By the wind camping (Wild camping with benefits)

Tags

daughters, families, grandchildren, houses, inlaws, rain and wind, renting, west of Ireland, wild camping, wine

Wild camping/stealth camping! Call it what you will!

It is indented into my genes as it is into my children’s and grandchildren’s.

And IT was born out of necessity due to the love my parents had for camping and the lack of campsites in Ireland when they were young and full of energy even with eight children in tow.

Indeed lack of campsites not only did NOT deter them but actually encouraged them to head off summer after summer in search of that perfect wild spot preferably beside the sea where we could throw off our shoes and not put them back on again till the day we had to head, weeping and wailing back, back to civilisation.

But as children grew up and marriages occurred and partners who had no wild camping upbringing, became embroiled in this tradition, something had to give. 

and something eventually did.

And  from it ‘By the wind camping’ was born.

Each spring, as early as February the conversation begins.

‘Everybody going down this summer?’

But this year my younger daughter (the one with husband and three children) replied.

‘We are! but we’re thinking of renting a house!’

She glared at us defiantly.

‘A house? how could you? ‘

That came from my older daughter.

But then She frowned.

‘Oh my god’ ! She put her hand over her mouth and opening her eyes wide looked at her sister in sympathy.

‘I had forgotten! oh remember what happened Tom (not his real name but the husband of my younger daughter) last year?’

A vision of the normally calm Tom appearing at the door of my tent, hair on end, eyes wild and staring, shouting ‘where is she’? came to mind.

And we, who were sitting chatting and drinking wine in the above mentioned tent turned to look at him in surprise.

‘Whats wrong’ we asked in unison

‘I can’t do this anymore’ was his frenzied reply.

All eye’s were on him now, some of us glancing at his hand which was clutching a food laden knife.

‘Tom!’ My youngest daughter said sharply.

‘Pull yourself together’  her tone was one of admonishment but she was also embarrassed.

‘But, but’

At that stage Tom has started to babble incoherently.

‘Excuse me’ she turned apologetically away from us and standing up, removed the knife from his hand and tossing it to one side, put her arm around her husband and gently steered him away.

‘Its OK, everything is OK’ she spoke gently as though to a frightened child, and soothingly led him back to the tent where their children were sleeping and where, outside was strewn a huge jumble of dishes.

Greasy but scrubbed clean with sand, they lay waiting to be rinsed in the pot of water  which was heating on the fire.

I understood what had happened.

Not being born into wild camping, Tom (whilst down at the shore scrubbing the pile of above mentioned dishes with sand and then hauling the basin of ware back up from the beach to the waiting pot of hot water) had allowed his mind to drift back to a time when a holiday meant relaxing by a pool in some sunny clime with a beer in his hand.

Silly man!

That memory was his big mistake.

The undoing of him.

I have seen it happen to other in laws of our family and it is not a pretty sight.

Most get into the swing of it within a year or two.

Some even stop pretending to and actually begin to enjoy it.

But some, like Tom, were a lost cause and though he had tried over the years he was only getting worse.

After much discussion we agreed that a house for Tom would be a good idea.

And so ‘By the wind camping’ was born.

How does it work?

Well those of us who could, would wild camp, while others, like Tom, who couldn’t face it, would rent a house as near as possible. Then they would ‘day’ camp with us and at the end of the day, under cover of darkness, retreat to the house only to reappear clean and refreshed at their tent the next morning giving all the appearance of being a wild camper which in fairness they would be for 60% of the time.

But some of us fell between two camping stools.

And on nights when the wind rose and the rain fell and white horses appeared in the bay and our tents groaned and flapped and bent and leaned away from the prevailing wind, I found myself, under the excuse of needing some implement from the house, cycling up to it.

And as I was there, I reasoned, I might as well snuggle into one of those soft mattress duvet covered beds.

Just for a while anyway.

‘I’ll head back down around midnight’ I promised myself.

But mostly morning would find me still in the warm bed.

Sure as I’m there why not avail of a warm shower (as opposed to a splash in the cold sea) and it would be a pity not to make a quick coffee on the electric hob (instead of lighting a fire).

And that done I would sneak back down to my tent at the crack of dawn and pretend I had slept there all night.

And so what ensued was the best summer ever.

To be continued ……

 

 

 

 

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Some prefer Hawthorns (Practising Hanami on the Achill to Westport Greenway)

Tags

Bicycle cart, cherry blossoms, cycling, hanami, hawthorn blossoms, Mono no aware, Sakurayu, The Achill to Westport Greenway., The wild atlantic way, the yellow bicycle, Wagashi, wine, Yuugen

If I were to choose my favorite month for cycling it would be May because May is the month when the hawthorn is in bloom.

I try not to take life for granted but too often I don’t appreciate things until they have passed.

Mono no Aware is the Japanese term which describes the gentle wistfulness, or  the melancholic appreciation of the transiency of things.

Hanami is the Japanese term for cherry blossom viewing. These two go hand in hand as viewing the cherry blossom, which blooms so briefly in spring, is appreciated so much more because of its transience in a way that would be missing if it was always there.

But we have a native tree that would give the cherry blossom a run for its money.

It is the humble Hawthorn.

It was in the month of May when Penny and I finally found a day when both of us were free and we head off to cycle the Achill to Westport Greenway (Co Mayo) in search of Hawthorn blossoms and to practice Hanami .

