By-the-wind-bathing (Things to do that you may not have already considered)

Tags

carnsore point, demonstations, Kilmore quay, lakes, Marran grass, Nuclear power plants, rivers, sea, theyellowbicycle, Wexford coastal path, wildflowers, wind turbines

Would you like to do something that doesn’t cost anything, will make you feel good, doesn’t need any specific equipment and can be practiced in most outdoor spaces?

You would?

Then come with me and lets go Wind Bathing.

The recent weather on the east coast of Ireland has been glorious, with little or no rain and absolutely no wind.

People are out walking, running, cycling.

Cars filled with children, dogs, picnics are heading to the beaches.

In the evening the smell of bar-b-ques fill the air.

We have exchanged our usual jumpers for shorts and t shirts.

I note that commuters heading for the train no longer carry that ‘just in case ‘ umbrella

There is not a waterproof jacket in sight.

Everyone seems to be flourishing in these sunny conditions.

Except a few.

Or maybe one….

Me.

You see, I thrive on windy conditions, the stormier the better.

And this summer I am grieving the lack of them.

At night I plug in my fan and, placing it by my bed, fill my sleep with dreams of wild Atlantic storms.

But its not enough and I am declining grubbily.

I desperately need a wind bath

(Before you label me as a nutcase may I remind you that Roosevelt Franklin was also a fan of this activity).

Its early morning.

I am sitting at my table writing when I first hear it.

Cocking my ear in the direction of the open patio door, I listen more intently.

There it is again.

A faint rustling sound

I try not to get my hopes up and put my head down concentrating on my story.

But…

rustle, rustle

It’s louder now.

Unable to resist, I lean sideways on my chair and take a peek outside.

My bamboo leaves are all aflutter, quivering the way bamboo leaves do when stirred by breezes.

And looking over the valley, I see the clouds skidding drunkenly across the face of Sugar loaf.

At last!

Without stopping to close my laptop and barely taking time to lock the door, I am gone.

But where?

To the place of WIND of course.

Carnsore point was a quiet coastal spot on the southeast tip of Ireland until 1978 when it came to the attention of the country.

Yes! The Irish Government of the time, (Fianna fáil) decided it would be a good idea to plonk a nuclear power plant there.

All hell broke loose.

Carnsore point was woken from its gentle sleepy backwater as the good people of Ireland descended upon it and colored its flowery meadows with tents and vans.

And as the stage was being set up and the guitars and drums and microphones produced, people opened their mouths and sang out together in fury against Nuclear war and nuclear power and nuclear energy along the marran grassed cliffs of windy Carnsore point.

And so many people arrived that it was felt that Ireland would begin to upend into the sea. But the people weren’t afraid of that. They knew the gods of wind and sea and land were on their side and eventually with the help of that wind, their voices reached Dublin and the government (who seemed a bit hard of hearing for it took three years) finally got the message.

The idea was dropped like a lead balloon.

As I cycle my new bicycle in search of my wind bathing spot I remind myself how this area with its tapestry of hedge-rowed boiríns could have told a different story.

Now sometimes what you are good at can be your demise.

And because Carnsore is a windy place, I am going to have to share its space.with….

Wind turbines.

You may love them or hate them or maybe have no thoughts about them but they are here in this place of wind.

Having been one of those who joined in the demonstrations and sang as loud as she could, I’m just grateful that it is one these I lean my bicycle against.

The alternative would be unthinkable (or even impossible)

But I have two tricky obstacles before I can get to my bathing place and just as the yellow bicycle never gave up so the blue bike must learn my ways and we manage by sheer determination and strength, sustaining an electric shock (me) and scratches to paintwork (my new bicycle).

But at last we plunge through the knee high flowers towards the spot where I camped all those years ago.

And at last I am standing on a ledge looking out to sea, feeling the wind fritter my hair.

A young couple appear around the headland and stand near me also looking out to sea.

I feel shy and decide to wait till they have gone before I start my ablutions.

In the water just off some rocks, a seal pops up its head and looks in our direction.

Seeing it, the couple turn to me smiling, their voices are pulled away by the wind but I know what they are saying.

‘Look! a seal’

I nod and smile and think how this is the basis of human nature.

To acknowledge a stranger and share an experience with her.

‘What a beautiful wild place, wasn’t it grand to see the seal’

They are passing me now but stop to make their remark.

I, in turn, ask them if they had heard of the planned power site and the rallies and demonstrations all those years ago.

They shake their heads in disbelief

‘Here? you are joking!’

‘forty one years ago. fair play’

The boy shakes his head in disbelief once more before they walk on, following the Wexford coastal path in the direction of Kilmore Quay, through the meadows of flowers on one side and the swaying Marran grass-growing-cliffs on the other.

when at last they are out of sight, I stand and, facing the wind coming in from the ocean, lift my arms in readiness.

How to wind bathe

• Find your spot.

(Beside the sea, by a lake, beside a river, on a hill top. It doesn’t matter as long as there is a breeze.)

• Stand with arms aloft.
• Face into the wind.
• Let it wash over you.

Simple.

 Next week I will be wind bathing here.

THE END

 

‘The second clutch killed the old hen’. Questioning Seanfhocal (Old Irish sayings.)

Tags

antiques, goats, grandchildren, grannies, great grandchildren, heartfailure, hens, knitting, mice, old bicycles, seanfhocal, wool

After reading my last piece She’s a Super Duper Granny (Life in the fast Lane) a friend (with no grandchildren) mentioned that HER mother swore she would never look after her grandchildren, quoting the old Irish saying above

It made me think.

Was I more involved with my own grandchildren than was good for me?

I decided to do some simple research on the matter.

I would look at the ‘old hens’ I knew who had grandchildren and see how their long levity was effected, and study one example.

My mother is 87.

An old hen by any standards.

And an excellent subject for my research, for not only has she survived her second clutch (all sixteen of them) but she is now on her third one of nine.

And it hasn’t killed her.

In fact I do believe it is what is keeping her alive.

Of course the triple bypass she had many years ago might also have something to do with the fact she is still with us, but only marginally.

She has been quite non compliant with her physio and her medications since that surgery especially her diuretics.

The downside of this is, every now and again she slips into heart failure and is shipped off to the local hospital to be treated.

The upside is, these annual trips give us a chance to sort out her belongings and in doing so I find the proof I’m looking for. i.e Her grandchildren and great grandchildren are very much part of her life.

We are mostly, with the exception of two or three, a family of procrastinators and ditherers. Doing things quickly doesn’t come natural to us. We like to talk about it in much detail first. So she has already been in hospital a week before one of us suggests that this is our chance. Luckily her length of stay is approximately two weeks.

