Can’t see the sea for the Agapanthus Day 3 (Resisting that plate of nuns farts)

Tags

A viking ship, beaches, camera, chablis, french pasteries, Ile de Batz, Mary Stuart Queen of Scots, oncologist, painting, Royal Galleons, the yellow bicycle, wells, writing

It is my second morning waking in the house of the blue shutters and I am up at cockcrow.

I didn’t sleep too well as I feel there is a nightly presence in the house whom I have disturbed.

But no time for that now.

I don’t bother with the view.

I know the boats will be slumbering in their usual fashion. I am up earlier than yesterday and high tide will be about an hour later so nothing can have changed that much.

But as I rush out the gate and around the corner and lean the yellow bicycle against the wall of the not yet opened boulangerie, I feel a pang of shame that my fear of being too late for a pastry is making me presume my morning view will be the same as yesterday!

What if this is the morning a viking boat sails into the bay?

Or four Galleons.

On the morning of August 13th in the year 1548 the people of Roscoff, on the opposite side of the bay, woke to see such a sight.

Four French Galleons dropping anchor.

One of these was the ‘Royal Galleon’ belonging to the King of France and it was carrying a very important person.

At only five and a half years of age Mary Stuart was already Queen of Scotland and was now engaged to be married to the heir apparent to the french throne, The Dauphin, Francois II.

The Galleon had carried her from her home in Dumbarton near Glasgow and, avoiding the English fleet, landed safely after an apparent rough crossing.

The next morning the people of Roscoff gathered again to watch as the small boat containing their future queen, her four handmaidens (all also called Mary and all also only five and a half years of age) , their housekeeper and their nanny, pulled up at the slipway from where they proceeded to the church to give thanks for a safe crossing.

 

The sound of the boulangerie door being unlocked brings me back to the present. I may have missed some excitement in the bay but nothing as exciting as being first in the queue.

‘Bonjour Madame’