After doing the ‘two car thingy’ (A technique I wrote about in a previous post) we arrived in my car at the starting point.

~~~~~

‘WILL YOU BE WEARING A HELMET?’ Penny shouts to make herself heard above the rattle (She has opened the boot and is trying to disentangle her bike from mine).

‘I WILL NOT!’ I shout back, pausing from my task of taking the panniers out from behind the front seat. ‘I’VE NEVER WORN ONE IN MY ENTIRE LIFE, AS YOU WELL KNOW, AND HAVE NO INTENTION OF WEARING ONE TODAY!’

I shout so that she is also able to hear ME over the clattering of handlebars and metal mudguards but more because I am appalled that she would even suggest that I owned such a thing.

‘OK OK! she laughs ‘Keep your hair on’

At this stage She has extricated her bike from the clutches of mine and leaning it against the wall turns to me.

‘I wont wear one either so’

She watches me, daring me to look surprised.

I am surprised, shocked even.

The last time we cycled together on the Greenway, not only did she insist on wearing a helmet but a ‘High viz’ jacket as well. I remember thinking that if she fell off her bike there wasn’t much to hit her head off except some sheep wire. And that maybe she needed to wear high viz so that the sheep could see her coming.

‘Great’ I try to look as though its not important one way or the other but secretly I’m delighted  ‘Now you will be able to feel the gentle spring breeze in your hair.

(Nagokaze = the Japanese term for experiencing the gentle spring breeze)

Suddenly I am struck by a wistful longing for those days long ago when cycling were simpler.

Before helmets. Before fear.

Back then (could it be almost forty years ago) I cycled the wild Atlantic way (before it became famous) from Donegal to cape clear island without once worrying about falling.

My bike was a single speed black raleigh, complete with a small wooden bicycle cart (I had bought the cart in Holland the previous year whilst on a cycling trip in Europe).

This cart was of an ingenious design.

When not carrying my accoutrements (tent, spare clothing, pots and pans, Kelly kettle) the base could be taken out and used as a table.

And the sides, having a hinge at each corner, meant the remainder could then be folded flat for easy storage.

Looking back it was a much weightier affair than today’s versions, but I knew no better as, with the breeze tossing my (unhelmeted) hair,  I cruised down those Connemara hills, my feet off the pedals, the cart rattling gaily along behind.

Once when heading across the bog road to Scriob, (a road which undulated in such a measured fashion that the momentum of sailing down hill would almost carry you up the next hill without pedalling) the safety bolt loosened from the hitch on a down hill stretch and the cart disengaged.

Passing me out, it landed in a ditch upside down.

Luckily the only damage was a dint in a saucepan but I took more care after that by adding a loop of bailing twine around the hitch.

That was the only accident I can recall.

Suddenly I understand Mono no aware.

‘Come on’ A voice wakes me from my daydream.

Penny has my bicycle out too and wheels it over.

I buckle on my panniers and fix my picnic laden basket on the handle bars.

The traffic is heavy as we cycle up the main road and we are happy to take a left turn away from it and along a small gravel lane. We continue to climb slowly until finally it turns again before flattening out.

Then for a while it runs, not only fairly level, but straight as well, giving us the opportunity to look around.

To the left the boggy fields bank easily down to the sea, where the ruins of  abandoned cottages lie.

‘Aw look! Aren’t the colours gorgeous?’ Penny points to the swathes of purple and pink rhododendrons dotted here and there.

The colours ARE gorgeous and I wonder is there a Japanese term for admiring things guiltily.

These invasive plants that thrive in our gentle soft rain were brought in by the Victorians and planted as exotics in the grounds of many estate houses and have now run a muck, causing huge ecological problems by threatening our native species which cannot compete for space against them.

But Penny loves them.

Brought up on the bare boggy mountains of mayo she see’s the purple and pinks as uplifting and striking.

We have the track to ourselves and we cycle along easily, stopping here and there to admire the small orchids growing along the road side and in a damp field, the pink of the ragged robin.

The ditches are full of primroses.

‘We’re Hamani-ing already’. I say

‘Save it for the hawthorn’ Penny says standing on her pedals and sniffing ‘I can smell them’.

Sure enough as we round the corner, there they are, in full bloom. Bent into shape by the prevailing northwest winds, they are spread over a field of ancient potato ridges which run down to the shore.

We catch a glimpse of water between their gnarled trunks.

Penny spreads our picnic on a nearby seat.

‘This is how they do it in Japan! They have picnics and wine while viewing the blossom’.

(Penny has been to Japan so I believe her, though we never find it too difficult to have the excuse of a glass of wine on our cycles).

‘Did you know that the leaves of the hawthorn are edible’ I say. ‘In fact they are very good for you and are a known tonic for the heart’? One up for our sturdy hawthorn blossom’!

‘Except’ she replies ‘The leaves AND flowers of the cherry blossom are edible also and more famously too. There is a wide variety of treats using sakura (cherry) leaves and blossoms. From being incorporated in Wagashi (traditional Japanese sweets)  to Sakurayu (cherry blossom tea)’.

‘We better chew on a few hawthorn leaves so’ I sigh resignedly ‘Mustn’t let the side down’.

We pick some of the young green leaves and insert them between the two halves of our baguettes french which already contain spinach and smoked salmon.

They taste good in the sandwich, a tougher texture than the spinach but with a pleasant nutty flavour.

Penny draws a line at making hawthorn blossom tea but I pop a few in my cup and pour some boiling water over them.

The tea has a lovely scent.

‘Here’s to Hawthorn blossoms’ Penny raises her glass.

To Hawthorn blossoms’ I echo her.

We sit for a while without talking and sip our wine, admiring the view, the blossoms, the gnarled trunks of the trees, the way the light defines one side of each potato ridge.

The air is so clear.

The fragrance of the Hawthorn envelopes us.

It’s beautiful and serene and all those things that I cannot find the words to describe.

There is another Japanese term.

Yuugen translates as An awareness of something in nature that triggers feelings too deep and mysterious for words.

THE END

 

Still can’t see the sea but goodbye to the agapanthus.

Tags

bicyles, churches, Cycling in france, ferries, french food, goodbyes, Irish, Islands, lunchtime, pénichette, the yellow bicycle, trains, wine

Good bye to the Agapanthus 

Before I realize it my week is over.

In what seems like the blink of an eye, my island story is told.

I make my bed one final time and close the door of the room with it’s window that looks across the bay of sleeping boats at low tide and its ghostly presence at night.

I never did get around to writing about my need to check each room, cupboard and wardrobe before I went to bed.

I am not usually scared of night time. I wild camp without a second thought and sleep in a small tent with no fear. Darkness never bothers me, I have often cycled home alone with just my bicycle lamp to show me the way.

Yet, though this house is in the middle of the village and there is no crime on the island, I felt uneasy each night I spent in it. My unease coming from something inside the house rather than outside.

Of all the rooms, the bedroom opposite the one I chose to use, caused me the most anxiety.

My instinct was to close its door but to keep my one open so that I could keep a watchful eye.

But what I would do if I woke in the morning to find it open or worse, woke in the night to see the door handle slowly turning, I had no idea.

Eventually of course I fell asleep each night  and in the morning all was well.

And in the end, the only night I was ever disturbed was when leaving the window open, the zing of a mosquito in my ear made me shoot out of bed.

After a ridiculously lengthy chase I managed to squish the intruder between my shoe and the wall.

