That’s NOT where it belongs (death of a yellow bicycle)

Tags

bedsheets, childhood, daughters, dogs, family, furniture, Gerard Dillon, house extensions, pinterest, stress, T P Flanagan, the yellow bicycle, tidyness

Due to the circumstances I am about to describe, the yellow bicycle has been removed from her usual place by the fire (when not in travel mode she forms a means of drying clothes) and now stands on my balcony at the mercy of the elements.

As I sit writing I can see her gazing dolefully across at sugar loaf, whilst also managing to cast baleful glances through the window at me.

Why is she being so dramatic?

Bicycles are outdoor creatures!

Its not as though she can catch her death of cold.

I have mollycoddled her too much.

I draw the curtain so that I can write in peace.

Who moved my coffee!

A while ago I wrote a piece about what happens when I get too involved with my daughters lives.

Moving in teabag by teabag ( Here’s your bicycle and what’s your hurry)

Now the shoe is on the other foot

My eldest daughter and her husband are extending their house.

It is nearly Christmas and the build has run into a few delays.

At first the plan was that they would be able to live in the house except for a day or two when the new floors were being laid as they would both be at work during the week.

But a few days before the job is due to finish they realise how dangerously dusty it has become and they set about looking for somewhere to stay in the interim.

I come up with a solution

There are three of them and a dog.

There is only one of me.

It makes more sense that I move out and stay somewhere and let them have my small one bed-roomed abode.

After all it is only for a few days.

They arrive with a lot of stuff.

Not their fault.

A working couple need their office clothes and leisure clothes, night wear, hygiene stuff. laptops, phone chargers.

A child need toys and clothes and nappies and baby wipes,

A dog needs her bed and food bowl ( if I stand on that water bowl once more!)

Did I mention my apartment is small?  Did I mention they were staying for a few days only?

Time marches on. Another building delay. The few days turns into a week and another week and they are still here.

I really don’t mind.

That much.

Its just ….

Well the yellow bicycle hasn’t a hope of returning to her place by the fire before Christmas.

and someone keeps moving my coffee.

The tidy scoring system

I am a tidy person.

on a tidy scale of one to ten I would probably score a six.

This might not seem such a high score for my profession as a nurse.

But anything over a four is high in our family.

In saying that, I do have a daughter who scores an eight.

She could score a ten except that she has a black Labrador who sheds a lot.

And if you should meet that daughter she is most likely to have a sweeping brush in hand. (Been caught with accoutrements of tidiness can lower your score because it does not give an accurate reading.)

But I wasn’t always tidy

To be perfectly Honest

Growing up I shared a bedroom with my sister.

Now the bedrooms in our house were utilitarian. My father, an architect, was ahead of his time where interior decor was involved.

So while my friends bedrooms sported fake velvet headboards, chintzy bedspreads, dizzymaking carpets of multicoloured floral patterns and those kidney shaped dressing table with a three sided mirror, (Not encouraged to gaze at ourselves we had no mirror in bedroom) ours consisted of homemade bunk beds designed to leave as much floor space free as possible, a sleek built in wardrobe and ….

well that was it!

A bed and a wardrobe on (you guessed it ) a floor of wooden boards.

So ashamed was I of my minimalist room, that whenever I had a friend over, I would haul one of the beautiful mahogany bespoke chairs down from the open plan dining room and place it beside my bed to give the semblance of extra furniture.

I didn’t realise until years later that my friends considered my bedroom amazing. and looking back it was.

The wooden floors were solid oak. the sliding wardrobes the best mahogany and the beds handcrafted.

As clean and crisp a room as you would find these days on Pinterest.

Any way my sister was as tidy as I was untidy so, to prevent friction, we drew a line across the floor,(Did I mention we were allowed, encouraged even to draw on anything that didn’t move)And from then on her side of the room remained ultra tidy with clothes folded neatly (On the floor?) while my side remained strewn with abandoned garments.

Now though as handy as it might seem to just step out of ones clothes there was a downside.

As I lay awake in the semi dark (did we even have curtains?) dreaming of boys, the folds of clothes on the floor began to take the shape of faces.

Evil faces.

The more I stared the eviler they became until at last, unable to bear them any longer, I would creep from under my warm covers into the cold (why would you even consider that we might have central heating) and move them around.

Facing those Demons

I like a clean bed as much as the next.

Maybe even more than the next.

One of my favourite pleasures in life is a deep bath followed by a climb into a soft bed bedecked with fresh sheets.

Nothing wrong with that you say, but the problem was I would feel so languorous after my bath (others might call this lazy) I didn’t bother removing the old sheet.

Instead I would just lay a clean one on top.

None of the rest of my family noticed or at least no one complained.

Maybe they didn’t bath or change their sheets as frequently and I carried on this habit for quite some time.

Until my sisters wedding,

It all comes out in the wash in the end

My sister is getting married.

And with some of her friends planning to stay at our house, she sets about making up spare beds for them.

And quickly runs out of clean sheets

‘Nonsense’ exclaims my mother. ‘there are plenty of fresh sheets in the linen press’

I overhear this conversation while munching on toast and marmalade from the depths of my (very soft) bed.