‘Bonjour’.

~~~

As Madam pops the still warm pain au raisin into a bag, she looks back over her shoulder to regard me, one eyebrow raised, hand still hovering over the heap of cinnamon smelling pastries and enquires ‘Deux?’

I dither.

There are more than two hills on the island. At least four I would think, and I remember my calculation!

Two hills = one french pastry!

I feel the now gathering queue shifting restlessly behind me.

‘Hold on! I’m not delaying things with idle chat like you lot did yesterday’ but of course I don’t say this out loud (I wouldn’t have enough knowledge of french to anyway)

So I nod.

‘Deux pain au raisin s’il vous plaît’

My accent is improving

‘Et une baguette’ I add (remembering that ‘Baguette’ is feminine)

‘Une seulement’? she calls back over her shoulder as she plucks one baguette from the basket in which the deliciously crispy breads stand upright. She remains poised.

Again the queue shifts

‘Qui…. une.’ I nod.

‘C’est tout?’ Madam enquires, She is back at the till, holding my order in one hand whilst the fingers of the other hover over the keys. She senses my weakness and is still not convinced I am finished.

My eyes scan the delicious treats in the glass case in front of me.

Brioche a téte, Pain au chocolate, Clafoutis aux cerises, Chausson aux pommes, Tarte Breton, Tartes aux fraises, Tarte Tatin, Tarte au citron, Far Breton. Laid out neatly in mouthwatering rows

Oh and look! a plate of Pet de Nonne (literally translated as ‘the nun’s fart’) a sort of small chocolate covered profiterole which I adore.

But my oncologist is also there looming in the impatient queue, his fictional presence more powerful than her real one.

I drag my eyes away.

‘Oui….c’est tout’ I reply firmly.

~

So Day two of my day on the Island and I’m once again pushing the yellow bicycle up the steep hill though not as far this time.

This time I have managed to cycle about one quarter way up to the supermarket before the hill proves to steep and I have to dismount.

Once more I am on my way to buy my filling for my picnic baguette.

Did I really eat all the Camembert yesterday AND finish the whole bottle of sancerre? (Four hills equals one Camembert. 12 kilometres equals a bottle of white wine)

I am well within the perimeters and breath easily.

This time I buy some brie instead and a piéce de saucisse and a bottle of Chablis.

Then with my shopping complete I take a different route, no map needed.

I am getting a sense of this Island.

I always dreamed of living the rest of my life in a small cottage by the sea where I would spend my days writing, painting and tending the garden.

I always imagined it would be in the west of Ireland but I actually found it here on Ile de Batz.

At the end of a small gravel road which heads north west from the village, I come on a small blue shuttered cottage. The sea in front of it, a sheltering hill behind, It is built in a place of complete perfection.

I would willingly give up one years supply of pet de nonnes for it

Unfortunately someone has found it before me and I know that even if they loved these small profiteroles as much as I did they would not part with it.
I sigh sadly but then I see something that cheers me up!

A small sandy track leading on passed the house. Immediately my sense of exploration takes over and without further ado I’m off again, pushing my bicycle along it as it winds up and around a rocky headland. I am now approaching the ‘wild’ end of the island.

And I find the perfect place to sit and have my picnic.

And its while having this picnic that I meet Regine (I could have used her real name as she will hardly read my blog for when we talked about computers her face took on such a look of disdain it led me to presume she is not in favor of using them. Instead she pulls out a small note book from her pocket which is filled with the neatest painstakingly tiny writing and proceeds to slowly add the name Stephanie and a description of the yellow bike using, I note, the older bicyclette rather than the newer word Velo.)

It is hard to tell her age but I would imagine she is about 65.

She has dyed blond sholder lenght hair and bright blue mascara and is wearing a frock. An ancient Pentax camera hangs round her neck and she has a small faded rugsack on her back. She is here for two weeks, walking and taking numerous photos with her vintage camera. Her sentences are filled with such words as incroyable, formidable, fantasique, fabuleux which she pronounces slowly emphasising each syllable

She is intrigued and delighted with the yellow bicycle

‘Is it your mothers?’ she asks excitedly

I tell her its not and go on to explain that though it looks rusty it is actually not that old, just has spent too much time at the sea.

She looks so disappointed that wished I had lied to her.

‘Are you sure it isn’t your mothers’? she is circling  it reverently as she points her camera this way and that at it.

She stops to run her hand along the rim of the basket.

‘Incroyable’ She exclaims.

The day is wearing on. we talk some more and then I make my excuses. I still have a swim to fit in and I had passed a well on the small beach with stone steps leading down to it, which I wanted to go back and get a better look at.

She waves goodbye

‘A toutes alore’

Yes I suppose I will see her again. The island is too small not to.

As a cloud passes over the sun, I pass a group of old men playing boules in the middle of the road.

‘Bonsoir Madame’

‘Bonsoir’

A woman whizzes down towards them on an old moped, face wrinkled by the sun and hair dyed bright auburn, helmet-less, a cigarette hanging from her lower lip which is a slash of bright red.  Leaving behind a trail of petrol fumes mixed with the smell of Gauloise’s .

I pass the now familiar windows as I head home to my blue shuttered house.

 

I am beginning to feel part of the island.

To be continued…….

The year of the cockerel

Tags

cottage, goats, writing, painting, bicycle, west of Ireland, cockerel, pine trees, battles, briars, morris minor

Me, before ‘The year of the cockerel’ when I looked neat and tidy and also kept a tidy rick of turf.

During the years I lived in the west of Ireland many animals came my way.

Hen’s, goats, horses, ponies and dogs and I learnt something from them all.