I have a good excuse, having been busy producing for an art exhibition (see previous post), and coming from a creative family, this is a perfectly acceptable one.

I should mention here that my mother is an artist.

A creator, a dress maker, painter, knitter.

She can turn her hand to anything and she encourages her grandchildren and great grandchildren to do so too, as she once encouraged all of us.

It delights her to have a project on hand.

Most of the time.

‘What will I knit for you James?’

James lives in the west of Ireland and is the 9th grandson and is up on a visit. He is mesmerized by her flying fingers as she shows him how a ball of wool and a pair of needles, can produce any item desired

‘Can you knit ANYTHING Granny?’

She smiles and nods.

He thinks deeply for a moment

‘Can you knit me a cow?’

My mother doesn’t blink an eye!

‘One cow coming up’ she replies whilst rooting in her bag of wool and pulling out a ball of black and a ball of white. ‘but it will take a few days of knitting’ she warns, knowing how impatient a child can be.

The days go by.  James is back on his small farm in the west.

He regularly rings granny for updates.

‘How is my cow coming along?’

Granny sighs (she is having trouble with the udders)

‘Nearly there James’.

‘Can’t you knit faster’

‘I’m trying James’

‘Well try harder Granny’ (Did I mention he was five at the time).

****

‘Have you dusted /swept /vacuumed behind those bags Greg?’

We are in ‘THE PROCESS’

‘No’ My brother shakes his head ‘I didn’t think they needed checking, they’re just her sowing/knitting /paper craft stuff.

His answer is enough to make me lean past him .

I haul out the bags which lie under a book shelf groaning with the weight of books on (you’ve guessed it) sowing, knitting, origami, bonsai, art history, patchwork and other crafts.

Ignoring for the moment the fact that the books need a good dusting I peer into the first bag.

Its full of old newspapers.

Pulling out a page, I am faced with the face of my other brother, complete with hard hat on some building project.

I stuff it back in and without checking the further contents, throw the whole bag into a bin bag.

The second bag is full of colored cardboard, glue and a scissors.

I put that to the side for the moment.

The third is full of balls of wool.

Or was,

As soon as I pick up the bag, the balls fall out through a hole in the bottom and roll along the floor, leaving a trail of suspicious black dots in their wake.

‘MOUSE ALERT’ I shout

My youngest sister appears. She is busy working on a commission and has been excused from the clean up.

‘They are not mice droppings, they are Nigella seeds!’

My mothers terrace is noisy and busy with fluttering’s of gold crests, fire crests, chaffinches and bull finches landing excitedly on the five bird feeders hanging from various trees and shrubs and filled with tiny black oblong seeds.

and these seeds get dragged in on peoples feet.

‘Nope’ I shake my head ‘Can’t blame the bird seed’

I proffer the bag to her. She peers in at the shredded paper pattern and suspicious black dots entangled in the cozy wool nest.

In the end we throw out five black bags of rubbish and lay two mice traps

We put three untouched balls  and needles in another bag.

She won’t notice the missing wool because it won’t be long before someone doing their own clear out will arrive with more. ‘Mrs Peppard loves to knit’.

You see, we are often at the receiving end of someone else’s rubbish and for some reason we are unable to refuse it.

‘I read an article recently on making an interesting fence using old bicycle wheels’ my brother is examining a couple of rusty looking old bikes lying on the driveway that weren’t there last week. I have to bite my tongue, only the week before the bicycles appeared, he accepted a pile of old timber from someone with the excuse that it would make a good fence.

Once someone even  tried to pawn a goat off on us. It had been found wandering around the alter of our local church

So there you have it

The Old Hen aka my mom, is home.

The great grandchildren are already out to visit her.

‘Will you knit me a telephone?’ asks Simon (aged seven). ‘An old fashioned one?’ He has been rooting in a bag and found a magazine with a photo of an antique phone on the front of it and is waving it in front of her face.

I lean over my mothers shoulder to read the title of the magazine. ‘Antique trader’ and note the date (1990). How did I miss that magazine in the throw out.

Mom is already reaching into her newly filled bag of wool.

‘What color’? She inquires without raising an eyebrow.

But I know she is thinking the dial will be tricky.

 

 

 

 

On longings and dreaming (The amazing art of visualization).

Tags

apps, cappuchino, Clare, cottage, dreaming, longing, penalty points, scones, speeding, vegetable patch, visualization, west of Ireland

If you don’t get something you want in life, don’t despair! You can always dream it. I think the modern word is visualization and I am a dab hand at it. 

I have two lives.

My real life and my dreaming one!

And I can move between the two without much effort.

 

Many years ago, in the days of the white bicycle (which now leans in a dilapidated manner against the workhouse wall) I met an old man with whom I discussed my dream of owning a small cottage in the west of Ireland.

For years the sight of these simple buildings, with their three windows, off centered door and rain flow enabling steep roof pitch, maybe a sheltering tree, a cozy encompassing stone wall, a river, lake or sea location, and always that small vegetable patch have filled me with the yearning to make one my home).

But our conversation had originally started out about something completely different.

Something tasty and crumbly whose pronunciation is often disputed.

Scones or Scones!. (How do you pronounce yours?)

‘Do you pronounce it rhyming with ‘gone’ or with ‘cone’? I asked him (He was from west Cork and my love of that undulating accent caused me to spend more time at his bedside than I could afford to. (Plus, despite having no appetite, his eyes lit up when the daily scone arrived on his bed table and with all those ‘drips’ in his hands, he needed help buttering it)

‘With ‘cone’. He replied. ‘But because I don’t know which is the correct pronunciation’ he paused for effect ‘I’ll have one of each!’

I smiled at his wit as I cut  the object of our attention in two and put some butter and a jam on each side before pouring his cup of coffee (a substance he was addicted to!)

‘Do you like a scone yourself?’ He inquired.

I nodded  ‘Who doesn’t ?’

‘With cream and jam or butter and jam?’ He persisted.

‘With cream’ I didn’t hesitate ‘But the jam depends on whether they are plain or fruit’.

‘I would never put jam on a fruit scone’ He announced stoutly’ ‘Two such opposing sweetness’s would cause confusion of the palate’

I nodded my head in agreement ‘Its as bad as sprinkling chocolate on a cappuccino’

He raised his eyebrows in mock horror. ‘Chocolate on a cappuccino?  A veritable sin’  He agreed and we smiled at each other, kindred spirits in the art of eating scones and drinking coffee.