As my sisters footsteps gets louder (oh those bare floorboards) I slide slowly and guiltily, lowering my self under the warmth of my blankets, creasing the many layers of sheets as I do so.

At last only the top of my head is visible.

But I continue eating, frantically munching on my warm safe toast (did i mention I eat when I’m stressed)

”STEPHANIE”

Before I get a chance to reply she rips the covers off me and the evidence is exposed.

Not only is my plate of crusts and crumb covered top sheet visible to the public but the twenty something under sheets as well.

The truth is out and the shame.

‘You are not only lazy but untidy too’ My sister shouts.

She spots the heaps of clothes on my floor.

‘How can you BEAR to live in such a mess! And what am I suppose to do now? ‘

‘Quickly quickly, wash the sheets?’ I hear you say

Ah! normally that would be a good idea, but you see we had no washing machine.

We can blame that on my mother.

On going out to buy one, she passed an art gallery and popped inside (just for a quick look she told us later).

She emerged after a while and nestled in her purse where the washing machine money should have been, was a receipt for an original Gerard Dillon or it may have been the T P Flanagan, to be delivered to the house the next day.

So mostly she washed by hand (no doubt gazing lovingly at her purchase) and every once in a while she would send one of us down with a bag of larger items to the locally washateria.

This bag being too heavy to carry was placed on a pram and I cried bitterly when it was my turn (my childhood shame was never ending)

Oh how I would have gladly cast aside my shame and willingly pushed the pram of sheets down that day.

But the wedding was now imminent and the guests arriving soon so there was no time for even that.

I cannot remember what the final outcome was.

To allay my shame and possibly have an insight into my continued martyred approach to life I like to think I spent my sisters wedding, Cinderella-like, washing sheets while everyone else was having fun.

But the reality was my used sheets were probably reused.

Maybe if you were one of those guests you could throw a light on this?

or I could ask my sister but I’d rather not remind her……

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Blown-away bread; A recipe (Make it if you dare)

Tags

cycling, driftwood, family, fire, fried bread, genes, Pelican, quick thinking, recipe, red wine, steak, The wild atlantic way, the yellow bicycle, turf

 

You would be forgiven for thinking Blown-away bread is so named because the eater was ‘blown away’ by it’s deliciousness.

But that is not the case.

It got its name due to a mischievous gust of wind that blew it off the plate when I was about to serve it to my first customer.

“Hey my bread! it’s blown away” (needless to say I was serving it out of doors and by the wild Atlantic sea)

I quickly picked up the offending bread, shook the sand off, put it back on the plate and coolly replied

“Of course it has. That’s why its called Blown-away bread!”

Picture this!

you have just spent a glorious but tiring day cycling along mountain and bog roads and are positively STARVING.

Passing through a small village you decide to call into the butcher and buy a piece of steak.

Then, cycling the last down hill to your small tent by the sea, you set about lighting a fire.

You pull out a frying pan and throw a slab of butter into it followed by the steak.

That done you, pouring yourself a lavish glass of red wine, you stretch out your tired feet to the fire and wiggling your muddy toes (you cycle in sandals) sigh with contentment.

As you lean forward to turn the steak you become aware, above the sizzling of the pan, of the sound of voices in the distance and note (alarmingly) that they are getting louder.(A sure sign they are headed in your direction).

With sinking heart you hastily consider your options.

The first (which isn’t even a possible one but in your panic you consider it anyway) is to grab pan, steak and fire and run and hide (there are many sandy dips and hollows in this place) but you know that no one has ever manage to move a fire and live to tell the tale so you discard that one.

The second is to grin and brace yourself for the onslaught.

And here they come now .

‘Hi mom what are you doing?’

‘Hi granny’ (there are little ones in tow)

‘ooh that smells delicious’

It’s your family and without any invitation they plonk themselves down in unison beside you on the grass.

Now mothers are, by there very nature, selfless beings and it would be unacceptable to sit in front of your genes and devour a steak if you hadn’t enough to share, so you have to think quickly.

Mothers are also very innovative when it comes to feeding their young during a food shortage (think of the pelican) so without further ado you find yourself inventing a dish that although it would turn every cardiologist in the country white with fright, would have your children (even those whose diet mainly consists of avocado and almond milk) calling out for more.

The name of the dish? Blown-away Bread and you can find the recipe below.

 

THE RECIPE:

Accoutrements:

• One large frying pan into which you can fit two slices of bread comfortably.
• one fire preferably by the sea.
• one medium sized family

Ingredients:

• one Ilb butter (I use kerrygold)
• One small steak
• a small drop sea water (instead of salt)
• A bottle (or two) of red wine (mostly for drinking but a small amount for cooking)
• a loaf of thickly sliced bread (as many slices as there are people to feed and more)

Cooking time:  as long as the fire lasts.

Method:

First build a small circle of stones slightly smaller than the base of the frying pan and with an even finish so the pan can balance on it.

This done, light your fire inside this circle using turf /gathered drift wood/ dried cow dung etc

Allow the embers to die down.

Place your pan on the fire and when hot, add a good dollop of the butter.