Most lived out their natural life with me, but a few didn’t.

One such a beast was a large and colorful cockerel of brilliant hue and savage temperament.

He first arrived in the innocent guise of a helpless fluffy chick and thus fooled me completely.

Being the only male in a clutch of females, his mother spoiled him and though this saved him in his youth (the fox that got his mother and the rest of his siblings probably didn’t dare tackle him) it was the undoing of him later.

Initially he grew up like any unruly teenager but I should’ve guessed by his arrogant gait and half strangled sounding crow as he strutted around the front garden that he spelt trouble.

Unfortunately I didn’t recognise the signs.

The cottage I was living in at the time,  was up a long narrow lane well away from the village. It was the typical three roomed cottage of the area though it had an add on bathroom and kitchen out the back.

The original thatch was long gone and a corrugated roof stood in its place.

At the front, a small lawn, dotted here and there with apple trees, (the very ones the goats in my previous tale attempted to climb) lay and beyond that a stand of conifers whose purpose was to act as a shelter belt.

It was on the top of the tallest of these trees that ‘the bucko’ would roost, crowing at an unearthly hour and viewing his domain with a mean eye.

To the right of the cottage was an open turf shed in which lay a heap of neatly stacked turf (my work) and an untidy pile of wood, some already chopped for kindling, some still awaiting the blow of the large axe which stood at the ready embedded in a block of timber.

A clothesline, strung from one end of the shed to the other, was handy for hanging washing on on rainy days.

Back towards the lane, another strip of grass with a second washing line, strung between two tall scots pines, ran. These tree’s with their tall red colored trunks were quite ancient and stately and I had placed a chair under one of them making it my favorite place to sit.

For the first while, I lived a peaceful existence there. The only sounds were the odd maaaa of the goats, the bird song, the wind in the tree’s and the early morning call of the cockerel whose crow, I noted, grew louder and more raucous as he grew larger.

Being new to the area and not knowing many people other than my sister, who lived a couple of miles away, I had few visitors and I spent my days happily reading, painting, writing, working to clear the garden and gathering herbage for the goats.

It was a halcion life.

But not for long.

One fine sunny day while stretching up to peg washing on the line, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye.

It was probably my new ‘peripheral vision and extra sensitivity to sudden movement technique’ I had learned from keeping goats, that saved me and I ducked just as the cockerel launched himself, spurs extended, at my head.

As I did, I picked up the long stick that acted as the line prop and gave him an almighty thwack before abandoning my washing and running for the house.

I heard him gather himself with a flurry of ruffled feathers as he prepared for a second attack but I had made it through the door just in time.

Looking back I felt that if I had stood my ground at that first attack he would have learnt who was the boss and we could have continued to live together in harmony.

But instead I caught my breath and looked out the window to see him disdainfully picking up my underwear in his beak, tossing it into the air and trampling it in the grass.

Then he strutted away fluffing and shaking out his colorful feathers before flying back up into the conifers.

It was obviously his way of declaring war and I had already lost the first battle.

From that moment on whenever I went outside, I carried a broom to defend myself.

And while his method was to lie low and wait until my guard was down before attacking, mine was purely of defence.

As the days passed every tree and shrub became an object of potential danger. (I never knew what he would be hiding behind) my beautiful scots pine was no longer a place to sit and relax under.

My once favorite chair now lay desolate on its side (the result of a particularly fierce battle one afternoon) the grass growing up through its arms.

I even kept my bicycle inside as it became one of his choice places to launch an attack from.

He had cleverly recognised its strategic importance. After all without my bicycle I couldn’t cycle for more rations to keep my strength up.

I still worked in the garden though as I always had a tool at hand.

The sight of a hoe or rake or spade, prevented him from trying anything. Instead he would just perch on the gate, glaring at me, every now and then emitting an ear piercing crow which, like the baying of the hounds of the baskervilles, instilled cold fear into my soul and sent shivers down my spine.

My garden began to suffer.  Vegetables planted with stressed quaking hands do not flourish well.

By now I was rapidly losing ground. (His domain from apple tree outward was expanding whilst mine was ever retreating towards the house.)

He began playing with me mentally. There would be a day or two of no attacks, of no crowing from the height of the conifer as though a ceasefire had been declared  but as I was always on edge during these silences, his ominous non appearance was psychologically worse than his attacks

Sometimes he chose to do battle in the open.

Like a duel, with pistols at dawn, we would face each other. He armed with his beak and spurs , me with my broom.

With glorious rainbow colored hackles raised and one wing spread wide, he would advance in a sideward movement, the spread wing sweeping the ground, dragging pieces of gravel with it, making a rattling machine gun like sound, while his small, mean, calculating eye remained fixed on mine.

And I would stand, holding the handle of the broom firmly in both hands, taking the the stance of a samurai warrior and we would glare at each other for some time, neither of us breaking eye contact as the minutes ticking by.

Other times he circled, forcing me to spin around which made so dizzy that when he did attack I could only flail my implement in windmill fashion giving the appearance of one being attacked by a swarm of bees.

