To The Lighthouse

One of the themes in 20thC Irish theatre is the tragic finality of emigration - however everyone feels about Gar going off to Philadelphia, going he is; and it's unlikely he will ever return to Ballybeg. we had a frisson of a memory of this loss when The Boy set off for New Zealand aged 29¾. What if he fell for a Kiwi girl, and never came back? It would be an awfu' schlep to visit grandkids in Auckland.  It has turned out [don't ask me how] that, as a family, we're more proactive than "Home is where they have to take you in, when you have to go".  From clocking up '000s of air-miles working for Ryanair in his teens and 20s, The Boy has been, and continues to go, all over. But he comes back on the reg'lar and everyone is happy about that. His firstborn Gdau.I is now about the same age as he was when we quit foreign and came back to Ireland in 1990. 

This year, for the second time in a row, the two of them came from across the water to Dublin for the authentic Hallowe'en experience: bonfires, cos-play and crap candy; with tinnies for daddies. We made it happen that our nuclear fam were together for 24hrs from All Saints to All Souls. In April this year we went on a mighty, ~15km circular, up-hill down-dale yomp. Participants  ~70, ~50, ~30, ~10 y.o. Nobody died. 2nd November was the best of all possible autumn days: golden leaves, wispy clouds, just enough breeze to prevent over-heating under a bright sun. It was decided [note passive tense, I'm institutionalised, I go where I'm told] that we'd take a C1 bus to Sandymount and walk on out to the Poolbeg Light.

And it was so! 

Dau.II packed an Iron Rations lunch: 1 satsuma + 10g of chocolate each and off we went - the Three Four Muscatels. For me, forever 10, securing the top front seats of a double-decker bus is the best way to see any city. The C1 from Adamstown was jammed, but emptied like a bathtub at O'Connell's Bridge, so we got grandstand seats for the Dublin 2 to Dublin 4 stage of the journey. I flagged passing the back of the place where I had digs in 1973: but it was frankly Scarlett from my fellow voyageurs. There was a bit more interest eeeeuw when we passed the shrubberies into which I hucked my dinner ca. 2001. 

We also passed the seafront property where The Beloved rented a bedsit as a student in 1974. After spending first year of college in a six bed dorm run by Loreto nuns, she wanted to live a more poetic life. "I need a garret with sloping ceilings". In those days, you could manifest your ideals, because the gods peer down kindly on the young. By 1975, we were an item, and rented another sea-front garden-flat opposite the pier in Dun Laoghaire. Only financial traders or FAANG execs could afford the rents there nowadays. In this one way, life was better, fairer, more possible 50 years ago. 

This year, this month, three generations of us did walk out to the end of the pier [evidence above R]. A place I haven't been since 1974. Let me say that the water-treatment plant out there is enormously bigger than it was 50 years ago. This is just to say that my satsuma was orange and so sweet. It wouldn't be a port-walk if there was no shipping to scope. On cue, here [see L] comes the Vespertine a 195m long RoRo freighter owned by CLdN registered in Malta but shuttling back and forth between IE-DUB and GB-LIV. Compagnie Luxembourgeoise de Navigation = CLdN.

Another perfick day, I'm glad I spent it with y'all. Luckily, even at my advanced age, there is no quota on Perfick Days - everyone different, every one good. Perhaps these best days lean toward applying a few squirts of 3in1 to the knees, but still.

The Trader's Gate

One of the notable features of small towns = large villages in Ireland is how wide is the Main Street. Much wider and with more generous pavements = sidewalks than a few hundred people and/or the passing traffic seems to justify.  This is not to say that through-traffic is unimpeded. 