~~~

I plan to be up early but I sleep in.

When I finally walk up the hill to the boulangerie, all the pain au raisin are sold out.

Madame looks surprised to see me and I explain my absence yesterday. I tell her I am leaving this morning and thank her for her delicious patisseries over the last week.

She suggests a Breton Far. A solid custard type square studded with plums and when I nod,  I see her slip a second one in.

‘Au revoir’.

‘Au revoir et bon voyage’.

I walk down the steep hill for the last time.

The lady who takes care of the house rings to tell me just to pull the door after me and leave the key in it.

She has had to go to the mainland unexpectedly and apologises for not being there to say goodbye. I am concerned about leaving the house with the key dangling in the door but she assures me that I needn’t worry.

I meet the postman coming in through the gate. He has the only other yellow bicycle on the island and it has a small engine on it, which I suppose when, day in day out delivering letters and parcels up those steep hills, he is well entitled to.

Outside the gate I wait patiently until the only herd of milking cows left on the island walk by and then sail down the hill to the catch ferry, stopping on the pier to look back one last time across the semi circle of sand.

Au revoir to the village with its steep hill. To my house with the blue shutters. To the stone cottages. To the white beaches and small lane ways.

Au revoir to the fields of fennel and cauliflowers and now faded Agapanthus.

‘Simple ou return?’ The ferry lad looks surprised (or maybe slightly relieved) when I sadly reply ‘Simple’

Again he doesn’t charge me for the yellow bicycle though it has caused him more trouble than I have.

The tide is still out so once again its an easy chore to wheel my bike off the ferry and up the sloping ramp of the walk way.

The day is fine! blue skies with a scatter of clouds. I look enviously at the people with walking sticks, rug-sacks and cameras heading past me to board the ferry.

Faire Manger

The importance of lunch time in France can not be overstated.

I learnt that the hard way when cycling from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean a few years ago.

Cycling until midday, my romantic notion of stopping and buying baguette, figs, goats cheese and a small bottle of Sancerre to picnic on in the shade of some dappled-Monet-like-canal-side-tree, was soon quashed.

Shops closed for lunch from 12 until two.

On the dot and without exception.

No amount of pleading by a mad Irish woman who didn’t have a watch or a good sense of time, and always managed to arrive just as the doors of such establishments were shutting, was going to make the owner take pity and let her in. 

I went hungry for the first day or two until I began to realise the importance of these two hours.

Then one day, after again being turned away with a rumbling stomach, I spied a tiny fish restaurant on the banks of the Canal.

I was shown to a small table at the back in a dark corner.

The only other people at the restaurant, were a couple who were already eating at a prime canal side table.

Seated beneath an ancient weeping willow in the warmth of the October sun, they appeared dappled and happy and impressionist like.

Their wine glasses glinted in the light as they raised and lowered them between mouthfuls. Their contented sounding conversation drowned out only occasionally when a pretty pénichette would chug by, its wake causing the soporific ducks and swans to sway and untuck their heads momentarily in order to glare at the disturbance of their fish filled dreams.

Lucky them I thought (The couple not the birds)watching enviously from my table in the gloom.

Minutes later a group of ten arrived and immediately the couple were moved (mid mouthful) from their enviable table to a smaller one near mine and the waiters busied themselves joining the now empty table to another while the new arrivals stood patiently by.

With a flurry of white linen and the clattering of cutlery and glass, it was soon ready and the newcomers were seated.

Meanwhile the discommoded couple continued their food and wine and conversation at the lesser table.

I watched amazed

Not only did they NOT give the slightest inkling of objection at losing their scenic spot, nor any indication at the inconvenience of being interrupted mid bite, But they even smiled at the waiters as though understanding perfectly that it was not the loveliness or ambience of seating position that was important, but the priority of getting everyone fed for this imperative meal.

(Nor, I noted, was there any smugness on the part of the group who now sat installed at a wonderful table in the dappled shade.

Indeed they (the newcomers) didn’t seem in the slightest bit aware of their good fortune except to take it as though fully entitled to do so.

Nor did they show any appreciation for the loveliness of their surroundings. Instead, bending their heads low, they discussed what they would eat).