‘What do you be talking to him about?’ my colleagues asked curiously. ‘You were in his room for ages’.

‘Oh this and that’ I replied guiltily knowing I had now so much work to catch up on.

But we did discuss more serious things.

His pain level, his concerns….

He always replied that he had none of the above even though I didn’t quite believe him.

His prognosis wasn’t good.

‘A good scone is the cure for all ills so’ I would say jokingly.

One day when we were discussing the simple joy of growing a vegetable garden, I admitted my dream to him.

That small cottage in the west.

‘Well ‘ He said ‘If you really want it, just close your eyes and open your heart, and visualize it.’

He sounded so confident.

I did as he suggested but halfheartedly.  I knew I also needed other elements like money and time.

Later it occurred to me that maybe he meant to dream about it would be enough but I never got a chance to ask him.

A few days after our conversation I was whisked away for my own scans, biopsies, surgery and treatment and the thought of that cottage no longer become a priority.

Everyone has their dreaming place.

(My favorite dreaming place)

If you believe in a dreaming life you will know that, to maintain it, you have to nourish it. and to nourish it you have to visit it.

Visualization is an interesting practice.

I have recently become more familiar with it as part of my twenty minute morning meditation, which I started in the New Year.

The App I use suggested it might be difficult but maybe due to those years of creating the scene of my dream cottage in the west I find it easy.

I also cheat a bit.

When I visualize filling myself with sunlight, which streams down through the top of my head and starts filling my body slowly from my toes up, I am not doing it before work on my chair at home but have transported myself to my little house in the west and am sitting at the doorway in the sunlight. I visualize it so well that when the session is over I am surprised to find myself in my small apartment on the other side of the country.

And with this accurate visualization comes a longing to head west. (This longing usually becomes most intense at the time the first leaves of the hawthorn appear).

And I note that if I don’t fill that longing by the time the haw is in bloom I go frantic.

This brings its own problems.

Last year I woke one morning and not being able to bear it any longer decided to go on the spur of the moment.

After heaving my bicycle into my car and throwing in some ‘bits and pieces’ I drove out of Dublin like a lunatic.

Clutching the steering wheel grimly, I leaned forward, nose almost on the windscreen as if that would get me there faster.

When my car began to protest with squeaks and other unfamiliar noises I just turned up the radio louder ( A handy trick I learnt from a friend)

As I neared the turn off for Clare, I noticed a car in my mirror gaining on me.

A like-minded person following their dream?.

I grinned manically, urging my old car forward.

When he finally decided to put on the siren and pull me in, I cried bitter tears leaning my head on the steering wheel.

It wasn’t the thought of the three penalty points that made me weep but the fact that this was delaying me from getting to my destination.

As if he read my mind he took forever to wander around my car checking my tires, tax and insurance.

‘Are you the owner of this car ma’am’?

‘yes yes yes’.

‘Do you realize what speed you were doing?’.

When I didn’t lift my head from its position on the wheel he poked a camera in through the window to show me I was doing 110 in 100 km zone.

‘I wasn’t even supposed to be on this road today’ I moaned sadly.

He ignored my illogical statement.

‘Can I see your licence Ma’am?’

When he eventually let me go I nearly drove over his toes in my haste to make up for lost time.

But I did drive in a more sedate manner the rest of the way

And it was worth those three penalty points to be here in the west standing outside a cottage even if i didn’t own it and the roof was falling in.

One of the many cottages I put my ‘dreaming’ eye on

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What would the wise woman say? (Writing out the inner critic and becoming mindful)

Tags

Buddhist bell, burnett rose, cuckoo, geranium, Inner critic, limestone, mindfulness, mountain avens, orchid, the burren, the mind, Tim Robinson, Wise Woman

I am very lucky

I have a wise woman living in my head.

I had no idea she was there until recently, but better late than never.

I do hope she understands what she is taking on and won’t have second thoughts when she realizes the content of my anxious beleaguered befuddled mind.

Already I have called on her three times and it is only seven am.

Twice her answers have made me laugh (at myself).

In fact as I listened to her answers I wondered why I didn’t think of the solution.

‘What would the wise woman say?’ Has become my mantra. 

THE WOMAN WHO COULDN’T MAKE UP HER MIND

Once upon a time there was a woman who couldn’t make up her mind.

When she bought a red pair of shoes she wished she had chosen the blue.

Until she spotted a green pair.

When it came to dresses her dilemma was even worse, for now it was not only color she had to decide on, but patterns as well.

Plain or flowery, stripes or squares!

Oh and then the type of fabric.

linen or silk or cotton or wool?

She blamed the designers for giving her so much choice when really it was her own dithering mind.

A mind that was like the warbling of the mountain stream.

Her thoughts rampaging like midges in summer, stinging and biting her addled head. (Though who could blame her. A human being has on average 40,000 thoughts going through their brains per day)

When it came to work she was at her worst.

If it was crazily busy, as it usually was, she would cry and stamp her foot and whisper to those who would listen (she would have liked to shout but as a nurse in a busy hospital she knew her boundaries) ‘That’s it! I’ve had enough. I can’t do this anymore! I am too old! I have had cancer myself! It isn’t fair. I am leaving this minute!

If it was less busy she would whisper (to those who hadn’t a chance to back away in time and were expecting another rant) ‘This is do-able. It’s not so bad! I’m a good nurse. I’ll stick it out’.

On her days off , she sat at her window, sipping her morning coffee, admiring the sunny scene out side and trying to decide how best to spend her precious day.

A cycle through the woods?  no maybe by the sea would be better? or should she leave her bike at home and climb a mountain instead?

And sometimes the whole day would pass and she would be so undecided that she would end up going nowhere.

Her friends were beginning to find her tedious

‘You need a therapist’ They said

So she looked for a good therapist but she soon became even more anxious.

Should she choose this one or that one?

The older one with the impressive initials after her name or would the younger one be more up to date?

Did she need mindfulness or cognitive behavioral therapy or even medication?

‘I have decided I am even more indecisive then ever’ she cried to her friends who she found were getting few and far between.

But really that wasn’t so.

It was because when they suggested meeting for a coffee or a drink she couldn’t decide what to wear, how to get there, whether to wash her hair or not first and by the time she got to the appointed place they were gone home.

‘You need to get away for a few days’ one of her friends advised her ‘Go somewhere calming and recharge your batteries’.

So she pulled out her map but of course …..couldn’t decide where.

North, south east or west?

‘Oh for goodness sake’ One friend grabbed the map and closing her eyes jabbed her finger on it.

‘There’ She said.

