In the wrong place

The family were downhome over Easter and Dau.II took a proprietorial walk through the fields. She reported that the top corner of one of those fields was carpetted with a particular sort of dicot sprout with 2 elongated seed-leaves and a robust reddish stalk. WTF? she enquired. I investigated and admitted that I'd never noted such a phenomenon before. But I formed a hypothesis that the pair of sycamores Acer pseudoplatanus in the ditch just to the South must have had a mighty year for seed set, as had several sweet chestnuts Castanea sativa down in the adjacent woodland. And sho'nuff Dr Google confirmed that sycamore seedlings looked just like that.

That was all a nothing-burger until Dr Google threw up "sycamore seedling poisonous to horses" on the off-chance that was what I was really after. Equine atypical myopathy, aka atypical myoglobinuria when myoglobin is detected in the urine because muscle tissue is disintegrating. But you'd only [call in the vet to] look if your previously happy horse is stiff, reluctant to move, collapsed. Regardless of treatment, it is typical that 75% of affected horses will be dead with 2-3 days. The proximate cause is a toxin called Hypoglycin A HGA.

It is a known thing that horses have a rough-and-ready digestive system: shovelling its outcome is what gives teenage stable-hands such prodigious upper-body strength. Sheep are ruminants and their dietary carbs get a double hammering mediated by a sophisticated gut-flora. Nobody is flagging HGA toxicity for ruminants, so I suppose that some guild of their microbiome is digesting Hypoglycin A HGA before it is absorbed through the gut wall to start to digest the muscle-mass. No quarter given in evolution. [note added in press: the sheep were moved from the traditional hay-meadow to the sycamore-rich field 3 days ago, and nobody's died yet]

But, as I say, I've never seen so many sycamore sprouts and who knows of what digestive heroics our mixed bag of sheep are capable. The family had buggered off to the Gaeltacht within hours of alerting me to the sycamore nursery; I R retire; I finished my book; I chopped wood and hauled water; . . . dum de dum . . .; I went across the lane to pluck sycamore as prophylaxis against an unlikely but devastating event. At 71¾, I am no longer limber as a 7 y.o., so I can't pluck at a sustainable rate for a working day. The weather  was Irish-changeable sunny with showers and my shop-steward won't allow me to get rained on while bent double. After a few sessions over three days, I had a bucketful of sycamores untimely ripped from mother earth. How many?

Well mates, I wasn't not going to count them as I went but I did weigh the whole harvest on our kitchen scales = 25oz = 700g. And I did count off a random selection of single plants until they tipped ½oz = 15g that was N = 30. My math indicates that I have killed [25 x 2 x 30 =] 1,500 potential trees in a natural selection exercise. How potential? When Sean the Forester was thinning our little woodland in 2022, we discovered a substantial sycamore in the NE corner of the plot. That's about 75m due West [and thus downwind] of the two fecund sycamores mentioned above. In 2008 that corner of the plot was still pasture, so in 18 years one seedling similar to my Easter-holocaust now has a girth of 85cm or ⌀ = 27cm at chest height. The height of the tree can be estimated by measuring a) a distance from the foot and b) the angle from there to the top of the tree and looking up a table of Tan= opposite/adjacent. In this case ~12m tall. That a much better place for a sycamore tree than shedding seed into pasture.

In the wrong place? I did eventually agree to go off-site for a tuthree days with  the family when they touched base briefly after Connemara. But on the morning of departure, our RCD [residual current detector] tripped OFF  twice! again. There was no way I was going away for two days if the 'lectric was going to fail the deep-freeze: & for me to return to a puddle of rotting food.  They went off, and I did some diagnostics, and the RCD behaved itself for 24 hours. [I think it's the extension that runs to the polytunnel - but it requires some positive testing of this hypothesis when there is only me at home]. Anyway, I did agree to go South-for-beaches the following day. But while way, I twigged >!Shazzam!< that an unintended consequence of having the Fronius app to monitor the solar array, is that I can remotely check to see if our router/modem at home is still powered up. And if so, assume that freezers and dehumidifiers are also working.  Here's a re-assuring snap-shot of an overcast day at home from 80km away.