The second time I noticed the importance of lunchtime was when I took the train from Sete to Narbonne with my bicycle.

Unfortunately I chose a day when the train workers decided to stage an impromptu ‘manifestation’ (strike) .

The train stopped (and remained) at a small station and as I sat listening to the sound of rifles being shot into the air further down the tracks, the other passengers suddenly sprang from their seats and hurried down the platform to where a large crowd was gathering.

Curious as to what was happening, I followed, to see the striking station workers handing out cardboard boxes to everyone.

It was midday and yes, the world might be falling asunder, the trains not running etc, but the people had to eat lunch.

I joined the crowd and was duly handed a box.

Taking it back to my carriage I tucked into tuna pasta, a small plastic bottle of white wine,a fruit yogurt and an apple

Once I had finished and because ,though the sounds of of gunshots were fading, the train still showed no signs of moving, I removed my bicycle from its rack in the bike compartment and cycled away satisfied by my lovely lunch.

~~~~~~

Lunch time is drawing near.

The restaurant opposite the old harbour is busy.

I manage to get a small table on the terrace with just two chairs at it.

knowing from my above mentioned experiences how precious restaurant tables are at this time of day, I am aware how lucky I am.

At the table beside mine, a group of five Irish men sit with glasses of beer in front of them.

I order a glass then watch as one of the men stands up, boules in hand and steps across the low stone wall separating the terrace from the pitch.

There is a Frenchman already there (I saw him arrive on a moped when I was putting my bicycle in the rack) practicing alone. The Irish man approaches him and without noticeably speaking the pair shake hands and a game of boules begins.

It all happens so smoothly, almost fluently.

It’s obviously not the first time the Irish man has played.

Not only does he appear to know the protocol of starting a game, but he does not let us down either.

By now the beer/wine/coffee drinkers are swiveling in their seats for a better view and the odd clapping of hands and murmurs of appreciation break out.

I settle contentedly back in my chair and watch the game too.

The restaurant is getting busier. (If that is possible) I order a plate of moules mariniere and a glass of white wine

Every table is filled and I nod as someone asks if they can take the empty seat opposite me.

Another chair appears. and another.

My table for one has now become a table for four.

Though now a bit squished, I have no objection.

I understand that we are not at the one table with the expectation of becoming friends or even making small chat but rather for the importance of  ‘faire manger‘.

So after an initial ‘bon appetit’ we get down to the business in hand of enjoying our lunch!

The final hours.

The church of Sainte Barbe sits on top of a hill.

Built at the start of 17th century, it is a beautiful building, its tower reaching to the heavens.

The plaque explains that Sainte Barbe was the patron saint of sailors and that the occupants of the passing boats would salute the church in hopes for a safe voyage.

After my lunch at the busy restaurant I still have some time before I need to be at the ferry, so I sit in its shadow and pulling out my diary am busy writing the final sentences of my story when I become aware of the flow of male voices.

I can’t see the owners of this conversation as they are hidden from my view by the shrubbery, but judging from the undulation, the butting in, the interruptions, with sometimes two voices together escalating and much laughter they can only be that of friends.

As I turn around curiously to listen and try and catch what language they are speaking (Yes eavesdrop, if you will) I notice three bicycles complete with filled pannier’s leaning against a wall.

One of the bicycles is sporting an Irish flag.

The voices get louder and without a break in the conversation, three men of about my age appear around the corner.

‘Bonjour’ They greet me politely when they see me sitting there.

‘Bonjour’ I reply in my best accent intending to pretend I am french. But before I know it I’m admitting to my Irishness.

We start comparing notes.

They explain that its their first time cycling in France and only one of them (I’ll call him Tom) speaks the language and poorly at that.

They depend on his french (however poor) for asking directions when they get lost (which they seem to do frequently).

Now their story goes that Tom only knows the french word for ‘right’ (a droite) and can never remember the word for ‘left’ (a gauche) but at least he knows that one word. So when they are cycling along (Lost as per usual) and he is forced to stop and ask directions, if whoever he asks, indicates they should turn left and says ‘a gauche’, he jumps back on his bicycle, immediately forgetting the word for ‘left’ so shouts instead to the pair still cycling ahead ‘A non droite, A non droite’ (‘to the not right’) and they turn left.

Was it due to my almost non existing chance of conversation for the week on the island that makes me find their story hilarious?

Eventually after much chat we part ways arranging to continue our conversation later in the bar on the ferry but for now they off to buy wine to bring home to their wives and I am off to buy gifts for my grandchildren which I do before cycling down the hill to join the queue of cars waiting to board the ferry.

The End

 

 

 

The power of suggestion (Be afraid. Be very afraid).

Tags

bicycling, fear, food, france, helmets, high viz, hospitality, injuries, onion soup, steakfrites, watermills, wine

Once upon a time there was a girl. Well a woman really. Actually she was a grandmother.

And she was a happy optimistic person who loved doing interesting things!

Things like climbing hills in her bare feet, swimming in the sea at night and heading off on her yellow bicycle exploring.

Now she did these things mostly alone because not many people she knew were keen on swimming in the dark or they didn’t fancy stubbing their toes climbing mountains in bare feet.

As for cycling? She liked that she could choose which way and which road to take. She liked the feeling that if she was halfway down a road and decided to turn and go a different road no one would think she was odd.

And in all that time she was never ever afraid.

One day she saw an ad for a group who loved cycling.

‘Hurrah’ she thought ‘I will join this group and join other happy interesting people and read happy positive bicycley things’.