As soon as the butter is frothing, add the steak browning it well on both sides

Allow the steak to cook thoroughly.

Discard the steak (either eat, give to the dog or throw to the seagulls. It’s no longer needed for the recipe)

Add more butter to the pan

Add some wine and a tablespoon of sea water and reduce

Carefully place two thick slices of bread in the pan.

Allow the slices to crisp on one side before turning over, ensuring they are thoroughly coated in the meat/butter/wine juice/seawater juice.

Crisp other side then lift on plate (watch that wind) and serve to your first two customers.

Continue adding butter/ wine/sea water/ bread and serving in that order until everyone has had a slice of substitute steak.

Keep going for as long as you have bread/fire/family/wine oh and calm weather.

Waiting for the embers to die down. The wine? Oh that’s for cooking with of course.

The End.

 

 

 

 

A GPS for my birthday? I don’t think so!

Tags

birthdays, family, getting lost, gps, John Creedon, os maps, signposts, The wild atlantic way, the yellow bicycle, west of Ireland

 

It was my birthday recently and I was chatting to some same aged friends about heading towards sixty. We admitted to showing signs of weakening sight and the odd episode of memory loss. Then one of us (not me), mentioned how she had got a gps for her car. ‘It’s wonderful’ she exclaimed ‘No more worries about not being able to read a signpost or remembering which streets are one way’.

‘We’ll get you one for your birthday’! my friends laughed, seeing the look of horror on my face ‘You can put it on the handlebars of your bicycle’.

‘If one of us succumbs. the rest will surely follow…. even you’

They were teasing of course, knowing full well my thoughts on such an instrument and my passion for heading off exploring small unsigned roads with no idea where I am going to end up.

In my opinion

Signposts spoil spontaneity.

And even though I love Maps, they may also help lose the magic.

The magic that is ‘getting lost’.

The Loveliness of being fully aware of your surroundings as you pedal along looking left and right over ditches, along beaches, over small pot holed boíríns.

The importance of the journey rather than the destination.

If there were neither sign nor map we might stop a stranger to ask the way, strike up a conversation which could lead to a friendship or at least  brighten up or add somewhat to each other’s day.

Or better still come accidently upon an unexpected mystical place that no signpost could have directed you to.

It is how I have found many of the hidden gems that John Creedon, in his tv series ‘The wild atlantic way’, asked us to tell him about.

Needless to say I didn’t for two reasons: Firstly if I did they would no longer be hidden but secondly I wasn’t sure if I could find them again myself.

Which is what makes them magical.

I remember back to a time when most smaller roads had no sign posts and you took your chance as you meandered cautiously along them.

My dad, despite his multitude of Ordnance Survey maps, relied a lot on appearances when it came to road directions.

‘This doesn’t feel right’ He would mutter as we sat quietly, for once, in the back of our overloaded car trying to ‘feel’ whatever it was that would tell us if we were going in the right direction.

Or

‘The sun’ He would moan ‘should be on my left’ (or a mountain on my right or the sea in front/ behind).

Getting lost in the west of ireland was part of our summer holidays.

It just wouldn’t be the same if all went smoothly and we arrived at our destination too quickly and, as my father often took different roads to avoid tractors on hills through small villages, or markets or other festivities which could cause havoc trying to get through, it happened often.

My mother, with her astute sense of direction, didn’t get too involved.

She hummed and held her youngest on her lap and enjoyed the passing scenery.

From past experience, she knew that she wouldn’t be listened to. (When she had given her advice, my dad just snorted and went his own way, ending up at some farm gate where we couldn’t turn and had to unhitch the caravan (did I mention our trusty caravan) and maneuver the car around it. (I won’t go into that proceeding, a story in itself) as he had never learnt to reverse with any sort of trailer attached.

But she didn’t mind.

Her younger children were snoozing quietly in the back.

The scenery to her artist’s eye was beautiful.

The car was moving, giving her a changing vista of mountains and rivers and sea which she stored in her mind for future work and the baby, who had been fretful at the start of the journey, was sleeping. She was content to sit back in comfort and let the day evolve(my mom was ahead of her time in the the living in the moment techniques).

For my second eldest sister in the back it was a different story. She was the appointed navigator (we were all an appointed something or other)

Struggling to spread the map in a space filled with her siblings , she tried to keep her finger on a point as the car hit numerous potholes.

‘Next left’ she called and duly a side road came into view through a gap in the willow and alder filled ditch.

‘Nonsense! can’t be!’ My father proclaimed dismissively clinging to the now bouncing steering wheel and once again we were lost.

‘We’ll ask the next person we see’ But now he sounded doubtful. The air gone out of him.

After another half an hour during which the road got progressively worse, we spied an old man pushing a bike, a matted sheep dog following. He stopped and turned to see the cause of such a racket.

My dad came to a halt beside him and rolled down his window. They went into negotiations.

‘Lovely day’ My Dad shouted even though the man was no more than a foot away from him.

To ask him for directions directly would have confused him. The subject of our demise needed to be broached slowly, giving him time to place us.

‘t’is! Aye t’is a grand one indeed’ Was the reply as the old man took in the packed car and the equally ‘filled to the gills’ caravan.