 

maggie and milly and molly and may

 . . . went down to the beach(to play one day) [ee] 
[premature posting error on Friday! here released on schedule with added value].

may couldn't lift a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone. 
Which is just as well because it [L]was an interstellar messenger from the Planet Zorg cooling off in a rock-pool at Benvoy along Costa na Déise. I mentioned that my family left me alone with my weighty blanket after Easter and headed W to The Coral Strand = Trá an Dóilín in the Connemara Gaeltacht. I can just about handle having six extra [beloved] bodies in my own house . . . disappearing my charging cables tidying things up. But wrenching myself off a familiar sofa and, in a foreign environment, fighting over the breakfast cereal with m'fam? That was a too much for my agéd frame. Not to mention making a boarding-house queue with my fellow guests for access to the bathroom. At home, rain-or-shine, day-or-night, there is always the compost heap. So they went off and I stayed home and everyone was happy.

But they came back to the Sunny South East less than a week later and continued their live-like-there-is-no-tomo fun along the Waterford Coast. There is free-will, but in a sense they rolled their Ould Fella up in a bit of carpet, strapped him to the roof of the car and took him to Tramore. 

The timing was ungood because, a week before Waterford has been named the top destination in Ireland by Condé Nast Traveller, in a list of the must-see places to visit in Ireland. In particular they cite Trá na mBo so it will be even less of a Secret Beach than it has been since they added steps down the cliff and signage to get more footfall. I couldn't go: I was all tied up [nnggg nnnGG] with building works: being required to hold one end of a piece of timber and pass nails and screws to The Boy. But Dau.I took her niblings to Trá na mBo [you may call it cow-strand, if you live in England]. Together they made the rite of passage [woooooo] up the rocks and through the hole in the cliff to The Secret Secret Beach beyond. Which is important because Gdau.II is ten years old now - almost too old for Secrets.

I'm glad they didn't ask me for an opinion; because several years ago, I stopped making that micro-journey when it was clear that several tons of roof had collapsed since I last went to visit. But nobody died [Phew!] last week and they disturbed a seal, Phoca vitulina probably, who had hauled out at high tide. Seal probably thought "Fakkin' Condé Nast, I've been sunning myself here, minding my own business, for years - and now it's ruined by human yahoos".

One of the new additions at the car-park nearest to Trá na mBo is a box made of pallets and painted pink&blue with a scrap of fishing net atop to slow down the gulls. It says [in a rather spare, enigmatic ee cummings way - appropriate to a beach where one may encounter poets who are fluent in Spanish - and if you don't meet a poet you'll have to spout forth something yourself - do not mumble, the seals defo don't like mumblers.]

Tidy Towns
Beach Box
Swap & Share
Lost & Found 

Wedgies

Old Ray, the batchelor farmer who lived all his adult life in our home before we blew into the valley, got a little weak on maintenance in his latter years. The gutters got carried away in a storm and not replaced. When the house was built in 1941, the 'parlour' was constructed with a suspended ventilated timber floor. But in one corner water had penetrated the wall and rotted out a section of the floor-boards. We could see the join between original 1941 boards and the replacement. And some of the replacement floor-boards had themselves been assaulted by water and rotted in their turn. Sod that we decided and a) ordered new gutters chutes and down-spouts b) ripped out the timber floor brought the sub-floor to grade with rubble c) installed under-floor heating pipes throughout the ground floor and d) covered that with s sand-and-cement screed.

But the parlour floor undulated like drumlin country which was obvs unsuitable for our desired final finish in cork tiles for toddler comfort. I decided to fix this myself and bought a bag of levelling compound. How difficult could it be to follow directions on the packet and move things forw over the weekend while the contractor's team was home resting? A: quite difficult for an absolute beginner. The following week, the contractor's plasterer came with another bag of levelling compound, ignored the printed directions and made a much runnier solution which more or less spread itself. Hats off to experts!

But one corner of the floor was still a few mm out of true which only mattered when we wanted our handy light-weight Ikea 600x600 'coffee' table in that corner. Unless the legs were turned and positioned just-so, you could be guaranteed to spill your tea. For several years we solved this problem with a mop. Then Dau.II left home to live in Cork. One time we were visiting and Dau.II asked me to make a wedge for the bathroom door whose default position was closed. This was clearly not for the best, because the bathroom was entirely internal [no windows] and needed air-circulation against the damp. By providence, there was a builder's dumpster on the quay opposite their appt; & I'd given her a householder's tool-kit when she left home. I seized the feeble little saw from the tool-kit and sawed a suitable wedge off a bit of scrap timber in the dumpster. A few weeks later, Dau.II called to say "More wedges are needed!". Her pals from the HomEd house-share had been to visit and seen the utility of wedges to hold doors open.