But to her sadness she discovered that even though these people LIKED to cycle most of them were very AFRAID.

They were afraid of falling off their bicycles and hurting their heads so they wore plastic helmets.

They were afraid of being invisible so they wore jackets in loud harsh colours.

They were afraid of cars so they began to dislike the people who drove them.

They were even afraid of other cyclists who went much faster than them.

The girl/woman/grandmother began to think that maybe they are right and she was wrong.

Maybe cycling wasn’t a happy thing but a scary thing and she should take more care.

So she went to the bike shop and bought a plastic helmet for her head and a bright jacket of loud harsh colours.

And the next day she went cycling down the country lanes with her helmet buckled under her chin. But soon she felt dizzy and confused and very wobbly. So wobbly that she fell into the hedge and landed on a bunch of nettles.

She got up and took off her helmet and decided it was too dangerous to wear so she put it in her front basket instead .

As she cycled on she realised something very strange. It was really really quiet. Something was missing.

‘Thats it’ she thought ‘There is no bird song’.

She was getting very hot so she took of her loud coloured high viz jacket and rolled it in a ball and put it in her bike basket.

Within minutes the birds (who had been frightened by such harsh colours) began to sing happily in the hedgerows again.

As she came around the corner she stopped just in time to avoid hitting a car approaching from the other direction on the narrow road.

She popped off her bike and began to pull it into the ditch out of the way and let the car pass.

But the driver called out through the open window ‘Its ok! There is a gate just back there I can reverse into’ and he did.

And as she cycled by he called out again ‘I envy you on your bicycle, normally I would be on mine too but I have to bring my mother for her doctors appointment’. A small frail women waved out from the passengers window at her.

When she got home she put her high viz in the bin. She put her plastic helmet in the holly bush, (Maybe a bird would make a nest in it)  and she pulled out her map of france and made a plan.

Because she knew she had been right all along.

Cycling WAS a fun and safe way to travel.

She took her pen and drew a line across the map from the atlantic to the mediterranean.

DAY THREE. THE ‘ALLO ‘ALLO CAFE’

I lay on the smooth earth beside the path and listened to the birds.

A gentle breeze rippled the grasses and near my ear a grasshopper chirped . A bee buzzed in the vines and I could smell the sweetness of the grapes.

Somewhere closeby there was the sound of rushing water.

Now and then voices would approach and a few other cyclists mostly in full regalia would zip by, calling out out a cheery ‘bon voyage’ before disappearing in a cloud of dust then all would be calm again for a while.

The drone of far off tractors, busy with the grape harvest, was soothing.

I would have loved to throw a blanket over myself and sleep here for the night.

Instead I sat up and once again examined the red rash around my swollen ankle.

I should have taken it easier, not tried to cover such a distance in one day.

My effected leg would be prone to lymphoedema and cellulitis for ever . I needed to be gentler with it.

With still another 10 kms to go before I reached a town that would possibly have a bed and breakfast I was getting worried.

Sighing I gathered myself together and decided to walk for a while. Maybe that motion would help.

As I rounded the corner I spied a gap in the hedge and hammered into the ground was a wooden sign LE MOULIN and underneath CHAMBRES D’HOTES.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I pushed the yellow bicycle through the gap and wheeled it across a large lawn, past a vast plot of ripened pumpkins and over to an enormous stone mill building whose stream was gushing and turning the mill wheel.

I leant my bike against the wall and pulled the chain at the door. The jangling echoed through the building barely audible over the sound of rushing water.

The young woman who opened the door was very apologetic ‘We are closed for the season’ she said.

I was nearly at the gap again when she caught up with me

‘Attendez’ she called breathlessly ‘Yes it is true we are closed but I have just phoned my husband who agrees if you are prepared to rise at 6 am you can stay. We are both physiotherapists in the hospital of Bordeaux and have to leave very early for work’.

I nearly kissed her. ‘Of course I will leave early It is no problem’. I explained that I was a nurse and understood and was well used to early starts.

She smiled and we went back to the mill.

My room was large with a beautiful old bed. The linen was slightly damp but I didn’t care and anyway she was wrestling with some ancient heating system.

When the loud clanking of pipes settled into a hum, she turned and before I could object whisked the old linen away and returned with fresh.

Together we made up the bed again.

‘Now for food’ she said.

I could see her brain ticking away and sorting out the list of problems methodically.

‘You will need to eat! Quelle domage but I do not do evening meals’

‘Pas de problem’ I said ‘I have some bread and cheese and fruit’

She looked at me aghast and I remembered the importance of meals to the french.

She picked up the phone, waited a minute then spoke some rapid french into the receiver.

Ok’ She looked pleased with herself ‘I have made a reservation for you for dinner in our village cafe. It is just 1 km further along the path. You can’t miss it. It is the only cafe there’.

She was right! I couldn’t miss  the cafe in the sleepy single road village.

It was where the action was. A group of noisy youths were hanging out outside.

Some leaning nonchalantly against their motor bikes.  Others strewn long legged and leather jacketed at the various tables of a small terrace .

The smell of gauloises filled the air and a pall of smoke hung over their handsome faces. And I had forgotten my bicyle lock!

I looked at them anxiously ‘Quelle jolie velo’ One cried as he sauntered over to check out the yellow bike.

‘Are you engliiish’? He asked, hunkering down to examine the painting on the skirt guard.

‘No I am Irish’ I said uncertain of their friendliness.

‘Aw Luke kelly’ shouted another.

I smiled.

A woman appeared at the door of the cafe.