The woman looked.

Her friends finger had landed on the Burren in Co Clare.

‘And look’ said her friend ‘at that track’. the woman peered at small black dots ‘ see how it meanders through a valley? that might be a lovely walk to do.

And that is how she found herself, one fine day in mid spring, down a small boirin, her way blocked by a large gate.

She could see the boirin continuing on for a few meters passed the gate before turning into a single track and disappearing  around a bend.

Her map (A precious black and white one by Tim Robinson) hadn’t shown this obstacle which judging from the lumps of earth beside each pillar was new.

The gate itself sported a large lock.

‘Sure its just a gate’ a quiet voice in her head said ‘you can climb over it.’

But she didn’t hear the voice (as usual her brain was full with her 40,000 thoughts) and she stood trying to decide whether to climb it or turn back.

Suddenly a gust blew her scarf out of the front basket and it floated over the metal bars and down the track only to tangle itself on a hawthorn bush.

Cursing she leaned her bike against the pillar and climbing quickly, scrambled over the gate and ran down the boirin to retrieve it.

But just as she reached for her precious scarf, another sudden gust lifted it off the tree and high into the air.

Again she ran after it, stumbling along a track that was unevenly pitted by the hooves of cows

If she had looked up she would have noted that she was going deeper and deeper into the valley.

Its steep sided cliffs dotted with wind-bent hawthorn trees and its rugged rocks leaning out to look down at her.

but she was too busy trying to catch her scarf to note the beauty of the place.

Then, at one point it rose up the cliff face and as she followed it with her eye, her gaze caught a particularly large outcrop.

She stopped.

‘You look as though you are eating your young’ She shouted out loud in horror.

Young young young……

The cliffs echoed her mockingly.

But she had no time to be alarmed,

On blew the scarf.

On ran the woman.

Every time she thought she had caught up with it, it blew further on until eventually her way was barred by a hazel wood.

She watched helplessly as up rose her scarf high over the trees and vanished.

Scanning the woods she spotted a gap.

Breathless now and red faced, she squeezed through, stumbling into a small stream.

Hardly noticing her wet sandals, she pushed her way through the heavy dark undergrowth, following the small path made by some animal.

Light appeared through the hazel.

Squeezing through the last stand of saplings, she found herself out on a huge stone platform.

Far below lay the sea. Blue against the cerulean sky.

Becoming Mindful.

Making her way easily across the flat stones, she climbed a small wall and stood looking around. She was on another flat ‘stage’ and ahead of her lay more stone.

Stone as far as the eye could see.

and no sign of her scarf.

Then, either because she was exhausted at this stage  or maybe because the gentle breeze seemed to be soothing her, she realized she no longer cared about finding it.

Instead step by step, she began to pay proper heed to her surroundings and to the action of putting of one foot in front of the other.

She became aware of her wet soggy sandals.

Slipping them off she laid them on a flat stone in the sun to dry out.

As she did, she noticed the softness and warmth and smooth undulations of the stone, its surface worked by the winds.

She noted the small Burnett roses, wild geraniums, Mountain Avens, orchids, all peeping up from out of the crevices which had been formed by the action of rain.

She became aware of the loveliness of walking in bare feet on the sun warmed surface and began to make her way across the wide stage. Sometimes she was forced to leap when a crevice was to wide to step across but it caused no discomfort to her bare feet.

At one point she paused, listening intently.

Ah! there it was again.

The call of the cuckoo.

Clear as a bell.

Echoing and bouncing against the cliff face.

Cuc…koo Cuc….koo

She sat on a stone and listened.

and listened…..

And as she did, all the churning thoughts began to fall away, dropping out of her befuddled brain one by one, until she was only left with the clear cut sound

cuckoo cuckoo

Reminding her of a Buddhist bell a friend had once given her.

Sharp initially, then growing softer.

Fading until all that was left was the fullness of silence

And she teetered on that silence like the curl of a wave before it broke, until it came again

Cuckoo Cuckoo

How long she sat there she had no idea!

But it occurred to her that in doing so little, in just sitting, listening, she was gaining so much.

Her shoulders relaxed.

Her mind empty of befuddlement.

Eventually the cuckoo stopped

She stood and looked around

The sun was lower, the stone wall throwing a long shadow as she re-climbed it, slowly and calmly retracing her steps.

She paused as she reached the huge child eating rock.

It didn’t look as though it was eating its young after all, but instead as though it was kissing it tenderly.

As she stood looking up at the outcrop realizing her mistake, She heard a gentle voice in her head

‘How you perceive things often depends on which direction you choose to look at them from’.

THE END.

Post script; For the sake of my story I have exaggerated my indecisiveness which the wise woman reminds me may not be a clever thing to do.

You see the mind is wily and loves the inner critic so as I wrote and corrected spellings and changed sentences and reread and got more and more bogged down in my story, I was fueling it (my inner critic) So that’s my excuse for not I rechecking any last mistakes.

My calming place

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A day in the life of my inner critic. (Streaming, self love and other struggles)

Tags

facebook, Inner critic, philosophy, positive thinking, self love, streaming, struggles, the yellow bicycle, therapy, whatsapp, wordpress, writing

One day my eldest daughter and I were discussing an old film that I loved (The Sting).

We were sitting in her living room. I was facing her, describing the film, She was fiddling with her phone.

Suddenly my attention was caught by the large TV which had been playing classical music in the background. It was now starting to show the very movie I was talking about.

My mouth fell open. I turned back to my daughter in amazement.

‘Look!’ Almost shouting in my excitement, pointing at the screen. ‘That’s the film! What a coincidence! How extraordinary!’ I shook my head in disbelief.

It was my daughters turn to look disbelievingly. 

‘Mom’ She sighed patiently ‘That’s me. I’m STREAMING it from my phone’.

Streaming? I looked from her to her phone to the TV in total confusion.

I jumped from a generation of posting letters and talking on telephones that were wired to the wall, where praising yourself was seen as arrogant, into an era of smartphones, whatsapp, Facebook, WordPress and self love. 

Saturday 2nd feb.

This morning my very good friend is going to play tennis.

She voices her reluctance to get out from under the warm covers (It’s freezing out), but I know she will.

She’s that sort of person.

Courageous/determined/positive.

Before we sign off (We are communicating on WhatsApp.) She asks me how it was going with my new bike

I am ashamed to tell her it is not.

You see, unlike her, I am quite laz….

(I was about to say lazy/idle/indolent/slothful/inactive/inert/lethargic/listless/lackadaisical/good for nothing/bone idle/dull/plodding… take your pick)

Luckily I catch my inner critic just in time and tell her to be quiet.