My mother smiled across her husband at him and he tipped his cap at her.

His dog meanwhile sniffed the tyres and relieved himself against the front one, an action which caused my dad great annoyance, but my mother put a restraining hand on his knee, a gentle reminder of who needed who here the most.

My dad held his tongue, understanding he was in no position to complain.

Meanwhile the man, giving up up trying to place us and acknowledging to himself, that we were indeed strangers, continued cheerfully, ‘Rain promised tomorrow’.

We knew it wasn’t.

My dad always rang the long term weather forecast before heading out.

Not that the promise of a storm was going to stop him going anywhere and even though he always shouted ‘rubbish’ into the phone , which made us  wonder why he bothered ringing in the first place when he obviously wasn’t going to believe the report, he knew it was correct.

The weather would be fine but he understood where the old man was coming from! It wasn’t good to sound too sure of it as that could well bring the rain in. Just as it wasn’t wise to sound too proud of your field of spuds or your crop of barley in case you drew bad luck on them.

‘Is that so’ my dad answered respectfully.

‘Aye’ said the man.

They spoke some more about getting the hay in and if the turf was dry enough to bring off the bog yet (my dad, though a city man, had an avid interest in all things country)

At last my dad came to the point. ‘We are looking for the road to….

At that the man pushed his cap back on his head and scratched his forehead distractedly.

He looked up the road and back the way we had come. He frowned as though deep in thought.

He pondered and looked up to the sky.

We sat waiting impatiently in the car.

Then his brow cleared.

‘I know the place yer looking for, but you’ve gone too far. Ye should have taken a turn to the right a couple on mile back.

My sister nudged me, smirking into the map.

My dad caught my eye in the mirror and I knew better then to return her triumphant nudge.

‘But sure there’s a small laneway further on that would bring you there too, be the back roads’.

‘Thank You kindly’ my father was already releasing the brake.

But too late!

The old man carefully lays his bicycle in the ditch and ordering his dog to lie down beside it, comes back to the passenger door.

‘Sure tis easier to show ye’.

Seat belts were unheard of then or if they did exist my father forbid us to use them. ‘What if i’m turning on a pier and I reverse into the sea by accident’ he said rationally. ‘How would you get out of the car if you are tied in by a seatbelt?’

We knew the drill from old, it wouldn’t be the first time a turf smelling old man squeezed himself into the back of the car.

We shuffle over obediently.

It could have been worse!

We often had, on similar lost journeys, a manure smelling dog squashed in at our feet as well.

The End.

Running around on bikes.

Tags

Barbeques, beaches, bicycles, boreens, Einstein, family, Groningen, imagination, lakes, wild camping

Last week I was chatting to a friend who had just come back from a visit to Groningen (A university town in the north of Holland).

When I asked him what he thought of it he replied. ‘It’s a dangerous town!’

‘Dangerous?’ I was taken aback ‘Are we talking about the same place?’

‘Well’ He explained ‘If you happened to accidently look in the wrong direction before stepping onto the street you are likely to be killed by a bicycle! EVERYONE is running around on them.’

‘I mean of course CYCLING around on them.’ He Laughed, correcting himself.

But his description made sense.

When I think about it, running around on bikes is exactly what I do.

When I’m not flying about that is. Or even scooting about!

Now Einstein once said ‘Logic will get you from A to B but imagination will get you everywhere’. He didn’t mean it literally but I will take it so because I never seem to cycle straight from A to B.

I may intend to head directly home but am often drawn to interesting side roads especially those where I can’t see what’s around the corner.

So there you go!

Imagination gets me everywhere when I’m running around on my bicycle!