Dyed blond curly hair swept up into a towering bouffant. A gash of scarlet lipstick slashed across her mouth from which dangled a cigarette.  Her eyes were lined with kohl and her cheeks heavily rouged. But it was her dress that drew my eye! Leopard skin print and as tight and as short as possible and on top of this she was managing to balance on the highest of high heel shoes.

She inhaled deeply on the cigarette then throwing the but onto the road smiled at me.

‘Entrez’ She ordered

I looked from my bicycle back to her in panic.

The youths seeing my face, burst out laughing. One put his hands to his heart in a mock dramatic fashion ‘Your velo, it is safe with us’.

Inside the cafe it was dark and gloomy.

A row of large bottomed men in blue overalls sat at the bar.

They turned in unison to look at me as I entered.

‘Bonsoir’ I mumbled  and they nodded dourly and turned back to their wine.

Two were smoking .

I smiled to myself and thought ‘only in france’.

(The smoking ban was well installed all over europe at this stage).

A large dog lay at their feet, asleep.

There was a single round plastic table and a chair over at the window with one place set.

Madame Leopard pulled out the chair and indicated I should sit.

I was afraid to do otherwise.  She disappeared and I began to relax.

Within seconds she was back and plonked a large carafe of red wine in front of me, a piece of rough bread and a bowl of soup.

‘Bon appetit’ She smiled and disappeared through a door behind the bar.

I poured a glass of wine and sniffed it. Even I could tell it was a good bordeaux.

As I raised the glass to my lips, the men again swung round in unison and raised theirs ‘Sante’ they called out.

‘Sante’ I replied and sipped my glass.

Then I dipped my spoon into the bowl none too enthusiastically.

Brown is not the most appetizing looking colour for a soup but the taste was out of this world and I realised what it was.

Authentic french onion soup!

So delicious it was that I ate every scrap and used a bit of bread to wipe my bowl clean.

Madame leopard must have been watching because the minute I swallowed the last morsel of bread, she appeared at my elbow and whisked the empty bowl away.

The dog opened an eye and watched disappointedly as she went by.

Within seconds she was back again.

This time it was a large plate piled high with rice, vegetables and pieces of fish and shrimp.

‘Manger’ she instructed as she plonked the plate in front of me and after refilling my glass she disappeared behind the bar with the carafe where I could see her refilling it.

Half way through the rice dish I was defeated and lent back on my chair relaxing with my third or was it my fourth glass of bordeaux.

Again she was at my elbow to whisk away my half empty dish and again the dog opened an eye and lifted his head.

This time she leant down and scraped the remains of my plate into a bowl.

The dog lumbered to his feet and within seconds was licking the bowl clean then his jowls before lying down again with a satisfying sigh.

I couldn’t believe it when she reappeared at my elbow once more.

Steak frites! Oh dear!

But the wine was making me brave and I lifted my knife and fork with steely determination.

I didn’t fare too badly but again the dog was in luck.

Coffee and tarte aux pommes were nearly the undoing of me.

I couldn’t move but eventually heaving myself off the chair with difficulty, I rolled to the bar to settle the bill.

‘Si delicieux’ I patted my tummy in case she didn’t understand my poor french.

She beamed from ear to ear.

‘Combien’? I asked politely.

The men looked up from their glasses with interest.

She thought for a few moments before shrugging in that very french way, her scarlet lips pursed around a lighted cigarette,

As the smoke coiled up to the ceiling, we waited with bated breath for her verdict.

‘Huit euro’ she replied at last. Eight euro! The men nodded as though agreeing that this was a fair price.

I took out a ten euro note and a five and put it on the counter.

‘Merci bien et au revoir’ I waved, teetering down the steps.

Outside it was dark, the youths were gone but of course my yellow bicycle was still there.

FIN.

.

The Power of attraction: This story is for you Mom.

Tags

caravans, connemara, fishing, knitting, mackerel, power of attraction, snorkelling, wine, writers

Let me get this right! Everything I got (or didn’t get) everything good (or bad) that has happened to me, I brought on myself by the power of attraction. The reason I don’t win the Lotto to buy my little cottage in the west is not because the chance of choosing the correct numbers is one in eight million but because deep down I don’t think I’m worthy of having such a place. that is if the theory of the power of attraction is anything to go by.

And I do believe there is an element of truth in it so give me a second while I try and banish those unworthy thoughts from my head. If I really want to that is ….

~

My mother is a great believer in the power of attraction but she has another name for it.

She simply calls it ‘coincidences’.

You think about something and it happens.

She often spoke of writing a book about her coincidences but maybe her love of reading took up the time she could have spent writing.

So when I speaking to her on the phone today I told her I would write about one that I remembered her telling us about.

It took place maybe sixteen years ago

Picture this: My Mom, a plump woman with rosy cheeks, hair wrapped around her head in two plaits and my Dad, who would have been at the early stages of the chronic illness that killed him in the end (renal failure) with his colourful woolly hat (my mother was a wonderful knitter, another reason for her not to have time to write) covering his white hair.

They are sitting together in their little two berth caravan perched as near to the sea as they can physically get away with without toppling into the water, in the middle of nowhere on a sunny summers eve.

The reason they are inside is it has been an incredible day for the west of Ireland and they are trying to escape the heat.

They have the front window open as high as it can go, a bit like the serving window of a chipper van, and a cool evening breeze is coming in off the sea.

My dad has his binoculars out and is watching a boat making its way slowly across the bay.

Mom is relaxing back, eyes closed, listening drowsily to his running commentary.

‘For gods sake they all have life jackets on. How can you enjoy a spin out in a boat encumbered with a hot life jacket, complete eejits’ My dad was well used to boats.

He could swim and was not afraid of the water and we eight children who spent our days with him rowing him around various lakes, never wore life jackets either and none of us were ever lost to the water.

