they were given provisions for free because the grocer couldn’t find his way to the bank and therefore discovered that money was no good to him.

The  growers began to swap vegetables and potatoes in return for sugar and salt and wheat.

The millers in turn gave wheat to the grocers in return for vegetables.

And the farmer brought milk and cheese and butter in return for flour and chat and good company.

People from foreign lands even wandered to their land and brought wine and coffee and other exotic things and they were welcomed and food was shared.

And people began to take out their boats and go rowing and getting lost at sea.

They knew they were somewhere near France or Spain when it began to get hotter or Denmark or Sweden if it began to get cooler.

But the main thing is they began to really take notice of nature around them.

The ditches tumbling with meadowsweet.

The stone walls covered in dog roses.

The hawthorn and other blossoms in bloom, dreeping white lace into the rivers and lakes.

The birds and their song. The bee’s in the honeysuckle.

How a breeze could cause the fuchsia to litter the path with flowers as red as fresh blood.

How a laneway would meander and reach the sea. How coloured shells would litter a beach.

How freshly green the woods were.

How dark blue and brooding a mountain looked. The brown of the turf.

The skies reflected in the lakes. How water felt to their bare toes.

And they became peaceful and dreamy and they would lie resting in the ditch in between their meandering and share their dreams with strangers.

And these strangers became their friends.

And they would travel together for a while before going their separate ways and getting lost again.

And birds would come closer and no longer be afraid and often a robin would perch on a foot and sing a sweet song before flying off.

And if they happened to be lying by a stream dangling their hands in the cool freshness a trout might swim up and they would tickle its belly and flip it up on the bank and fry it for tea.

But as time went on they felt the need for meat or fowl or fish was getting less and less and they sustained them selves more on greenery and nuts and seeds and though they continues to enjoy the mussels picked fresh off the rocks, they would first admire the pearl like beauty and give thanks to the sea for producing such deliscious delights.

And peace reigned and the people lived happily ever after ……….

I hope you like this story so far.

And it is just a story or more so just a thought, a pondering as I have the habit of doing.

And it came about as I was sitting with some other nurses on our tea break a few days ago.

One nurse was telling about how she and her boyfriend would never go back to Co Clare. Well more specifically to the Burren.

Now I love Clare and especially the Burren so I was curious to know why.

Seemingly they had gone for the weekend to find Father Teds House but even though there were plenty of signposts, they got lost and spent the whole time driving backwards and forwards, up and down roads, totally lost and cross and eventually returned home without ever having found it.

I listened in amazement. ‘never go back’? I asked perplexed ‘why not’.

‘Because we couldn’t find what we came to see and we just drove around lost all the time’ She sounded cross.

‘But its a beautiful place the Burren’ I replied.’I know it so well, I have cycled every bit of it. Its full interesting things.

She wasn’t having any of it. ‘No its not! Its just full of grey, dark, dreary stone. That’s all! what a waste of a weekend.

‘But the flowers which grow profusely across the fields of stones, the hazel woods, the wild sea, the clear sky, even the sculptured shapes of those stones…did you not see them as you were looking for Father Teds house’ I wanted to ask

But our tea break was over and we had to go back to our work.

Later that evening as I thought more about the conversation I realised how ironic it is to focus so much on the destination that you miss the wonderful the journey and the beauty as you travel along.

On my next cycle I definitely plan to get lost on purpose.