• Children don't walk to school through the fields anymore, so Mams-Jams are normal at the start and end of each school day. 
• And commute times are much quicker during mid-term breaks 
• Automobile autonomy can jam things up for everybody. _I_ am just nipping in to the pharmacy;  so those double yellow lines fade to invisibility
• There is a papal dispensation at Mass times (more often Saturday evening than Sunday now). Cars can then be abandonned anyhow anywhere near church

In the early 90s, when Motorways were a futuristic fantasy, it was proposed to construct a by-pass round the town of Leixlip 20km West of Dublin. All traffic between Dublin and Galway, Sligo and points on the way and in between had to crawl <cof> <cof> through Leixlip. The Chamber of Commerce was vehemently against the by-pass because they would lose the 'passing trade'.

 Our post-town, pop 700, is prettier and has better amenities than many towns of equivalent size. The demesne wall of Big House occupies one side of Main Street for about half its total length. The Laird has allowed a children's play-ground to be built on a generous enough strip of grass between that wall and the road. Otherwise, the buildings facing onto the street are a mix [half&half?] of artisan cottages and business premises. In some cases, the trader's family still lives above the shop. There are very few front-gardens, with the front door opening right on the pavement. The streetscape therefore conjures something like a series of fortresses glaring rebelliously across at the road at the 4m high walls of The Big House.

Nevertheless, traders gotta trade . . . something and they can't store beer-barrels, barbed-wire, cattle-nuts, gates, bales of sheep fleece, bread, jam, oats, nails out on the street. The bigger houses [the doctor, the parish priest, the bank-manager, the vet] needed somewhere to stable a carriage and a horse or two. Each business thus needed vehicular access to the rear. And each opening needed a gate to keep livestock, stray dogs, over-curious people on the street and not galumphing through the back-yard doing damage to the lawn (if any) and knocking things off or knocking them over.

On 28 October 26, I took The Beloved to the Dublin Train and paused on the way home to clock The Gates. There are about 20 of them along maybe 500m of Main Street.

01 and 02:

03 and 04 

05 and 07

08 & 09

10 and 11

12 and 13

14 and 15 

16 and 17

18 and 19

20  and 21

There's one missing: the Gate to The Big House:

The Blob is notoriously picture-bandwidth averse, but the inventory above has burst through my pixel quota for the year . . . but it's still pretty crappy quality. Even a good snap-shot fails to do justice to the doors of perception and imagination. Each one is worth a perusal pause: 

• the material of each door and the quality of the paint job
• the voussured arches 
• the presence (or absence) of a wicket gate in the fabric of the big gate
• Mrs Doohickey must needs slip out to the pub for a pint of porter . . . for the cake, like
• the stone sheds or mighty hay-barns in back
• the clutter visible, 
• the glorious golden trees 
• the number of undertakers 
• the officiousness of the No Parking signs 

We should all take a minute (or ten) each and every day to really pay attention to the world around us. So much quirky detail deserves a moment as we hurry by to somewhere else.

walking the walk

Why would read a book about the Camino de Santiago when  you can go it yourself GIY? Why keep a dog and bark yourself? Why start a Blob with rhetorical questions? I was that desperate for e-reading and earbooking material on Borrowbox that I downloaded To Walk the Way - One Pilgrim's Camino (2026) by Mike Timms. I did not take it because Timms is a retired Director of the Centre for Disability Studies at University College Dublin and lives in Bray Co Wicklow. But there were nevertheless a few parallels between his experience and mine along Le Chemin de St Jacques.

Without that common background, To Walk the Way might read like a log-book or journal - which I have recently claimed to be intrinsically poor reading. So you have two (2) glasses on wine in Burgos? Mike, nobody cares, nobody is counting. ditto roncadores = snorers; ditto wrong turnings; ditto blisters; these things exist, they are inevitable to the process of pilgrimage. Readers didn't ask, so don't tell. What can be interesting is the interaction when two pilgrims come together, and get beyond the quotidian Bom dia; ¿Cómo va con los pies?; Avez-vous besoin d'eau? Then you may surprise yourself with kindness or find a richness & generosity of spirit in The Other. Maybe I'm talking bollix about the dross: after all,  a painter covers the canvas with a beige undercoat so that the interesting bits stand out.