When the battle was starting into its third week my sister came to call.

Pulling up at the door, she preceded to hop out of her little brown morris minor.

‘Watch out!’ I shouted. But too late!

Himself had been lying in wait.

‘What the?…’  my sister shouted as he launched himself at her over the open car door.

I pulled her inside to safety just in time.

As we clutched each other catching our breaths she looked at me in horror.

‘What ever happened to YOU? you look a fright!’

I glanced at myself in the mirror behind her.

My cheeks were streaked with grime, my eyes red and wild, my hair looked as though I had been scrambling through a briar patch (I probably had).

Sitting her down with a cup of tea I told her my story.

‘What ridiculous nonsense!’ she said as I finished my tale.

‘Imprisoned in your own home by a BIRD! I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you for so long. You haven’t cycled over for two weeks. I was getting worried.’

Two weeks! I couldn’t believe it. My days and nights had blended into one long nightmare. I had no idea of the passing of time.

I hung my head in shame admitting that it was indeed ridiculous but she was no longer listening to me.

Instead she leapt up off her chair, marched out the door and headed confidently towards the turf shed.

There, she kicked aside a few clods of turf (my turf rick was no longer tidy as I often had to use the sods as hand ammunition) and pulling the axe out of its timber block, swung it over her head in one hand as she approached the cockerel, who was now lurking in an not so brazen manner behind the scots pine.

I watched the evolving scene through the window, heart in mouth, fearing for her safety. But I needn’t have worried! He, sensing that he had met his match, took flight and half running, half flying, cleared the barbwire fence and took off across the fields, my sister after him.

And that was last I ever saw of him.

But the picture of their silhouettes against the evening sky, disappearing over the brow of the far off hill, himself with his neck stretched, wings flapping madly, my sister with the axe aloft, gaining ground, will be forever imprinted on my mind.

The end

‘The Bucko’ in his heyday.

 

 

 

A barge, A yurt and whatever you are having yourself.

Tags

camping., caravans, connemara, fishing, painting, tramps, travellers, writing

A friend of mine lives in a small cul de sac of pretty red bricked houses at the end of which is a well mowed green area watched over by an ancient larch tree.

It is a rather grand part of town. The houses are well maintained with manicured gardens and wisteria trailing artfully around the doors.

Recently she told me of how an old man had arrived and standing under the tree eased his bag off his shoulders.

He then proceeded to unpack some rolled up cardboard and spread it onto the ground. On top of the cardboard he carefully placed a large piece of tin foil and finally a sleeping bag which had no zip.

Watched with curiosity and maybe slight alarm from behind the french lace curtains of the various windows, he eased off his shoes and then his socks which he hung carefully over the lower branches of the great tree.

No one approached him and he whistled a merry tune as he went about his business.

Daylight faded and so did the interest of the residents of the cul de sac, plus they were the polite type who didn’t like to cause a scene.

All the same, they double checked their locks that night.

The man, I shall call him a tramp not because he had a long beard and his coat looked as though it needed a good wash but because the word ‘tramp’ to me means someone who spends his life walking, an admirable trait, had a small dog with him. A terrier of sorts.

And the last thing he did before he lay down for the night on his makeshift bed was to tie the dog’s leash around his ankle. The dog then curled up happily at the foot of his master.

The idea of this last manoeuvre was presumably if approached at night the dog would jump up barking and in doing so alert the man.

The night passed peacefully and in the morning the tramp was, once again, watched with interest as he placed another piece of tinfoil on the ground . This, my friend told me, he filled with twigs and a few cones from the tree, which he then lit and when he had a nice hot fire going, he placed a battered old pan on it and proceeded to fry up a load of rashers and sausages.

Thats where he made his mistake!

That’s when he passed the unspoken acceptance barrier.

A makeshift bed on the ground is one thing, but a fire means a home and a sign of settling in and the good people of the well to do area, though prepared to turn a blind eye to an overnight stay, could not tolerate anything that looked more permanent!

By the time he had finished his fry (half of which he shared with his dog) the guards had arrived. and he was ‘moved along’.

‘Do you know who reported him?’ I asked my friend.

She shrugged ‘Probably one of the men. I’d say it’s a long time since a fried rasher was allowed in any of houses round here, their wives watch their cholesterol like  hawks. they were probably jealous!’

I thought a lot about the tramp and which was the most undignified thing for him. Sleeping in the open, or the indignity of being hustled along by the guards?.

I’d imagine the latter.

The next time I was invited for coffee, I stood for a while under the tree and wondered what would happen if I, a normally dressed person, slept under it for the night and made my coffee on a small fire in the morning. Would  the guards be called or would I be left in peace?

‘Don’t you dare’ my friend laughed over coffee when she saw the gleam in my eye.

There are many places I would love to live in before I die, and though under a tree is not one of them, there are a few near enough (once when coming through a park I noticed a very cosy clump of laurels that had a dry circle of earth in the center underneath the canopy of glossy leaves and the thought struck me momentarily that if I got locked in the park by mistake I’d have a good place to sleep for the night).

To those of you interested , here is my list of appealing abodes: A yurt, a barge, a tree house(though i’m getting a bit too old for scaling a rope ladder) a vintage caravan.