But it is difficult.

For a start my inner critic and I don’t know each other very well.

(As I’m concerned we have only met recently! Though she insists she has known me since I was a baby.)

I’m confused.

‘Self praise is no praise’

That’s what I was taught.

Sixty two years of the knowledge that admitting to being good at something, could invite disaster on your head.

Bringing the attention of the gods on yourself was not a good idea.

They did not like competition and if they felt a mere mortal was getting uppity they would surely bring her down a peg or two or, worse still, knock her off her pedestal.

But now, seemingly, I have not only to talk about my good qualities, but to write a list of them too.

AND read them out to myself every day.

And if my inner critic sticks up her ugly head and interrupts, I have to wallop her on the head with my notebook.

But she is persistent.

‘Why are you sitting there tapping away? what makes you think you can write anything of interest’ whack!

‘Hardworking? are you kidding me? look at the state of this place’ whack!

‘Positive? where’s the book your suppose to be writing so?’

‘Kind? I don’t call wandering through woods alone kind, unless you plan to hug a tree or avoid crushing weeds as you step’.

‘Resilient? well that’s easy when you have a roof over your head and a job and enough food in the fridge’

‘Energetic? if your so energetic, why aren’t you out and about on your new bike?’

Whack whack whack!

(That last one hit a nerve)

With the yellow bike things were easier.

With the yellow bike I didn’t need therapy.

She just made me get up and out.

If I even LOOKED out the window, like a dog who see’s its owner holding its leash, she would be metaphorically scratching at the door and off we’d go.

But the new bike? She just stands in front of the fire looking shiny.

Goodness is that the time?

And look its dark out already.

What a busy day I’ve had!

‘You call sitting tapping away on that laptop being busy?’

Whack!

 

 

 

Blue or yellow, its the same difference. (What the bicycle saw)

Tags

bogs, Donegal, france, Galway, Malignant melanoma, mountains, the yellow bicycle, turf fire

The yellow bicycle is unwell.

Her wheel rims are rusted, her skirt guard held on with plastic cable ties.

She has suffered more punctures than she deserves (at one point there was more patches then original tyre on her back wheel)

Some of her spokes are missing and she has a distinct rattle of unknown origin.

My guess is it comes from the rear mudguard fixed many years ago by inserting a sponge between the stay and the actual guard.  Mr Monet Mends my Bike. 

But it may be something more sinister. Something internal. A cracked hub. A loose shimano brake cog.

And who knows what the creaking noise is when I turn the pedals! ( Though I suspect that noise might be more human in origin, emanating from my right knee, the one I have recently learned has no cartilage left in it).

Now there are those who feel I have been neglectful of the yellow bicycle’s maintenance.

But I have treated her no differently than I have treated myself.

We believe quality of life is better than quantity.

The yellow bicycle has lived a good life and seen many things that she may not have seen living with a more careful person

Cycling not only paved roads but mountain tracks and small boirins, across beaches and even along clifftops.

She has been hauled over ditches and dykes,

lowered into sea faring boats.

She has slept out under the stars, camped out by the sea.

She has lept across tree roots and swerved around potholes.

She has seen horses and donkeys close up, watched dolphins caper, Hawks in flight.

And once a man wandering naked through trees.

France 2010

It is early morning on a sunny autumn day.

The tree’s are letting go their leaves for another year.

Fluttering like a myriad of amber and yellow butterflies they float and drift, landing on the still water of the canal.

But not all.

Some don’t quite make it and instead form a golden covering on the uneven surface of the tow path.

A sort of yellow brick road.

And cycling along this yellow road is a woman on a heavy Dutch style bike. (which coincidentally is also yellow!)

She has been up since cockcrow and has quickly settled into her usual even pace which is only disturbed now and again when she is forced to swerve and avoid the roots of the trees.

These wayward gnarled ‘ropes’ have the habit of breaking the surface of the path as though doing so to make their way thirstily towards the water.

But mostly all she has to do is keep turning the pedals.

She hums contently to herself.

Without warning a twig, catching itself in the spoke of her bike causes her to brake and she dismounts and wrenches it free.

This gives some new leaves the opportunity to land on her head and entwine themselves in her hair.

As she is brushing them out with her fingers she sees a movement further along the canal.

A man walks out of the trees and crosses the path.

He is naked.

Without looking left or right, he poises for an instant on the canal bank before diving in.

The woman is stunned.  She pulls the last leaves from her hair while considering her dilemma.

Should she cycle quickly passing him before he starts scrambling out or should she wait where she is, her yellow bicycle camouflaged by the drifts of leaves, until he has finished his swim and gone?

Afraid that he might be planning to stay in the water awhile, she opts for the former, and cycling speedily,  bounces carelessly across the potholes and tree roots.

As she draws level with the man who is now swimming in a slow measured way, she calls out ‘Bonjour’.

Just to show she is not a prude.

And on she goes through the twirling leaves, leaving the man and his nakedness behind.

But as the canal path improves and a stretch of solid pale gravel comes under her wheels and she doesn’t have to concentrate on avoiding pot holes, she wonders at her reaction.

Why did she hesitate before passing him? Indeed why did she call out a greeting?

And then a memory from the past pops into her head.

July 1980

A young woman is cycling a black upright bicycle along the wild Atlantic way.

The small wooden trailer attached to her bicycle containing her tent and gear, bounces jauntily along behind.

Starting her journey in Donegal, a few weeks previously, she has many miles under her wheels by now and having already passed through four counties is presently in her fifth. Galway.

It is a pleasure to cycle these roads. They are mostly empty of traffic, with vast bogs that career off in each direction ending under the brooding mauve mountains.

At one point she spots a group of tiny figures. Bending and straightening as they cut and spread a bank of turf.

A wisp of smoke curls up, white against the dark blue of the mountains and the smell of burning turf reaches her. They must be stopping for lunch, she thinks, lighting a turf fire to boil the kettle on.

Feeling hungry she decides she’ll stop for her own picnic soon (the makings of it lie in her front basket),

She can see a flash of blue ahead appearing now and then as the road twists and turns.

The lakes at kylemore would be a good place.

A green Cortina car passes her slowly.

She pays no heed but rounding the bend, she notices the car pulled in on the side of the road just beyond a clump of rhododendrons.

Now she is a naive sort of woman. Seeing good in everyone  but her female instinct is strong and kicks in.

On high alert, she picks up speed. (not an easy task with the trailer) and keeping her eyes on the road ahead,  cycles as fast as she can.