AND when I do run, fly or scoot to the shops, don’t expect me back for some time.

~~~~~~

For many years my extended family (brothers, sisters, in laws, children, nieces, nephews, grandchildren) go on an annual camping trip to connemara.

It’s a Tradition. A sort of gathering of the clans.

I call it the trip to our summer hunting grounds. A wild and barren place without a tree or bush for shelter.

The grass, short and undulating, forms hollows here and there and it is in these hollows we peg down our tents hoping to gain refuge from the prevailing north westerlies.

It is also these Hollows we squabble over, as some are more favored than others.

Those having easier access to the strand are in high demand for family members with young children. Those more off the beaten track are the ones looked for by the quieter members . Some nearer to the spring well are for the laziest of us.

But all have views of the sea.

Over the years they have gained names. Big hollow. Shallow hollow. River hollow. Stephs hollow. Mels hollow. First beach hollow. Far beach hollow.

It is sort of a first come first served basis and there maybe a day or two of frigid coolness towards the one who took the hollow you were planning to inhabit only they got there before you.

But after a while we settle down and return to our normal family friendliness, joining each other for early swims and visiting each others hollows for coffees and chats.

If you join us be prepared ! There is a large lack of privacy and not much time for solitude, even though our place of camping is remote.

We often eat our evening meal enmass. Each camp bringing their contribution.

It is not uncommon to see children still in swimwear running barefoot across the grass carrying a plate, cup and fork, followed by an adult with a steaming pot to the hollow of choice (one potted meals are always a good idea as it’s up to every child to take its used plate to the river and wash it it leaving one pot for you to do)

On the day in question (The Einstein day) it was my brother’s turn to host the occasion.

As, for once, it was a relatively calm day, He decided a barbeque would be a good idea.

So in the early afternoon I ran (cycled) into clifden to the butcher to get our contribution.

My shopping completed with plenty of time to spare, I branched off at Ballinaboy bridge and taking the first turn right I cycled down a boreen which had aroused my curiosity before but I had yet to explore.

‘Just see where it brings me’ my imaginative brain instructed. ‘It may well join up with the main road further along’.

‘If not’ replied my logical brain ‘Sure I can always turn back’

I cycled along the gravel swerving now and then to avoid the potholes. A line of grass appeared, thin at first but getting wider the further I went, until there was more grass than gravel.

‘Beware of a road with grass is growing in the middle’ I remembered my father’s wise words ‘unless of course you are going fishing or for a picnic or a day’s painting plein air’

The hazel and alder hedges on either side thickened and became alive with birdlife.

Tiny stonechats and finches chastising me.

The road must have twisted slowly and, unknowingly to me, southeastwards because suddenly the sun, which had been warming my left shoulder, was now doing the same to my back.

Around the next corner a lake appeared and the road came to an end in a swirl of uneven gravel at its rocky shore.

I stopped to admire the stillness of the water.

But still I wasn’t turning

A small track led to the right of the lake. Made by sheep or man, I didn’t care.

Without thinking I pushed my bike along it.

At one stage I nearly lost a sandal, at another I had to lift my bike across a drain.

My logical brain told me I was mad, the track was obviously going nowhere and I should give up and turn back!

My imaginative brain told me this was exciting and to keep going.

Without thought for the steaks in my panniers which were probably by now cooking in their own juices, I listened to the latter.

The track, hidden in places by overgrown heather, twisted uphill.

It was heavy going and there was no opportunity to cycle. In fact the track was so narrow it was impossible for the yellow bicycle and I to fit side by side so I had to walk in the heather in order to push it along.

I paused  for breath and turning watched a heron fly across the lake far below and land awkwardly on a small island.

With renewed determination I continued to push the bike upwards.

Suddenly I was at the top of the hill.

Here the heather gave way to sheep cropped grass and what looked like the remains of an old fort on the top . I could see why a fort would have been built here for sitting resting on one of its stones, the sea stretch out in front of me and away across, High island, inishturk and to the north west what looked like clare island lay calmly in the blue water.

A fine lookout post this old stone circle was.

But no time to linger. I followed the easier path down to the other side and there ahead I could see the alcock and brown memorial white and shining in the now dipping sun.

A small track led me past it and I was back on a gravel road again this time without grass or hedging. Instead ricks of turf lined the one side of the boreen and small ponds filled with waterlilies reflected in the bracken water lined the other. The track opened out onto the main road.

Ahead was my turn to the summer hunting grounds. I was nearly home.

As I came across the beach I could make out a row of anxious faces looking at me from the brow of the hill in the evening sun.

‘ Mom what delayed you? You’re just in time!

‘Granny where WERE YOU? we’re STARVING ‘ Three small boys looked at me hungrily.

‘I have been on a magical journey’ I told them. ‘I’ll tell you about it at the fire’.

We joined the rest of family members and looking like a tribe of ancient celts with our blankets (for sitting on) slung around our shoulders and our bags of food we hurried hungrily across the grass and over the hill in the direction of my brothers sheltered hollow.

I took a discreet sniff of my bag of steaks before handing them over where they were placed alongside a plethora of different meats on the large grill.

My daughters produced a saucepan of freshly picked mussels cleaned and ready for cooking.

‘Just in case you didn’t return with the shopping ‘ They explained ‘We didn’t want to arrive empty handed’.