I don't know how long it took me to make the connexion, but eventually I mobilized a Generalized Theory of Wedges GTW and cut a half-sized wedge to stop the Ikea coffee-table from canting about like a ship at sea. One residual problem was that a small beige wooden wedge was often hidden in plain sight against a beige cork floor. My solution was to paint stripes on one side of the table-wedge and write WEDGE on the other [as L at top]. 

We had a family full-house over Easter but when they left for 5 days in the Gaeltacht, I could not find the wedge. Two days later, I found it . . . in the kindling. But not before I addressed a supply-chain bottle-neck and made three more. I like the Dennis the Wedgace livery and am thinking, why not make a wedge-a-day set? as a wedge-hedge against uncertain memory - if it's Dennis it must be Tuesday etc. And hands up who knew that the Irish for TheWedge is AnDing?

It's okay to stop

I plugged away at Independent People all 225,000 words of it, but not because there was anything attractive about the central patriarch. Perhaps it was insights about the transition from poverty and backwardness to prosperity during a boom. Or a sense of gratitude that, compared to Iceland, our our climate in Ireland is so much more benign for sheep. But I doubt I'll switch to reading fiction for edutainment anytime soon. 

Evidence for this is that I have quietly put aside two novels recently with the thought that sitting on the sofa gazing at the ceiling might be a better use of my remaining days than reading something that fails to nourish. 

 Having enjoyed Sean Bean as Sharpe adventures on YouTube, not least the Over the hills and far away  theme tune, I decided to give Bernard Cornwell's books a try. It seemed sensible to start at the chronological beginning rather than in publication order. That has two advantages 1) Cornwell had presumably found his beat by the 15th book he wrote b) there is no back-story to be revealed. So Sharpe's Tiger (1997) it was: set in and around the Siege of Seringapatam in 1799 India [Commem Medal L]. The series appears to be available as ear-books on Borrowbox. The storyline of the whole series is the growth and development of a young tearaway who takes the King's shilling and rises to greatness through a series of daring [and improbable] adventures. The message is that, despite a rigid class system 200+ years ago, smart and courageous people could win through. There is a pantomime villain and some dopey, venal, lazy officer-toffs who can be manipulated to do Sharpe down. But we know that Sharpe survives [because 25 books about his later life], so his recurrent jeopardy just gets to feel manipulative set-pieces to spin each tale out to 350 pages. I balked at the casual killing off of another "nice guy" by the villain about 40% through and returned the book to the library for someone else to enjoy.

I'm in general more of a fan for things Portuguese than things Icelandic, so when I was informed that António Lobo Antunes had died, I opened the library catalogue to see if any of his books were available in Ireland. There were! An English translation of his Explicação dos Pássaros (1981) was on the shelf in Carraroe, Co Galway. I got 30 pages in before "The distinction between fact and fiction, between past, present and future, blur in Antunes brilliant narration" [Publishers Weekly] left me only confused, rather than inspired or interested. Pity because the book is set in the era of Portugal's Carnation Revolution in which I have an abiding interest. Rather cool was that the family-except-me had 5 days Carraroe just after Easter and were able to return the book to its home library much quicker than it shuffling about the country in a plastic box. Of course Dau.I the Librarian made it a busman's holiday and dropped in to talk Dewey Decimal cataloging and backed-up toilets with the Galway librarians.

It's okay to throw some back in the water. There are thousands of new [non-fiction] books published each year. Not to mention enough back-catalogue on library shelves to last a life time; or at east waht's left of mine.

Family Yomp to Black Church

Don't Label! Everyone is on their own journey, getting surprised by joy and finding out what matters. After me, the least sporty person in the family is was Dau.II. Then she moved to Dublin and took up walking; getting to see the city step by step at 4km/hr. Last Spring, when I was in training for our GR65 walk into the French interior, she came home for the weekend and came up the hill to keep me company . . . and then insisted we carry on another 1000m Along and 150m ↑↑↑Up to Stoolyen, the S facing shoulder of Mt Leinster.  Later that Summer, when all 3 generations of the family were back together, Dau.II set her sights on Sturra: a 3km hike requiring 500m of elevation. It would be churlish to let her go alone, so The Boy and The Patriarch went with. So glad I went! 