As she draw level with the bushes, she catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, standing facing the road, his trousers down around his ankles.

She flies past so speedily that the flasher becomes a flash.

Continuing at a steady pace all the time listening for the sound of a car approaching from behind, she ditches the idea of having her picnic just yet and also forgoes the idea of camping that night and decides to instead to head for the hostel in killary harbour.

2019

It will be ten years ago this April since I was diagnosed with a metastatic malignant melanoma (it had metastasized to the lymph nodes in my groin)

That small mole removed from my calf five years previously was not benign (as histology had incorrectly shown at the time).

Oh the drama!

I thought I was going to die.

but I didn’t. (obviously)

And following successful surgery and treatment I decided to celebrate my recovery by I cycling across France. From the Atlantic to the Mediterranean

I thought I made the journey to prove my effected leg was still able to turn the pedals of the yellow bike.

But looking back I realize that I wasn’t good at taking time out for myself.

I needed an illness as an excuse.

And not just any old illness!

It needed to be a colorful one.

Don’t be a victim in your story telling. (I read somewhere)

Get your shit sorted before telling your story.

Come out the other side and begin to see the funny side.

I have decided that in my 62nd year and on the tenth anniversary of my diagnosis, that, even though I love bright colors, I don’t need them to prove myself.

Welcome to the dark blue bike on whom I hope to continue to have many journeys with colorful stories to tell.

P.S Of course the yellow bicycle and I will continue to limp along for many more years to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yearning for water and boats (and a trip to see the Camino voyage by land)

Tags

Óro mo bhaidín, boats, childhood, currach, Naonhóg, picnics, rowing, sailing, Santiago de Compostela, The Camino voyage, the sea, the yellow bicycle, wine, yachts

Picture this.

It is a warm day, the sky is blue, the sea tranquil.

I am propelling myself through turquoise waters in the manner of a one armed mermaid.

I say one armed because in my other I am holding aloft a pint of milk.

As you may have guessed I am on a mission (I am not normally inclined to swim around in the ocean holding pints of milk clear of the water)

It started out with the simple task of fetching a friend (I shall call him Tom) a pint of milk from the village (I was cycling there anyway for my own shopping).

I had no idea that, between the time I had made the offer and the time I returned there would be a change of scenario. That his boat would go from sitting on dry sand and easily accessible, to being afloat in a few metres of water.

I stood on the shore and called and called but no bearded face appeared on the distant deck, no far away figure clambered down the ladder into the small dingy tied alongside the boat and rowed over to me.

So I did what any selfless mermaid would do. I swam out to the boat with my delivery.

I love boats. I grew up in them and from the time I was about ten, I was more than able to row an 18 foot clinker built lake boat. I also did so without a life jacket and I never fell in.

But as I grew older I realised that boats may not love me as much.

Or maybe it was because I deserted those simple rowing boats for bigger ones. Yachts for example

‘Come sailing in Carlingford’ (this was from Tom, the pint of milk chap)

I couldn’t refuse.

The invitation had such a ring to it!

I pictured white trousers, striped ganseys, those fancy deck shoes and I packed a picnic to fit such an occasion.

Baguette, brie, figs, pâté and wine and I headed north in my flowery summer dress.

Now I must mention here that flowery and flowing are my way of dressing whether I am climbing a mountain. cycling a bike across France, or being out in a boat.

When I arrive at the quay Tom’s girlfriend, (whom I shall call Jane) was already there, dressed in the correct gear for a day at sea. (everything she wore was labelled ‘regatta’).

Beside her stood a man, who looked at me (or rather at my flowy dress) with a mixture dismissiveness and dismay.

After being introduced to him (I’ll call him Paul) we set out in the dingy for the boat.

Jane leapt from the dingy like a Giselle, landing lithely on deck and to be fair, despite my dress I too managed to clamber on board without losing my footing or my dignity.  Much I’m sure to the disappointment of Paul who gave me the distinct impression that he would have liked me, not only to fall in, but to float very far away.

On board, Jane instantly began to do important looking things. Tying this, loosening that, unfurling the other.

Feeling the constant disapproving glare from Paul and needing to show that him that I too was a proficient sailor, I hissed at Tom

‘Give me a chore’

He obliged.

Take the jib out of that bag’ He instructed, nodding to a large canvas bag lying on the foredeck.

Throwing a look at Paul which said ‘See I’m an accomplished sailor too’ I lifted the heavy bag and shook out the sail with vigour.

Unfortunately as soon as I put the bag down (in order to unfold the jib), it blew overboard and began drifting away on the water.

Tom immediately lifted anchor and with an oar, started to swing the boat around, Jane clucked anxiously as Paul grabbed the boathook, and leaning out caught hold of the bag pulling it on board. He then made (it seemed to me) an unnecessary show of hanging it out to dry. Attaching it firmly to the rails with two pegs.

I could swear he was smirking.

Pretending I didn’t notice (such a fuss over a bag) and turned instead to unpack my picnic basket.

I saw Paul eyeing the bottle of wine. ‘Silly me’ I said gaily ‘How did that get there? of course we won’t be drinking wine, it would be against the rules of safe sailing, falling drunkenly over board and all that’

Suddenly he smiled and beckoned to me. Lifting a wooden hatch in the deck, he motioned me to look in and there lay about twenty bottles of red wine stashed neatly side by side.

‘I brought them back on a recent trip from France. May I add a few to your picnic’. He asked.

As we sailed out into the bay he told me about his sailing trip on his own boat to France, Relating his story in an awkward halting way and mentioning his demeanours and trials at sailing, in such a disarming way that I began to realise he hadn’t been ‘looking down on me’ at all, it was just his manner.

‘A nuclear physicist’ Tom informed me later.

We became friends or as near to friends as I can be with a physicist.

But my sailing trips didn’t always turn out so forgiving, sometimes I didn’t even manage to get on board.

A year or two after the sail bag event, we are all camping in the west in our usual spot.

Tom enquired if I’d like to go for a sail.  So sitting myself in the stern of the dingy (in my blue flowery flowing dress) I allowed him to row me out to the boat.

When we reached it, the hull seemed higher than the last time. I gazed up at the outward curve apprehensively.

‘I’ve changed my mind’ I said ‘I think I’ll skip it this time’

‘Not at all, you’ve done it before. you’ll be fine’

So I stood on the ledge of the dingy as tom steadied it and stretching high, grasped hold of the railing of the boat. I somehow got one foot up on the deck and hauled myself upwards.

‘This is easy’ I think, getting my second foot up. I am just about to swing it over the railing when my first foot slips and before I knew it my second one followed.