(Pausing for breath and looking back I saw a large heron landing awkwardly on a small Island in the middle of the lake)

 

Gentling myself (the art of kindness to ones self)

Tags

bread, diarying., family, gardening, gentling, lists, meditation, new years, philosophy, promises, traditions, yoga

SEEING WITH EYES WIDE OPEN.

As I go around banging a loaf of bread against the walls of my home on new years eve(an Irish tradition said to drive out bad luck and encourage prosperity) I hold true to my belief that every moment of every year, day, hour, minute and second is worthy of celebration, but that the ending of the dark days of winter and the feeling of the approach of spring deserves special attention.

And as I beat the poor loaf to an inch of its life, I consciously drive out the things about myself and my life that I need to let go of (Hopefully the bread will work in a way that meditation failed to do).

And I make a promise to be gentle with myself this year.

So here is my gentling list:

G: Gardening and growing and gratitude diarying.

E: Enabling my creative side to emerge more, allotting time in my life for this.

N: nutritionally taking care of my body and spirit, meditating and yoga-ing.

T: taking time to watch the tree’s grow, the tides flow, the mountains being mountains.

L: Laughing a lot, Learning when to hold my council and when to speak out.

I: Interesting my self in new philosophies, writings and people.

N: Not berating myself for making mistakes.

G: Giving myself permission to be who I am.

 

M: Maybe yes! maybe no! (seeing occurrences in life with this philosophy)

Y : Ycling my yellow bicycle (with a capital ‘C’)

S: Seeing with eyes wide open

E: Enveloping life enthusiastically

L: Letting go things that are not significant to gratefulness and therefore to happiness

F: last but not least, spending time with my family and making more time to see my friends……..

Allotting time to be more creative:

 

 

 

Pumpkin Ponderings, memories and musings.

Tags

clafoutis, family, fruit trees, gardening, memories, pumpkin competitions, pumpkin souffle, pumpkins, reminiscing.

 

Once I had an uncle who bought the garden of an old estate and built his house in it.

The garden was about three acres in size and surrounded by a high brick wall.

The brick was beautiful.

Mellow oranges, yellows and creams, softened by age and rain, wind and snow, Here and there ivy grew and in this ivy small birds nested, making the wall a living thing.

To reach my uncles house we first had to deal with an immense wooden gate, which fitted precisely against the arched entrance.

This gate contained a smaller pedestrian gate in the middle of it.

A gate within a gate was a thing of magic to us children.

It was the chore of the older of us to go through the pedestrian gate, and lift the iron bolt. Once we managed this we could push the huge gate open, sliding it along its runners.

Sometimes it took two of us to succeed in sliding the gate open especially if it had been raining.

Inside another magical scene awaited us.

A long avenue lined with cordoned apple trees led up to the house.

Around the trunk of each apple tree hung a small pewter plate inscribed with the name of the variety and held in place by a chain.

I was fascinated by these names and remember wandering along reading them out loud as though reciting poetry.

Beauty of Bath, Lextons superb, James Grieve, Lord Lambourne, Bramley seedling,

and my favourite of all Ballinora Pippin.

I was also curious as to how some of the tree’s appeared to be eating their names as the plates became embedded in the trunks with time.

On either side of this avenue were two meadows. One in which lived a jersey cow and in the other a donkey, the field was dotted with free ranging chickens and a cross cockerel, who caused us to run for cover whenever he decided to investigate our games.

But most magical of all was the peach house.

A relic of by gone days, The large domed shaped Victorian style glass house grew one remaining ancient and very gnarled peach tree.

And from one of these ancient branches, my uncle had hung a swing for us.

Health and safety was unheard of then (nowadays there is no way eight unruly children would be allowed free in such a glass filled playground) but to my knowledge we never broke a pane.

Instead we played our imaginary games and took turns swinging for hours on rainy Sunday afternoons in the warm environs of this tropical heaven while the adults sat inside boringly drinking tea and talking.

And it was here we witnessed the growth of a most wonderful thing, only known to us from fairy tales! A pumpkin.

A pumpkin whose tendrils, my uncle announced proudly, grew a foot long each night!

He lifted the giant leaves to show us the orange fruit and on each subsequent visit we were amazed to see how bigger and bigger the fruit had grown until, one day, my uncle sat my younger brother on top of it and his feet couldn’t reach the ground.

What my uncle did with these large fruits I can’t remember.

He may well have grown them for our amusement as he and my aunt had no children of his own at that stage.

The rest of his garden was a fabulous array of flowers and vegetables but I was too young to appreciate those.

My Uncle died from a heart attack. He was Found sitting upright on his favourite seat against the sunny wall of his neatly kept garden as though viewing his domain for the last time. His death occurred in a manner many a gardener would wish for when their time came.

It was not until I was living in the west of Ireland growing my food organically that I added pumpkins to my garden, growing them in a corner I kept for trying out the more unusual variety of vegetable.

Along with asparagus and salsify and purple podded peas and okra, they grew feverishly and wildly.

Unrestrained, they cascaded over my stone wall and sharing the tied hazel rods with various types of runner beans, they elbowed their way up among them exuberantly and on reaching the top, waved their tendrils at me frantically as though looking for my attention in the hopes that I would supply them with something new to catch hold of so they could continue on their merry way.

Initially I grew the ordinary orange variety along with spaghetti squash but soon I was planting acorn squash and a beautiful blue skinned variety whose name I have forgotten but whose flesh was orange and sweet and great in soups and stews.