Tis myself: July 2004 Fisterra

Timms touches on the exhausting effort required to follow a conversation in a language in which you lack fluency. One of my proudest moment was having a life-the-universe-and-everything talk in french with a monglot francophone - sacked out in the shade of a ruined wall while waiting for the refugio to open. One backstory anecdote Timms shared was from his time helping the Czechs prepare for joining the EU. His working life was all about Diversity, Disability and inclusion and at one venue he started chatting to a profoundly deaf Czech in some institute. ISL is different from the Czech equivalent but he could communicate better by hand than in the school-learnt English of his Czech academic oppos. A revelation for them, less so for him because he'd done the work to learn ISL. 

And here's a nice definition / differentiation from the Timms playbook:

• integration: you have to change if you want to play with us
• inclusion: we have to change to enable you to play with us 

It is obvious which is more difficult to implement.

Another element which had the ring of truth is accepting that extra-ordinary things happen on pilgrimage: water is manifest, or juicy apples appear instead; the hat which was lost is returned two days later; you do find the oomph to climb the last hill of the day; someone is kind when you're feeling crap; you can eat respounchous Dioscorea communis. Timms knows and I know that there is no explanation for miracles but weird collisions happen anyway. When you throw yourself on the mercy of strangers; (or when you give them your last Nurofen) then Thin Places crack open and the world blurfs into the mystic . . . cue van Morrison.

If you have walked the long, you may get tinkles or tingles from this bloke's tale of Camino. If you haven't been, then go. I make no apology for being a camino-bore:

It is an ancient peregrine,
And he stoppeth one of three.
'By thy trimmed grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?'  

A. Because you look like you're lost, preciousss

streetscape

For while in the 00s, I shared the rental of a house in Marino, D3. I was only up in Dublin for 2 nights a week and I could have endured 5 hours a day on the bus commuting from home. But two younger workers at the coal-face of science made me an offer I couldn't refuse on the bed-nights. I also enrolled in drumming workshops in the evening after work. Tuesday "Djembe, dance and body-percussion" with Sinead "sensei" O'Brien; Wednesday "MaSamba" with Simeon Smith. When I got 'home' at 21°°hrs, I was ready for bed. But the lads insisted that we repair to Gaffney's Bar in Fairview and skull pints. I was shattered when I finally got HOME; and couldn't look alcohol in the face . . . until next Tuesday.

In the 1930s, Gaffney's was in  the same place and a little further along Fairview Strand was  "Daly Bros. shop in Fairview Dublin", G. & T. Crampton Photographs, UCD Digital Library. Those premises are now Four Star Pizza; the facade is significantly less 'handsome"; and the range of 'provisions' is markedly reduced as well. If you're curious about bygone shopfronts, Tipperary Studies Digital Archive has several hundred. Many of them are staged with the proprietor and staff standing in their aprons on the pavement outside. God be with the days you could buy biscuits by the pound from a big tin box at the grocer.

Dunno about you, but _I_ am curious about shop-fronts this week because I followed up on the works of Sean Rothery: last met walking the GR5. Rothery walked for exercise and adventure but before retirement he taught Architecture at DIT. That's why he lugged a sketch-book on his walk; it's what architects of a certain vintage did.

In 1978, Rothery was inspired to research and write The Shops of Ireland (with drawings by the author). It was midwifed into existence by student projects in 1975 as part of European Architectural Heritage Year. I like that idea very much: the Custom House and the GPO are the Grand parts of the built environment but if they get gutted by fire, ordinary life continues. If The Righteous set fire to Daly's then the plain people of Fairview and Marino won't know where to get their tea.

 Architecture is a lot like book-binding. The main point being to clag together structural elements so the product stands-up & is fit for purpose . . . but if you can make those elements look well, then why not add a bit of bling? And, hey, there are spandrels on some shop-fronts: those which have fancy round-top windows. If you live in Ireland, you could with advantage get this book out of the library. It will change the way you go shopping: maybe be less of a rush about it? Maybe look up and around and wonder at how human ingenuity makes urban life possible.