I was now hanging helplessly from the railing. Tom started to manoeuvre the dingy back under my dangling feet to give me a foothold but I couldn’t hold on any longer and letting go I dropped into the water.

My dress billowed around my waist like a giant bell and as I swam to shore, it expanded and contracted much akin to the propelling motion (and appearance ) of a large colourful jelly fish.

‘It’s no use! go without me’ I call dramatically to him as I reached the shore, dragging my dripping form across the sand towards my tent.

But Tom is not one to give up or laugh or in any way be perturbed by a mere ‘man overboard’incident .

‘Go and change, I’ll wait here’ he calls back. So I do and return (this time in a pink flowery flowing dress)

and once more he rows me across.

This time I manage to get on board and without further ado we sail off into the sunset.

And so last Sunday night, knowing I was safe from any of the above, I traipsed (hobbled with on my damaged knee) through Dublin city, passed the tourists and the eclectic shops, the  bicycles and down the cobbled lane ways of temple bar to the IFI cinema to see a film I have been waiting for with much anticipation.

The Camino voyage!

A documentary about a boat. A naomhóg to be exact and the four men (artists, musicians and poets) two of whom had built the traditional craft and all of whom were rowing it on its journey from St James gate in Dublin down the liffey all the way to Santiago de Compostela.

I cried and laughed my way through it.

The visuals were supreme. Shots of the fragile craft, a basket really, dancing on the immense, sometimes turbulent sea.

And the sounds! The familiar (from my years of rowing) rhythmic creaking of rowlocks. The splash of oars as they broke the surface of the sea.

The music of the box accordion, guitar, bodhran, played sometimes melancholically, sometimes with jolly vigour, but always pulling at my heart strings. The fluidly spoken Irish. The songs, the words of the poets as they described their thoughts on their journey, all stirred memories within me.

My youth spent rowing Irelands lakes. My teenage obsession with Thor Heyerdahl and the Kontiki voyage. Hearing, as a Mother busy rearing my daughters, about Tim Severins ‘Brendan voyage’.

Then finally my own pilgrimage. Cycling the yellow bicycle from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, not on water but beside and always associated with it as I made my way slowly, pedalling my recovering body across France.

And though not as exciting or as adventuress, I understood that feeling of purpose every  morning, when setting out each day on a continuing journey.

And suddenly a yearning has come over me. I need to go arowing again.

óro mo bhaidín

ag snamh ar a’gcuan

óró mo bhaidí

faighimis na máidi

agus teimis chun siuil

Óro mo bhaidín

Óro mo churaichín ó

Óro mo bhaidín.

Oh my little boat

as she glides in the bay

oh my little boat

lets get the oars

and we’ll row on

oh my little boat

oh my little currach

oh my little boat.

 

 

 

 

 

I know nothing (looking for labels on my birthday)

Tags

Artist, Ikigai, labels, lagom, nursing, TED talks, writer

Three days ago I reached my sixty second birthday.

I am over half a century old.

And what have I learnt?

Mostly that I know nothing and that the older I get, the less I know.

It isn’t that I am developing dementia. Just that I am throwing out all my old knowledge and notions and making room for new ones.

I came to TED talks  late in life. (https://www.ted.com/talks)

and am so excited by them.

You see I have discovered hundreds of talks on all aspects of things, which I can listen to and learn from (or disagree with) at the press of a button.

It was from one of these talks that I learnt about ‘Ikigai’. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ikigai

I became aware that I have being living my Ikigai all along.

I just never gave it a label.

In fact I had been living it for over for forty years.

But things are changing and small discontents are creeping in.

I love my job as a nurse. (A job I get paid to do) but I am also a writer and an artist, for which I don’t. (Any one want to buy a ‘hen’ painting?)

And these latter attributions are beginning to cause me anxiety when I’m at my paid job.

Let me explain.

Because of the above mentioned, I see, in each hospital bed, not just an ill person but a portrait, a story.

And so, although my manager thinks I am just uselessly chatting to my patient and in doing so am wasting valuable task time, I see it differently.

But recently times have changed, staff shortages have occurred due to cutbacks.

And now even if I seal my lips tightly I have hardly enough time to carry out those regular tasks, much less the ones I deem also important.

Luckily, so far I still don’t dread going into work.

And each time I go I do so with an optimistic anticipation of a good day ahead.

and I haven’t been fired for talking too much.

So my Ikigai is still at work.

But maybe as will I retire in three years I need to look for it elsewhere?

What could I do instead that I love?

that I am good at.

that the world needs.

that I can earn a living from.

It needn’t be something too immense.

I don’t need too much or two little to survive, but just the right amount.

and on that note I believe that in Sweden they have a special word for the above!

Now if you’ll excuse me I am just going to see if there is a TED talk on ‘Lagom’ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lagom

Anyone want to by a hen painting?

 

 

 

 

If you have dyscalculia don’t challenge the tax man (Where’s my ikigai now)

Tags

Ikigai, Kogarashi, komorebi, Mono no aware, revenue, richness, shinrin-yoku

Recently I had a conversation with my brother in law.

It went like this.

Me: I am rich!

Him: Really? how so?

Me: Remember when I worked for the north western health board? Well seemingly I was due a pension when I reached 60. I only remembered recently and applied for it and I have just being back paid nearly two years worth)

Him: Wow that’s wonderful, congrats, how does it feel to have all that money?

(Actually it might not seem a huge amount to a lot of people as I only had a few years of service but to me it was amazing)

Me: Initially stressful.

Him: Stressful ?

Me: Yes I was afraid I might go mad and spend it irresponsibly.

Him: And did you?

Me: Well no, because before I had a chance to, the taxman took nearly half of it back.

Him: oh dear that’s awful.

Me: Not really. It taught me three important lessons.

Him: Oh?

Me:  yes firstly I learnt how it felt to be rich for a day.

Secondly, I discovered that being rich is not all its made out to be.

Him: And the third?

Me: If you suffer from dyscalculia don’t argue with the tax man.

Him: uh oh!

Me: Hmmm yes well initially it didn’t go that well (I’m not great with percentages) but we parted as friends in the end.

Him; That’s good!

Me; Yes I told him he could have the money but not my ikigai.