MetÉireann has gotten really good about predicting the weather. Just, maybe, a slight tendency to big up incomming storms with yellow and orange warnings, which turn out to be mere asthmatic wheezes. Therefore, when The Clan gathered home on Good Friday 2026, we had a choice of Sa Su Mo to launch up a hill together. Easter Sunday dawned sunny-but-windy in the aftermath of "Storm Dave" breezed through the day before.  Pilot Dau.II decided that we would walk to "The Black Church", a turf-cutters lodge at the Moats of Craan, along an Easterly spur of MtLeinster. It's near the beginning of the annual Blackstairs Challenge. 

Accordingly, after brunch a 3 generation party aged 10 to 70, departed for a 5 hour, 9 mile, 1700ft elevation circular yomp up the hill behind the house. It's all too easy to slip into a choco-coma on Easter Sunday afternoon, but Dau.II will walk and will dragoon accept company.  Gdau.II, with the shortest legs, was given a bailout option when we briefly touched the [Wexford] county road but stoutly turned it down and pegged along after her older rellies. We encountered a farming couple taking the tea-time air along that road and they asked "Where did you leave your car?" to which we chorused "We have no car, we walked from Home" and explained where Home was. I think they were impressed [maybe only by 10y.o. Dau.II?] because farmers tend to go by quad-bike nowadays. When we got back we sat down to an Easter dinner that couldn't be beat centering on paschal lamb and [most important] roast potatoes. Vegetarian options available.

Eeee it were great, a perfick day! The weather gave us the merest shake of sleety snow and only for a few minutes, otherwise sunny, breezy with scudding clouds. X marks the destination as seen from near the summit of Mt Leinster:

 

Men behaving badly

. . . and then what?

I've been quite the fanboi for Rory Stewart, not least because of our shared fancy for long-distant walks.  I've read a handful of his books and also listened to hours and hours of his two-hander podcast The Rest is Politics. The other hand on that podcast is Alastair Campbell, known in some quarters as Tony Blair's Liar-in-Chief. I've read a few of his books too. The LiC label is applied primarily because Campbell enabled the British Prime Minister to help destroy Iraq in an absurd-in-hindsight hunt for WMD - weapons of mass destruction. The 'Second Gulf War', starting in 2003, resulted in 4,800 deaths for Coalition forces: +90% of them US troops. That butcher-bill more than doubled the US casualties as a result of 9/11. And of course that is discounting uncountable numbers of Iraqi dead: estimates for which vary between 100,000 and 600,000.

From March to April 2003, it took The Coalition 26 days to topple the Iraqi government of Saddam Hussein. At the end of September 2003, aged 30, British diplomat Rory Stewart rocked up in Al-Amarah as Deputy Governor of the province of Maysān overseeing the security, welfare and development of ~1 million people. The consensus is that the government of Saddam Hussein was a corrupt kleptocracy. Many might have gone along with a plan to replace him with something 'better'. Bush and Blair didn't have anything 'better' beyond general platitudes like democracy, equality, the rule of law, honesty, welfare, market forces.

Deposing the dictator, sacking his dependents and apparatchiks and dismantling the army left a power and security vacuum which was quickly filled by entrepreneurs who seized assets for their own use or to sell for profit. And, like, fair dues: if you're the first through the front door as the Ba'ath-appointed mayor flees out the back why not take the mayor's new desktop computer? It looks like a victimless crime. Same for the police-chief's Mercedes . . . and that nice carpet . . . and an AK-47 might be handy. What is a mighty collective pain in the arse otoh is when entrepreneurs target electricity transmission cables for their value as scrap copper. The easiest way to access abundant copper wire is to push over the [steel] pylons. So one gang's loot !bonanza! requires 20x the investment by the community to restore service. 

You might expect that kind of shittiness in a war-zone. But other shits are available. When UK citizen and laundry consultant Gary Teeley was kidnapped in Apr'04, it was part of Stewart's brief to secure his release. Hours and hours of dickering on the phone with multiple parties to apply pressure in the right spot was difficult enough when all the Iraqis they called claimed more power and influence for themselves than was perhaps strictly true. The local Coalition troops were Italian (a minor partner in the country as a whole); in the midst of these delicate and protracted negotiations, the Italians decided to assault the HQ of one of the political parties "looking for arms". After a week of [mis]communication, Mr Teeley was delivered to Stewart's office, smelling rank but apparently unharmed. Stewart sent him by ambulance to the Italian military hospital to be formally checked over. Consequence: all the immediate global press coverage showed the Italian General welcoming Teeley back from the edge of the abyss. Within a week, it was reported that the [British] SAS had masterminded the rescue . . . using borrowed Italian uniforms. Success has many friends, but failure is an orphan