‘Louis’ my mom said mildly, rousing herself from her stupor ‘Everyones different,  after all’ she continued smiling ‘Not many men think your boat snorkel trick normal’.

My dad had made a habit of rowing himself out into the middle of the bay, pulling in the oars, putting on a mask and snorkel and sticking his head underwater so that he could watch fish and hermit crabs, textures of seaweed and all other manner of things that snorkelers snorkel for without getting the rest of himself wet.

A bizarre and alarming sight for anyone on the beach to behold, as one end of the dingy and my fathers arse would be way up in the air.

‘I think my snorkeling method is ingenious’ He sniffed.

My dad did not like to be laughed at.

‘Have it your own way but remember you could be dead with your head hanging in the water, and I wouldn’t have a clue’ my mother was struggling to squeeze out of the small space between the seat and the table.

‘Well’ my father retorted ‘what difference would it make then, you wouldn’t be able to swim that far to save me, and I always wanted to die at sea anyway’

‘I’m going to make some tea’  My mother for ever the peacemaker, did not rise to the bait, but busied herself lightening the tiny gas stove and filling the kettle from the water can by the door.

Dad put down his binoculars and started to complete a fly he was tying and Mom picked up her book ‘The green cockatrice’ and settled herself on the seat while waiting for the kettle to boil.

Peace reigned again in their little home broken only by the throb of the boat engine and my mothers interested noises as she turned the pages.

I should mention here that my parents made this journey every year, usually with a string of us in tow, a larger caravan and an assortment of tents and boats and whatever family pet was in vogue at the time. (I was once fooled when encouraged to bring my large family of pet mice along and some mouse hating member of the family let them loose in a field never to be found again. Such trickery was common in my family)

This was the first year my fathers precious but ancient volvo estate would pull the two berth caravan purchased for just the two of them.

They did the five hour journey in just under two days. Driving along at a snails pace looking at this and that, delighted for once to be without their unruly brood.

They camped the night on the side of the road at the ballinahinch lakes. Two elderly fragile people with not much between them and the elements and with no fear in their hearts.

But back to the caravan

‘We should really go to the shops’ My mom sighed as the kettle began to boil loudly. She was rooting in a cupboard. ‘

‘We’ve only got the brown bread I made this morning (the caravan had a small oven, My Dad would only eat homemade bread) and butter! There might be an egg. Its really too nice an evening to go anywhere by car’.

My dad finished winding the silver thread around the head of the fly and snipped the last knot with a flourish and began packing away his fly tying equipment.

‘I’m too tired to go up’ He stretched lazily ‘But what I wouldn’t give now for a glass of red wine’

‘And a few mackerel to go with the bread’ My mom was feeling hungry now.

With that a hand appeared through the open window, waving a bottle of red wine, the hand was swiftly followed by a smiling face.

‘May! Louie!’ A voice called ‘Woohoo anyone at home?’

My dad nearly jumped out of his trousers with fright but my mom recognised the face and gave a shout of pleasure  ‘Eithne! how are you? how did you get here?, we didn’t hear a car?’

‘Oh’ Eithne leaned in and plonked the bottle of wine on the table. ‘We came over in our new boat, we have some Mackerel too, Bob’s just cleaning them down at the shore’.

She nodded her head towards the sea where a figure was bent over a bucket and a flock of seagulls were jostling for space nearby.

‘This is unbelievable’ said my mom ‘Louis and I were just saying how we would love some wine and mackerel and here you are with both’

She stood shaking her head in disbelief as my dad scooted out from behind the tiny table and rooted in a cupboard for the bottle opener and some glasses,

‘What a coincidence’ her face was almost split in two with the widest of smiles.

Wait’ll, I open the door for you’ She shimmied past her husband and headed to the other end of the caravan.

When she opened the caravan door there was an elderly woman standing beside Eithne.

‘This is Elizabeth Hickey, she is a writer’ Eithne introduced the silver haired woman to my mother

‘Come in and sit down, apologies for the smallness of space’ My Mom lifted her book out of the way and let the two women slide along the seat.

By this time My dad had not only glasses and bottle opener on the table but plates and knives and forks as well.

‘I must tell you about that book in a minute’ My mom had seen Elizabeth eyeing it curiously.

Within minutes Bob arrived up with the cleaned mackerel and the four were sitting around the table sipping wine, chatting and nibbling at my mothers freshly baked bread while my mother stood frying the mackerel fillets in butter.

Chat and laughter and the glorious smell of freshly fried fish drifted out of the open caravan window as my mother slid the last of the fillets onto a plate. Then sitting down herself on a stool at the end of the table she joined the vibrant conversation interspersed with sounds of delighted munching and slurping of wine.

My dad raised his glass ‘To boats and the sea and rescues by friends’

‘Yes good friends and camping and wine’ Bob added.

‘To fishermen and writers’ Eithne raised her glass too and they all clinked companionably.

‘Oh Speaking of writers’ My mother lifted up the book from where she had shoved it out of the way.

She turned to the woman on her left.

‘Elisabeth, this is a most fascinating book. Are you are interested in History?’ She held up the book for her neighbour to see.’ Its about the  theory of how Shakespeare may well have been an Irishman, incredible stuff’.

Eithne, about to take a sip of wine, exploded with laughter into her glass instead.

‘What?’ My Mom and Dad looked puzzled. ‘Whats so funny’?

Eithne wiped her eye’s

‘You’re talking to the Author’ She said at last when she had managed finally to catch her Breath.

My Mom’s mouth fell open in disbelief ‘That can’t be’ she said.

She looked from Eithne to Elizabeth, her mouth still open.

‘Three coincidences on the same day? Impossible! Anyway look!  Its written by someone called Basil Iske’

‘Basil Iske is my pseudonym’ Elizabeth Hickey smiled.

Maybe My Mom fell off the stool at that point, maybe they all fell off their seats laughing at her amazement.