Then one year myself and some like minded friends set up the North West Organic pumpkin growers association.

The aim of the association was simple.

You planted your pumpkin seed in the spring and entered it into the pumpkin competition on the thirty first of October at the pumpkin party.

The heaviest Pumpkin would be the winner.

We each took a turn in hosting the party.

There were also prizes for the most quirky and the most colourful.

Of course there was food and wine and chat, but setting up that weighing scales was the highlight of the night.

As the years went by and more friends joined we made one change to our original rule; the pumpkin had to be grown from the seed of the previous years winning pumpkin.

We also added a pumpkin carving competition, initially for the children, but soon the adults were joining in with enthusiasm and it became the responsibility of the person hosting the party to ensure that a good supply of Plasters and and larger gauze and bandages were kept handy.

The prize was a year’s subscription to the Irish Gardening magazine.

Oh what fun we had!

We teased each other unmercifully, threatening all manner of sabotage!

The most malevolent of all being to creep into each others garden at night and place slugs on pumpkin patches.

As October approached we began to call more frequently to the houses of the other competitors in pretence of cups of tea and chats (an important part of life in the country) But really we just wanted to check how their pumpkins were faring.

Sometimes there were calamities.

A potential winner rotting at the stem!

Or developing powdery mildew.

The west of Ireland with its damp summers is not the best growing place for pumpkins.

But we did our best.

We made sure to plant them on a mound of good friable well drained compost and to lift the ever enlarging fruits onto a heap of dry straw.

A damp climate is also much loved by slugs and snails and with our grow organically rule it meant searching for various non toxic ways to deal with these creatures,

Some used jars of beer in circles around the precious plant.

Up turned oranges was another favoured.

Seaweed when dry and crackly, crushed egg shells.

Turf ash was also recommended.

But no matter what method was used, if you were to cycle by the pumpkin growers houses at cock crow, you would see their silhouettes stooped against the early morning light in their constant battle against snails, and what they said or did to these mischief making molluscs when they found them is not printable.

But still despite all this care, there were inevitable slug bitten causalities, and much tears shed.

Those who sympathetically patted the shoulders of the grieving, hid their smiles, for the loss of the griever upped the chances for those whose pumpkins who survived.

It certainly did not leave much room for compassion but we could always make up for that over the winter months.

And like fishermen, the merits and potential size of the ‘one that got away’ was always discussed at length at the party.

I know the competition is still carried on despite my absence.

Because I receive a lovely invitation every year to come down and join the pumpkiney festivities.

But…

with grandchildren of my own now, Halloween is spent carving pumpkins here in Co Wicklow instead….

And finding interesting pumpkin recipes.

No longer having a garden, I first have to go along some autumnal berry festooned lanes….

And buy a pumpkin!

.

And bring it safely home!

and admire it much whilst searching for the perfect recipe.

And when I find that recipe….

Be brave!

for now comes the sad part. I take a sharp knife and cut that wonderful work of art…..

into unruly pieces… and drizzling some oil over them and a tsp of soft brown sugar, roast them in the oven at 180 degrees for 45 mins.

This is what they should look like.

I make a Halloween Souffle, following the instructions below

https://www.google.ie/webhp?sourceid=chrome-instant&ion=1&espv=2&ie=UTF-8#q=yotam%20ottolenghi%20halloween%20souffle%20recipe

And invite my two daughters over for a tasting.

I think Ottolenghi would approve.

And he might also approve my pumpkin clafoutis recipe made from the leftover roasted pumpkin.

My daughters certainly did.

Recipe for the Yellow bicycles Pumpkin clafoutis.

50g ground Almonds.

2 tbls flour

100g castor sugar.

2 eggs.

2 egg yolks.

120 g mashed roasted pumpkin.

250 mls cream.

method:

Blend all the ingredients together in a large bowl and pour the batter into buttered pie dish. Cook in oven marked 200/gas mark 6 for 30 mins or until it feels set when you press your finger against the center.

Serve hot with vanilla icecream

Why do you shout so loud Bear Gryllis?(Random and inane thoughts from a Portuguese wedding)

Tags

families, family, Portugal, weddings

We are back from the wedding.

Well most of us are.

The two main components, the bride and groom, are still swanning around Paris.

Those of us who are home, continue to discuss the wedding on a daily basis.

Posts appear on facebook. Phone calls are received. Fuzzy drunken photo’s poured over.

‘Ha ha just look at you’

‘Wow! she looks beautiful’

‘That can’t be me’ (Me)

‘I cried my eyes out it was so lovely’ (my fifteen year old niece)

But Lets start at the first photo’s.

The ones taken in Tavira castle.

Where the ceremony is about to begin.

A cream vintage Mercedes pull’s up at the castle gates. The driver helps the bride out. I find this ironic as she is young and agile and well able to leap out by herself despite her layered organza wedding dress and lace veil.

Really its me(I am after all the mother of the bride) that needs the help, but as no one pays any attention to me, I sit a bit longer in the low slung beautiful leather seat .

I wish I could sit in it forever.

I wish I owned it for it’s a thing of beauty.

My hat is askew from the breezy spin up the winding cobbled streets to the castle.

Past the old doors of peeling paint half hidden by trailing bougainvillea.

Past the old men sitting wobbling on plastic chairs whose four legs cannot find an even patch on the cobbles.

Past the tourists sitting outside the café’s drinking ‘meia de leite’ and eating freshly made ‘pasteis de nata’.

Eventually when no one comes to the rescue me,  I haul myself, straighten my hat and tug at my dress. Is it my imagination or has it got tighter? Whether it has or it hasn’t, I feel and probably look like a mild but younger version of Mrs Bucket.