I often wonder if their is a bit of traveller* in my blood, but, coming from norman stock, that is highly unlikely.

We were trampers of sorts. With our sturdy legs we traipsed uncomplaining across England, stopping for a while near oxfordshire before arriving and settling in royal meath and becoming ‘more irish than the irish themselves’

Though….

When my second youngest sister was getting married, the reception was held in an country house hotel in connemara.

Right on the sea.

The hotel and church was far from Dublin, and we, being Peppards, saw the opportunity of making a weekend of it and mass booked the rooms.

As we queued at the reception to register and get our keys, a conversation was overheard between my mother and the receptionist;

My Mother (gazing round at the foyer) ‘ oh such a lovely place you have here’

The receptionist leaning over her desk confidently ‘it is indeed! but a bit shabby, needs a bit of refurbishment’

My mother( regarding the comfy old couches surrounding a fire) ‘Oh no I wouldn’t touch it. It’s gorgeous as it is’.

Then equally confidingly she leans forward and says ‘we’re used to the caravan you know’

The receptionists eyebrows shot up under her fringe! ‘Goodness is this a travellers wedding?’ she asked

My mother needless to say was horrified…….

I better add here that my parents loved to head away in their little caravan to connemara where my father would fish and paint watercolours of the various lakes and rivers they camped at, and my Mother would knit and read to her heart’s content.

A sort of traveller’s life I suppose you could call it.

the end

*Traveller; https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Travellers

‘MELODIOUS IS THE SHUT MOUTH’ (an old Irish saying)

Tags

listening, neolithic sites, silence, st patrick, vascular surgery, writing

(In search of sacred sites in The Burren Co Clare)

Its early morning!

After three long shifts at the hospital, my body craves a lie on, but my mind has other idea’s.

I am up with the birds.

I’ve been seperated from my writing for those three days and I miss it.

Its my therapy, my relaxation, my saving grace.

So, with an espresso at my elbow and the sun climbing higher, I turn on my laptop.

The yellow bicycle leans disappointedly against the fireplace.

As usual I don’t have any story planned, I just see where my mind and fingers will take me.

I let my thoughts flow and start typing..

Today is St patricks day. Our national holiday. Though it started of course away before himself. In ancient celtic times or even before that again.

Newgrange, Loughcrew, the hill of Tara, Knocknarea, Carrowkeel, Creevykeel, carrowmore, Poulnabrone!

I am just pulling a few out of my head.

Portal tombs , passage tombs, standing stones, ring forts, passage graves.

http://www.megalithicireland.com/

What better places to go to and sit and contemplate in and draw energy from on our national day.

Some rather the street parties, the parades, the carnivals, the music and the crowds and there are times when I enjoy those things. But don’t think me odd when I choose something away from all that.

Its just that I’m recovering from the hectic people oriented place that is my work and needing some quiet time to recover before heading back into the fray again in a couple of days time.

And it is not in defiance of St Patrick (a good and holy man I am sure) that I am drinking italian coffee.

And as the cupboard is looking bleak and I am loath to start the day with a shopping trip, breakfast will be noodles with soy sauce and sesame oil.

A far cry from traditional porridge or a full irish breakfast.

There are no traffic noises yet.

The birds are singing enthusiastically. I can identify the sound of the blackbird and a robin. A small sparrow lands on my balcony but scares himself with his reflection in my window and takes off again with a frightened twitter.

Over the sound of these smaller birds, a large black crow croaks.

I wonder if it is my friend. The one with the twisted beak.

I am partial to crows and other members of this family.

They are sociable beings, plus they have the honesty or maybe it is impertinence to look you in the eye.

I like that about them.

I always greet them on passing, don’t ask me why.

I find myself doing that a lot with wild animals lately.

‘Hello fox’ I say, when I pass him or her on my early morning cycle for my train.

‘Goodmorning Mr Jackdaw’ I call to a scruffy one sitting on the fence.

‘Be careful’ I remind the flock of finches as they swoop low over the ground.

‘Wow Look at you’ I shout to the buzzards as they soar above the scots pines near my daughters house.

But back to my friend the crow. I fear a life of hunger for my lad with the deformed beak.

It must be difficult to stab for worms and I wonder will he starve to death?

But no! he is still around and I save a bit of ham to throw him when passing.

I know I should try to feed him more regularly and I do feel guilty that I might be giving him false hopes of security.

Feeding birds over the winter should be a consistent thing or else leave nature to do it. It has done so successfully for millions of years and we humans are not the best example to be playing god, taking into account the damage we have done.

But still I fill the bird feeders religiously at my daughters house and watch with fascination the code of ethics between finches and robins, blue tits and goldcrests.

My empathy for other beings sometimes overcomes me, to my own detriment.

I remember years ago, walking to school with a friend.

We were probably ten or eleven and we had come across a half dead rat at the side of the road.

It was mewling piteously. We stared in horror for a moment before my friend ran away screaming.

But rat or no! I couldn’t bear to see it suffer and picking up a large stone, I dropped it on the poor creatures head killing it instantly.

I remember saying sorry to it as I carried out the act and I probably cried too but I knew I had to be strong and put it out of its misery. To leave it lying there half dead would have been a far greater act of cruelty.

It was probably at that moment, unknownst to myself, that I decided to become a nurse.