Splut

They say that, in medieval times, there was a rather intense rivalry between the ports of Waterford (on the R.Suir) and New Ross (just downstream from the confluence of the Rs Nore and Barrow). I don't know nuttin' about medieval trade except that transport by water was considerably more efficient [in terms of, say, ton-mile-days] than by land.  And if that's true it must have been a case of ¿porque no los dos? I mean if the final destination is Carlow, Kilkenny, or Kildare then New Ross is  the best place to tranship to a barge and off upstream. For Clonmel, Cahir or Carrick, Waterford is your only man.

Howsoever, Waterford won that trade war long long ago and became a City. And New Ross declined despite several interventions to prop-up the economy [see Albatros Fertlizer] and is now a local market-town. On Friday 23Oct26, The Beloved and The Blob scheduled separate meetings in New Ross. Carbon-foot-Bonus for sharing the 80km round-trip. I went to the fancy hotel for my meeting and we agreed to meet in the forenoon at the Dunbrody Visitor's Centre. Herself: "It has a great clattery café upstairs which is hanging out over the water, you'll love it, I'll treat you to a flat-white".

My meeting went well, despite me gabbing a deal too much. I repaired, with some bounce to my step, to claim my coffee. Unfortunately, the tide was out and the view out the window was foregrounded with slobby mud the colour of duck-shit [iykyk]. It is sort of surprising that, despite being 25km North of the actual sea at, say Ballhack, the River Barrow is tidal ~4m rise and fall twice a day at New Ross. Indeed, there are still visible tides [1½m to 2½m] at St Mullins a further 15km upstream It is no coincidence that the Barrow Navigation and its towpath starts at St Mullins. 

But look at the sun, the O'Hanrahan bridge across the broad reach of the River Barrow, the Disney-experience Dunbrody! Note to self: stop glooming at the mud, look up and smell the sun. Over coffee, we reflected on how deep the mud might be. Fortunately we were behind a plate-glass window or I would have been tempted to hoik my empty coffee cup over the edge just to hear the Splut! Mud? Projectiles? Crocodiles!

For part of the Summer of 1977, we lived in New Ross with Pat the Salt and his younger children. He was engaged in some building work just upstream from the then new O'Hanrahan bridge [which was opened in 1967]. You can still see the abutments of the earlier bridge which we used to cross every Easter holiday through the 60s driving between Wexford and Waterford visiting agéd relatives. The older bridge was even more decrepit than my rellies. The speed limit was 5mph and there were 55gallon steel drums as chicanes in the roadway to keep the traffic inching across. Impressionable me reckoned that if 10 cars, or two trucks, stopped in the middle then the roadway would sigh and dump itself into the murky river below. Michael O'Hanrahan was New Ross's contribution to 1916 Easter Rising being 2/o/c of the Jacobs Biscuit Factory garrison. He was executed on 04 May 1916 along with Joseph Plunkett, William Pearse & Edward Daly.

Imperfect

I've been on a P.J. Kavanagh jag recently. Paradoxically first reading a more recent memoir (Finding Connections 1990) which focused on the old dead; and now his first book (The Perfect Stranger a memoir of love and survival 1966) about a tragic young death. The death of young people is normally tragic, dying in the fullness of his years less so. The ever young [Sally 24] and the finished up old [PJ 84]are buried in the same grave, same churchyard [R] in Westwell, Oxforshire [photo Tom Robinson wikimedia commons]

The Perfect Stranger apparently found it difficult to find a publisher. It's partly because PJK is not as good a writer as he thinks he is: some of his run-on sentences baffle me and I'm a native speaker. As a poet, he claims a pretty good internal critic, but if the lines cross this bar then the poem is Good, and several examples finish up in this memoir. I'm not judging - I skip embedded lyrics because they are a detour or paraphrase. This self-satisfaction extends to other areas of his life. Recently, Dau.II accused me of weaponized incompetence when I said that such-a-thing was outside my wheelhouse. Blokes are allowed A Lot of this even in these modern times: can't cook, can't do laundry, can't make a bed (it's only a duvet, wot's to make??), can't clean a toilet. Thus when PJK is called up for National Service, he can't march, he can't make his bed, can't master army book-learning. When, through privilege, he lands an entry-level job in early television it was "by this time I more or less agreed with the general tacit assumption of my uselessness" because infrastructural grunt work is beneath him.