I am walking through woods practicing forest bathing (shinrin-yoku)

I note the light through the trees (komorebi)

I am aware of how the ancient moss on the stones, the ferns growing on the banks of the paths, the stream trickling over the stony river bed, trigger my emotional response to the wonder of nature (yuungen)

I shuffle through the fallen russet leaves and observe my fleeting sadness at the knowledge that they indicate the loss of summer (Mono no aware)

I plunge my hands into my pockets as I feel the cold wind of impending winter swirl around me (kogarashi)

I contemplate these Japanese words, rolling them off my tongue in a kind of chant as I tramp the steep path. (I find them more uplifting than my usual chant of ‘ higgledy piggeldy wiggeldy woods’.

And I wonder about my latest acquisition

Ikigai.

And if I have it

Ikigai is a Japanese expression. It can be loosely translated as your reason for being.

It appears that If you love what you are doing and are good at it, if it fulfils you and you are actually paid for it, you may have found your Ikigai and will therefore live a long and happy life.

As long of course, as you don’t get lost in a higgledy piggeldy wiggeldy wood in the process.

(More on my quest for Ikigai in my next post)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eating alone in Cataluña.

Tags

cataluna, holidaying alone, Peratallada, razor clams, Sa Tuna, sardines, seafood

 

(Me with a little cuttlefish for company).

I am sometimes asked if I ever feel bored or lonely when I travel alone. 

The answer is no.

I am a selfish traveller and love having the freedom to decide where and when to go and what to do when I’m there (which may simply be to sit and sip coffee lost in my own thoughts or drink wine and eat nice food)

But do you not feel odd eating alone? They ask when I mention the food bit.

Not at all! Sure don’t I have my cuttlefish or clams or sardines for company.

Plus I’m a *dab (pardon the pun) hand at eavesdropping on the other diners.

There is a rumour going around (started I think by my mother ) that I have brought the yellow bicycle on holidays with me.

But other than the idea vaguely crossing my mind and glancing nostalgically at the over sized luggage check in Dublin airport (because once I really DID take my bike on a plane) there are no grounds to her story.

I have no bicycle with me.

I am going to walk instead.

And walk I do.

Up steps and down steps.

I never realized a town could have so many of them.

Of course the description of the hotel I have chosen should have given me a clue.

‘Hotel Sant Roc sits high above the town on rocky hill top’.

So every evening, if I want to reach my bed, I have to climb one hundred or more steps.

Thank goodness for phone cameras!

They are my decoy. The saviour of my dignity!  because of COURSE the only reason the plump granny (me) now half way up the steep steps is stopping, is because she has just seen something of interest to take a photo of. (The fact she is out of breath, has nothing to do with it).

And while I am on the subject of steps I note, that some people are not just content to bound past me.

No! they really have to rub it in. On reaching the top they turn and run furiously back down.

And then, wait for it!, On reaching the bottom again they turn and take the steps back up two at a time. (without once having to stop to take a photo). They often repeat this process numerous times before finally trotting off smugly.

To ease my eyes from the activity, I look out to sea only to see a bunch of swimmers arms flailing making their way out across the ocean.

Happily my real reason for this holiday is to eat fish and made hungry by observing all this exercise,  I head down hill in search of lunch.

‘They’ say a full restaurant is a sign of good food.

I say an empty one is.

Especially one where the proprietor is chatting to a friend and is in no hurry to acknowledge me, let alone offer me a menu. He is clearly confident that I understand my wait will be worthwhile.

Even still when he eventually does stroll over, I give him my best smile hoping that by showing my teeth, he will see I mean business.

A French couple stroll past and glimpse at the grilled razor clams that have arrived in front of me and within minutes they are sitting nearby ordering a large jug of sangria and some food.

An American couple spots the plates of grilled monk fish landing in front of the French couple and after consulting each other sit just behind me.

A group of four linger and sniff the air and find themselves a table.

and soon the restaurant is buzzing.

I only have to stop three times to take a photo of the pounding sea on my way back ‘home’

The next morning I note a twinge in my knees.

I blame it on those steps.

Now I am no stranger to exercise. I walk lots. I cycle and in the last two years I have taken to lifting weights (my youngest two grandchildren) but steps are not part of my exercise and my knees are letting me know.

I know the cure.  I must find sardines.

Down I go again.

Of course I can’t spend my day just eating so, to pass the time, I walk to the next village by the costal path (more steps) where I find to my horror there is some sort of triathlon taking place.

Loudspeakers are shouting instructions and men in boats are laying out floatable markers in the sea.

Racing bikes are stacked against walls. Lithe people some in lycra, some in wet suits are standing around nonchalantly swinging their arms like windmills. (I saw one tall lad in running shorts, who, whilst stretching one leg out on the wall the way runners do, was lighting up a cigarette.)

The energy is contagious and I find myself I picking up my pace and walking briskly to the end of the promenade.

At the end of the promenade is a small café where a few lazier souls sip their ‘café amb llet’ and, with their dogs sitting calmly beside them, read the papers or gaze out to sea.

I join them, sitting between the well behaved mutts.

Some quite fancy. (The mutts that is).

The way back is definitely easier or maybe I am getting fitter or maybe its the thought of lunch that is putting a spring in my step.

I only have to stop twice to take a photo and that’s because at one point curiosity got the better of me and I trot down some steps off the path just to see where they are going. (They land in the ocean)

Back in the village at the first small cove, a restaurant is preparing itself for the lunch, shaking out its awnings while the waiters in their traditional fishermen’s garb of blue hemp trousers and leather braces are organizing the chairs.

Without even checking what was on the menu I take a seat.

I just know they will serve sardines.

My knees sigh in anticipation

On the way home I only have to stop once to take a photo

The next morning I decide I will give my knees a rest and take the car.

I stop on the outskirts of a small hill top village.

Peratallada was once an important bustling medieval village. It is interesting to first walk its circumference following the now dry moat that surrounds it.

And although the draw bridge is long gone, the only gateway to the town still stands and leads to the narrow winding streets of worn cobbles, smoothed by millions of footsteps over the centuries.

There are few tourists at this time of the year so I can explore in comfort.

The town is not far from the sea but in its heyday the distance would have been too great to lug fresh fish to.

luckily for me this is now and there is plenty of fish on the menu.

And though part of me knows I should really dip in to some of the traditional fare of sausage and beans I choose the seafood.

Of course no steps mean no stopping for photo’s.

well maybe just one!

My last day and I am exploring Sa Tuna. A tiny fishing village to the north.

I immediately feel at home.

My knees have recovered and too early for lunch, once again I trot along the coastal path. Up the steps and down the steps and, even though I find I no longer need the excuse of taking photos in order to have a rest, I stop just for old times sake.

And take two

 

Retracing my steps I get the distinct feeling I am being followed!

But maybe she is also just on her way to lunch.

Alone.

*Dab= a small flat fish.