~~~~~

Yesterday one of my patients was given bad news.

She has a gangrenous foot and despite angioplasties, fempopliteal bipasses, iloprost infusions and all other works of modern medicine her foot and lower leg can not be saved.

She needs an above knee amputation.

She looked in panic from the surgeon to me and back again, her eighty three year old face filled with fear and grief.

After the surgeon had gone, I sat with her, holding her frail hand.

She suddenly tightened her grip ‘I can’t believe this, It can’t be true, maybe it will get better, surely it’s not as bad as he says’. She was looking at me hopefully.

I said my usual words of reassurance but for once they sounded hollow and well practised.

I knew what was wrong. I was tired, my own legs were aching, I wasn’t putting myself in her shoes (pardon the analogy).

So I shut up, ashamed of my falseness and just sat with her.

‘Is it nice out today’ She suddenly piped up.

‘Yes its a lovely spring day’ I answered, smiling at her .

She sighed ‘I suppose its for the best’ She looked out the window at the blue sky.

‘It is’ I stroked her hand.

She was silent again for a while

‘I suppose I’ll be better off without it! She looked at me, resignation in her faded blue eyes ‘Its very sore you know?’.

‘I can imagine it must be very painful and the painkillers I give you are just making you so drowsy all the time’ I replied sympathetically.

She nodded ‘Yes I am either asleep or in pain and what’s the use of that’ then looked at me smiling, her blue eye’s brighter now. ‘You have been very kind to me’ She said. ‘Thank you’.

That is why I am a nurse.

All the money in the world could not give me what she gave me.

And that included an important lesson.

There are times for words but sometimes being silent and really listening is better.

the end.

 

On fearing my dreams.

Tags

cottages, dreams, Islands, lonliness, photos, Planxty, The wild atlantic way, the yellow bike, writing

My Dream is this:

I will go to a small island off the west coast of Ireland and live in a cottage on a lake and write and dream and paint.

But I fear my dream.

For it’s a lonely one and I am a gregarious creature.

And being of this nature making such a decision is a hard one.

I have thought of tossing a coin or reading the tea leaves or praying for a sign. In that way if I was overcome with loneliness and was forced to return, I could blame the Gods.