Rory Stewart was required to be a cog in the machine of a provisional government tasked to disburse (honestly & accountably) b/millions of USDs to restore water-treatment plants, cratered roads, RPGed schools, other aspects community infrastructure which are invisible to, but taken for granted by, us. The Iraqis were conflicted by their hatred and contempt of an alien invasive horde vs the !ka-ching! chance of free cash for pet projects. The US & UK developed a fantasy that after smashing to pieces a functioning [if violent & corrupt] polity, they could replace it with now for something completely different [whc turned out - surprise - to be a sort of idealized version of their best selves] and walk away feeling smug in the accolades of 'success'.

If capitalist democrats maintain that democratic capitalism is the summit of human achievement then excuse me for calling out narcissist delusion. It's like Charles I of England & Scotland claiming the divine right of kings. One of the nicest things about Stewart's book is that he admits that in hindsight he was wrong about the pragmatic effect of some of his political certainties. Can't read the book? At least read this interview.

And whoa-shoa, it hasn't escaped my notice that, even as you read, another US President is seriously contemplating the invasion of another Middle-Eastern Islamic state. What could possibly go wrong?

Grumpy the Cobbler

I mentioned earlier that I was no longer in the market for Hi-Tec brand walking boots. Corporate HQ must have shifted production to a different sweated-labour facility possibly in a different East Asian country. OR Finance showed that 3c a shoe could be added to the bottom line if the glue recipe was altered. Whatever the explanation, after a decade of believing in the quality of the brand, I had two pairs of shoes on the trot (2016 and 2024) fall apart on me. In 2016, I salvaged the laces to tie up tomatoes in the garden and landfilled the boots. 

But I only had ~20 days [over 500 days] of use from 2024 pair, when I noticed that the sole was separating from the upper at the toe. The agéd shoe-mender on my way to The Institute closed during Coronarama, so I phoned the cobbler in another town in the next county.
"The toe of my boot is separating from the upper, can you fix and how long might it take?"
"If you drop 'em in today, I can do it in an hour"

But when I rocked up to the shop, he ripped back half the sole and said "This is not the toe separating from the upper, this will require a lot more work, I'll have to rip off the whole sole, clean out all this grass and mud, dry them out, re-glue the sole. The glue will smear on the upper so it won't look great. I can't do it today. It will cost €35. Your call." He wasn't going to help on the money vs utility math, whc fair enough. Nor was he going to bother with an opinion on brands except to say that to get good quality boots you need to spend at least €200 the pair. The tenor of his tone was that I was a complete gull to buy the sort of boots that sat between us on the counter. But I agreed to pay €35 and he agreed to fix.

There was more confrontation on the matter of when I would collect and pay for the boots. Next Tuesday wouldn't do. He had a pair of shoes in back that had been "next Tuesday"ing since before Christmas. I didn't get down on both knees but I did genuflect & swear on my mother's bones that I would return at 11:00 next Tuesday . . . with cash. Which I did, because protestants, even boot-gull protestants, can be punctual even if parking can be a nightmare. 

When I lived and worked in Dublin in the 1990s, I came to believe that people who worked in sub-Post Offices projected pissed-off pretty much all the time; which I found strange in someone who had chosen a public-facing profession. I developed a theory that, because subPOs were often hidden away at the back of other premises, the lack of natural daylight for the whole working day turned employees gruff&surly: they'd been full of spring flowers and sunshine earlier in their lives. "my" shoe-mender's premises have the same cave-vibe as the back of Greene's Bookshop on Clare Street D2 where I used to buy stamps 30 years ago.

But there's no such excuse for the mower guy, whom I supported for several years. Every . effing . time I brought him a lawn-mower or chain-saw needing fixed, his expert eye would instantly find something that showed I was a massive abuser of lawn-mowers and should not be trusted with kitchen scissors, let alone power tools. This went from being insightful and informative to wearingly predictable to a serious pain in the neck. It never seemed to dawn on him that, if I could maintain mowers, I wouldn't be troubling him with fistfuls of folding money every time we met.

I now go to Tom the Sawyer of Ballyteigelea. He's an interesting fellow who was born to be a farmer and that is indeed his day&night job; but Tom gets far more joy and fulfillment from tinkering with engines to make them Go. I have huge affection & respect for people who invent the self that are they are happiest to be. Tom can drop clues about chain-saw care and maintenance without making me feel an inadequate rube.