I go over to stand beside my daughter. The bridesmaids, looking exquisite in mint green are fussing around her straightening her veil.

Its hot , but we have become acclimatized to the heat by practising life without the air con.

Even though the Villa is very luxurious with air conditioning in every corner we are under strict orders of the bride not to turn it on.

(The villa also has a lift which at first I laughed at but in the heat began to use when no one was looking).

We cook without it in a hot kitchen.

Sleep without it under a duvet.

Walk into town on the hottest of days.

And it worked.

(Though I did draw a line at sitting in a warm sitting room with outside temperatures of thirty six degree’s threading ‘order of service booklets’ together.

It was either straight, clean and in the correct order with air con

OR

Crumpled, sweat stained and in the wrong sequence without.

I won and the order of service were pristine).

Yes, thanks to our ‘heat training’ I find the day pleasantly warm with a tropical breeze coming in from the sea.

My son in law comes running out through the gate.

His sons, the two ring bearers, aged six and just four refuse to carry up the rings.

I become flustered in a granny like manner.

I want every thing to run smoothly.

I want this to be my daughters perfect day.

I want no mishaps. No botching of chores no matter how young the chore doer’s are.

BUT….

‘Don’t worry’ my daughters voice is calm and serene ‘If they don’t want to carry them they don’t have to, it’s OK’.

She pats her brother in law on the arm.

I feel ashamed.

I was about to march up and shout ‘JUST DO IT’ at them even though I’m not in the slightest bit stressed.

The sweet strains of Tabhair dom do lamh. (played by my brother Gregory on the flute) float high above the castle and the bridesmaids are off.

They walk gracefully up the gravel path like water nymphs.

The sun striking off their silken hair.

Even the scrunching of their feet sounds delicate.

My daughter smiles at me.

Her eyes say ‘relax Mom’ and I try to, but only after a quick struggle about which side I should be on and who’s holding who’s arm.

My memories of walking my daughter up the garden path are dreamlike.

The tree’s casting dappled splashes of mauve shadows across the path.

A scene that must look like a Monet painting to any passer-by who stop’s to watch.

I remember the smiling faces of family and friends.

I remember my younger daughters voice singing ‘Raglan Road’.

‘On Raglan road of an autumn day

I saw her first and knew

That her dark hair would weave a snare

that I might one day rue.’

I don’t think the Bride or Groom will ever rue this wonderful day.

I feel my daughter squeezing my arm.

I know I have tears in my eyes as we weave our way through the tree lined path to the waiting groom.

We are high above the town, away from the noise of the traffic, the only sound is the hushed whispers of the guests and a voice singing sweet and high.

The bride’s dress is picking up the sunlight turning it into gossamer.

Her skin is ethereal.

Her dark hair, glimpsed at through her veil, is flowing over her shoulders in shining waves.

She looks so beautiful.

A fairy princess.

The old stone steps of the castle, the crumbling ramparts, the blue sky above, the rose pedals strewn along the path below, the various flowers of Portugal, all lend to this fairy tale wedding.

And how peaceful and illusionary it is.

An inane thought passes through my head.

Why does Bear Gryllis insist on shouting?.

Why is he is so noisy and frantic,

I don’t own a TV. Nor do I babysit much. But when I do and my grandchildren are in bed I am fascinated by this ‘shouting’ man as he tackles various means of survival and helps himself to bits and pieces of tree’s and things that grow on tree’s or live in tree’s.

When I first used to watch him I kept the sound off for fear his loudness would waken the children but as time wore on I left it off as he is funnier when you can only see him.

He is always in such a sweat and a tangle.

I was recently reading a piece about the Tukano peoples of the upper rio negro.

a https://www.culturalsurvival.org/ourpublications/csq/article/endangered-ideologies-tukano-fishing-taboos.

Please Bear Gryllis take a leaf out of their book.

Because, well, any place of such natural beauty does not need noise like that.

I push the absurd thoughts of Bear Gryllis out of my mind.

We continue to move gracefully and quietly through the tree’s (Though when I looked later at the video of us walking up the path I thought I walked not very gracefully but more like a farmer. I blame that on the high shoes.)

The ceremony is in both English and Portuguese,

I prefer the Portuguese version with it’s soft sshhhhing sounds.

My eldest Grandson (the one who is old enough to be depended upon) reads a long poem.

I like you because……

He reads so well, remembering to pause and look up and not run away with the word’s. We give him a round of applause when he finishes.

The grooms best friend and best man reads a Poem. First in Portuguese then in English.

Had I the Heavens’ embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

of night and light and the half light,

I would spread these Cloths under your feet;

But I, being poor, have only my dreams,

I have spread these dreams under your feet

Thread softly because you thread on my dreams.

This time I prefer the English as this is one of my favourite Yeats’s poems.

The ceremony is given by a Man called Jonas,

He first has to translate the legal ceremony.

I am glad to hear my Daughter has no impediments.

The civil ceremony is beautiful and thought provoking.

Jonas has obviously formed a connection with the the bride and groom and gives a compassionate and very wise talk.

I see all the older married couples leaning forward and pricking up their ears.

I see middle aged wives digging their heat snoozing husbands in the ribs.

Even the younger ones are paying attention.

At last the ceremony is finished and the newly married couple pass through the well wishers who throw petals .

Down the path they run and out through the castle gates and back into the real world.

I must remember to share my Bear Gryllis thought’s with someone later.

My shoes scrunch on the gravel as I follow the merry makers…..

I wish I could have brought my yellow bicycle, she could have danced with this handsome chap.