But I fear the result of that coin too.

Maybe for now I will leave it as it is: My dream.

No wonder in bygone times strangers were welcomed with open arms.

Living in isolation on the side of a misty mountain or beside the wild and stormy sea, where the sound of the wind invaded their days and nights, the sight of another human toiling up the hill against the rain with a reluctant dog in tow must have been one to celebrate.

The fire would be built up, the kettle filled, the bread, the butter, the plate of cold potatoes laid out on the table.

The apron removed and hung on the back of the door.

The stranger made welcome.

Relieved of his wet coat, he would be encouraged to take a seat near the fire.

The fireside dogs, growling at first, would shift and make space for the wet skinny one.

I do not believe strangers were feared then then the way we fear them now.

Both had too much to gain from each other.

Especially during the long dark winter months.

So the stranger would be fed, even given a bed by the fire if needs be.

In return He would share the news, tell stories, maybe pull a whistle from his pocket and play a few tunes.

Maybe he would bring thread, needles, some coloured ribbons, combs for the women of the house.

His main purpose though would be to ‘pass the time of day’ and alleviate the dark winter days.

My dream would not be to pass the days for the sake of it, but instead, I would walk and cycle the island from north to south , from east to west and think and sit and write..

Mainly write.

I have chosen my Island.

I have even chosen my cottage.

I have familiarized my self with the road from the harbour .

I know how it heads up over the hill and down passed the ruins of the church and the gravestones and on towards the beach

only to swing around to the left and past the row of cottages at the horseshoe bay with its ‘gleoteoig’ moored in the sheltered waters.

At the end of the bay the road branches in two, the right fork heading down towards the rocky shore,

The left fork heading up over the hill past the cottage with the hens

and flattening out, it trundles along by the lake where ‘my cottage’ sits waiting for my company.

I have cycled this road in my youth.

With a young lad seated on the back carrier.

(‘Surely it should have been the other way round’ you say)

Maybe, but my bike was precious.

I had already left the Inisowen peninsula on it weeks before.

A single speed black raleigh with a wooden trailer behind.

We had bravely tackled many a steep hill together

And we had many more hills and miles to do before we reached cape clear island of the coast of Cork.

I didn’t trust that the lad in his ‘joie de vivre’ (we had been drinking pints at the local pub) would’nt hit a pothole, and I would not only have a broken nose but a broken bike as well and that would be the end of my ‘Wild Atlantic way’ cycle.

A journey much talked about these days.

It was on this four month long 2,500 km cycle all those years ago that I first came across ‘my island’

Camping by the harbour of Claddaduff, I noticed two people with rug sacks boarding a small boat. When I enquired where they were off to, they told me they were going to Inisbofin (the island of the white cow)

I don’t know if it was the name that appealed to me or the sight of its ethereal shape. Like a huge whale, It dangled in the mist above the sea.

Before I knew it, the willing boatmen were hauling my bike and trailer on board and that was that.

I arrived barefoot on the Island, having lost my silk slippers (every long distant cyclist should wear them)at the Ballisodare folk festival where dancing too enthusiastically to the music, probably of Planxty

I stepped backwards into a stream.

I left my silken slippers to dry on a rock and continued dancing.

When I went back the next morning they were gone.

I fell in love with this wild Island.

And being young and carefree also with the lad, whose mother kindly gave me a pair of wellingtons.

But that is another story for another time.

A story I will write if ever I follow my dream.

Below is my Island, tranquil, solitudinal, hanging from a grey sky above a greyer sea. It does occur to me though, that most of my writings come from my observations of people.  Would I be ‘cutting off my nose to spite my face’ in going to live on in such a place. Maybe my dream is better fulfilled being what it is…….A dream.

The yellow bicycle and the worry stone.

Tags

humour, meditation, philosophy, stones, the yellow bicycle, traditions, worries, writing

My way of writing is to release a thought , go with the stream of conciousness and see where that thought brings me. I am always curious to see what the end will be, knowing that due to my quirky sense of humour the thought that starts out on a serious note may not remain so. I will also confess to losing control of my writing and letting it control me instead. I will add that though this is slightly/very tongue in cheek its also very true. I DO have a real worry stone, and I DO  believe worry stones can be of benefit to the chronic worrier and I also believe in soothing stones and meditation stones.