She continued to tell this story for many years afterwards.

It is her favourite mainly because though she had many more coincidental incidences she never again had so many on the same day or in a more beautiful place.

THE END

http://www.amazon.com/The-green-cockatrice-Basil-Iske/dp/B007F71V5E

The middle of nowhere where my parents loved to head to with or without their large brood.

Broaching the bread (and meeting good friends)

Tags

bread, dreams, drink, friends, restuarants, stories, the sea, wine

DEFINITION: to bring up or introduce a sensitive issue/subject.

So here I am, broaching the bread!

A fine loaf it is too might add.

And this is how it happened.

I was woken the other morning from an oddly lucid dream where I was swimming in a night sea searching for my purse which I had left for safe keeping on the back of a sleeping dolphin.

I often have dreams filled with animal content.

Mostly they are related to the sky where I am flying with eagles.

In fact my flying dreams are my most vivid and prolific.

If I was to go by them, I am quite a successful flyer, being a dab hand at managing the difficult stage of getting off the ground in the first place.

Did you know that if you manage to get up even a few feet (and boy do you have to work hard at that, pushing strenuously against the air with both arms held loosely but closely by your sides and all the work being in your wrist and hand movement) that the next bit is easier?

Sadly most people give up too soon and fall flat on the ground and never try again.

Its when you get up above those few feet that you can confidently level out and start catching air currents and having fun.

But back to this dream.

It occurred to me that I needed some money and my train ticket.

But I couldn’t find my dolphin.

I passed some sharks, of whom for some reason I felt no fear of, and one large whale who laughed at me and told me the dolphin would surely have lost my purse by now. Again I did not feel it bizarre that a whale could talk plus I was convinced that dolphins, being of a conscientious nature, would mind my purse carefully.

I was beginning to get cold in the water and was thrashing around in circles when I heard the call of some seagulls.

Their cries woke me and the sea and its creatures disappeared but the cries persisted and I recognised it as the message tone of my mobile phone.

I groped for it in the dark and in doing so realised my duvet was on the floor and I was freezing.

Now we are told for best sleeps we should not have TV’s, digital apparatus including mobile phones etc in our bedrooms.

But as I don’t have a TV, I reckon my phone, which I use as an alarm clock, is small fry in comparison to the amount of digitalia others possess.

I hide it under a book and thanks also to my blackout curtains, I sleep like a hibernating frog.

Rooting further about in the dark I knock over my glass of water.

Lets hope it doesn’t drip into the apartment below.

I have already been told off by this lady for letting water from my runner beans and courgettes growing on my balcony drip down onto her sunloungers.

A handful of fresh beans and two courgettes and all was forgiven.

For now.

At last my hand closes successfully around my phone and I squint sleepily at the illuminated screen.

Have you broached the bread yet? the message reads.

I smile, my head too fuzzy from a hangover to reply yet.

I get up and tiptoe into the kitchen in barefeet.

The bread is lying unwrapped of its tinfoil and cloth covering, looking perfectly browned with three slits on the top crust.

I notice a piece missing towards the back.

Fuddled memories seep slowly through my foggy brain.

The first is of nearly falling asleep on the train home but managing to hold on to my precious package even though I let my bag slide off my knee twice and strew its contents on the floor.

The next is of unlocking my bicycle at the station and continuing my drunken journey home by bike in the darkness, holding the still warm bread to my chest and battling against the fierce squalling wind.

The third is wrestling with tinfoil and tea towel in my kitchen and hungrily tearing a lump off soft sweet bread with crust attached and devouring it.

‘About to commence the broaching!’  I texted back.

‘Keep me informed… oh and hows the head?’  came the reply

‘T’will be all the better for the bread’

I filled my small orange saucepan with water for the poaching of an egg.

A pot of green tea was added to the occasion and soon my hangover was a thing of the past.

There is a lot to be said about a good loaf.

There is also a lot to be said about good friends.

Especially when the meeting is in a french restaurant with plenty of good food and even better wine and where the waiter knows to keep all coming as he understands the importance of old acquaintances meeting up after many years.

There are none of those interruptions that occur just as you were getting to the interesting bit of the story. That ‘And how was your food?’ ”shite” that you sometimes get from young waitresses in more pretentious establishments.

He knows his food is the best and if he is annoyed at the fact that we three women chatted endlessly and swiped food from each others plates he also understood that his wine is of a high percentage and it was easy for the female of the species to lose the run of themselves.

So he let the mixing of frites and rice, chicken and steak and the fact that we used our fingers in the pinching go un reprimanded.

Later, having downed coffee to keep us upright, we staggered out across the road to a small pub by the olympia theatre whose ceiling, where not held up by black fabric, was tanned by the cigarette smoke of a thousand actors from bygone days.

We were on the hard stuff now.

Brandy and ginger, vodka and coke, gin and tonic.

The stuff of the loosening of memories.

Our stories came hard and fast and without censorship.

Our lives, the fortunes and misfortunes. The worries. The concerns. The good times. The lesson learnt.

Divulged glass by glass.

Broached without shame.

A woman in high heels much more the worse for wear than we, tottered past towards the toilets and only by good fortune made it without keeling over.

We smiled at each other.

Who were we we to judge.

We hadn’t stood up yet.

On parting we hugged and promised not to leave it so long the next time and Angela slipped a warm bag into my hand.

‘A gift ‘ She said.

I hugged it to my chest, the aroma of fresh bread made me hungry, the warmth made me content.

I waved goodbye to their parting figures and made my way homewards.

THE END.