WORRY STONES.

Some information about worry stones:

A worry stone should be smooth and round and be able to fit snugly in the palm of ones hand when the fist is closed.

It should be small enough so as not to weigh down one’s pocket but not so small that one cannot find it in an emergency.

A markation e.g a white line is acceptable but it is better if it is without as marks may distract one and one may forget ones worry.

How to find the perfect Stone for you:

Take your time finding your perfect worry stone. You may have to walk many beaches in search of it but while you are searching you will find yourself worrying less and less. For the search itself will be soothing for the soul. Worry stones may also be found in other places too , river beds for example or on mountain tops or in caves. They can sometimes be seen along road sides but it is not advisable to use these as they are traumatised by traffic and beyond help and you would only spend your days worrying about their mental state.

How to use a worry stone:

When you do find your perfect worry stone place it in your pocket. You can use it straight away as there is no waiting time nor does the worry stone ever go out of date.

It is advisable to practice holding it during small worries first.

The warming of the stone means it is working for warmth of a cold stone is a sign that it is absorbing the worry.

What to do if you lose your worry stone:  

Losing a worry stone is a common occurrence which usually takes place when changing clothing. Firstly do not worry. That thumping sound coming from your washing machine will alert you to the fact that you forgot to remove it from your pocket. Do not worry a good wash never hurt a worry stone (not sure about the washing machine though)

Other useful information:

You can take my thoughts on worry stones with a grain of salt.

Examples of some common worry stones: see picture below

I carry a stone in my pocket at all times.

It is my worry stone

I used to be good at worrying.

I used to spend a lot of time and energy at it.

Then I got sick and had something really big to worry about.

But instead of being happy now that I had a REAL worry to concentrate on, I was sad.

BECAUSE

It was not one of the better sicknesses to get. In other word’s if you are going to get sick do not choose this one. It was one of the ones you could quite easily die from and if I died from it I would have nothing to worry about.

That is the thought that made me sad

and worried.

So I put my sickness worry into a stone and put the stone in my pocket and went out and bought a bicycle.

A yellow bicycle.

At first I worried about the amount of money I was spending on this bike but I gave that money worry to the stone in my pocket who dealt with it swiftly and I took my new yellow bicycle home.

And when we got home I told the yellow bicycle that If I got better we would go on a journey.

Not a worrisome journey (not, for example, a journey across the mountains of Afghanistan or the deserts of the sahara), but a gentle one and we would bring the worry stone with us so that in that way we would have a no worries to contend with and we would fill our days with soothing constant pedalling instead.

And hopefully we would learn many things about ourselves throughout our journey.

For to get a second chance at life is not something to be sniffed at.

And that is what we did

Finding that I now had no worries to worry about (Along with my stone I let my surgeon and oncologist do that for the year and three months I was under their care) I got better.

And we went on a gentle cycle across France.

From the Atlantic to the Mediterranean.

Just Me, the yellow bicycle and the worry stone.

Oh we had many adventures along the way.

Some of which I have written about previously here and more of which I will write about in due course.

But for the moment my mind is dwelling on all things ‘stoney’.

Today is after all the twenty first of September, the day traditionally saved for bringing soothing stones and meditation stones inside for the winter.

In by gone days there was much celebrating as the stones were carefully brought inside.

Dances were performed with women stepping with intricate foot work around heaps of stones and men would compete against each other jumping a rope whilst balancing a stone on their heads.

Even children joined in as it was well known that licking a stone could stave of a hungry child till the pot of stew was ready.

Teething infants were given stones to bite their itchy gums upon.

And children spent many happy hours over the long winter darkness playing games such as ‘stoner’ (a game where you threw some small stones up in the air from cupped hands and turning your hands quickly over tried to catch them all in the V shaped by the backs of your rejoined hands, a bit like modern day ‘ jacks’ .

Unfortunately a lot of these traditions were lost in time.

It is also said that if it doesn’t rain on stone day we will have a gentle winter.

P.s I forgot to mention….

My recent check up tests were once again clear.

HERE IS MY BELOVED WORRY STONE WHO HAS GOT ME THROUGH MANY A WORRY OVER THE YEARS…….