In a 1991 Foreword to a reprint of The Perfect Stranger, he is irked because 25 years of librarians and booksellers have classified it as autobiography rather than the memoir of love and survival which it seems to the author. But FFS, the love interest doesn't walk on stage until the final quarter of the book: the first ¾ is solid autobiog fodder: cruelty at school, continental adventures, getting shot in Korea, being employed [he is apparently too useless for it to be called work] on the stage, in telly, in publishing. 

In 1989, I retired (again!) from working in a British University and looked for other work. One of my ventures was to apply for/to the British Council  - a UK govt quango that shows the flag abroad through culture and things intellectual / educational. I passed the first round of the hiring process well enough to be invited to interview in the London head office. It never went further for me [who knows? wrong tie, looked stupid, sounded stupid, went to college in Dublin?]. In 1958, it went much better for PJK and his shining new, not to say numinous, wife Sally. He was deemed appointable and they were posted to Indonesia; which everyone agreed was the shittiest, most dangerous station on the British Council register. 

There, like Pat the Salt at about the same time, they kicked over the traces of colonial exclusivity and talked to their staff, respected their students and trenchered down the local food. It was going to be wonderful and then ". . . at four o'clock in the morning, midsummer's day, Sally Died"

The End 

Austen, Boelo: double whammy

Storm season starts 1st September  [you have to start somewhere] but the first named storm "Austen" slugged in from the Atlantic last Th/Fr night NullSchoolWind windspeed snapshot 20:00 22Oct26 [L]. At Caislean Blob, it has been standard policy at least this year, maybe a bit longer, to heed MetÉireann's weather warnings and park the car in the next county, if the deluge is scheduled for overnight. I've been banned [you're too decrepit for that nonsense you blitherin' old ninny] from nipping out of the house at 02:00 with a head torch and mattock "I'm awa' off to see to the drains". 

I did clean the drains of this year's brambles, but in advance, in daylight, indeed in the sunshine. It's part of adulting in the country that y'have to do this every year. It's a chore. But a single bramble is like steel wire, and can snag a water-impelled twig; which may catch another twig with leaves; which holds back a trundling rock long enough that a clot of dead sycamore leaves forms a dam . . . and rushing water blurfs out onto the gravel of the lane and two hours later the lane has been delivered as heap onto the county road. I also beefed up the berms which run diagonally across the lane surface: slowing down any running water and delivering it into the drain .

If the lane gets washed away as it did in July 1997 and Jan 2010 at least we'll have a vehicle on the outside for shopping or hunting around for a JCB and 40 tonnes of 804 gravel. Parking in the next county? That is formally correct but rhetorically over-dramatic. My neighbour farms the other side of the river (which marks the county borrrder) and I park in a corner of his yard. Sometimes scones are exchanged. Tea-time Thursday I drove down our lane [300m], along the county road [500m], up his lane [300m] and tucked the car in  against a [solid] wall. But I walked home parallel to the county road by completing the rectangle crossing his fields, the river and our fields. It's much shorter and much more hello trees hello sky than dodging 18-wheelers and shit-spattered tractors on the road.

Storm Austen duly came and duly went, and there was no more rainfall that any other front. The following morning, as soon as it was light to see by [and I'd consumed a quart of hot tea] I went to retrieve the car. I wore m'wellies because stream crossing. 16 hrs previously the stream was 15cm deep and 75cm across now it was grey with crud, 2m wide and of indeterminate depth. But there was a stable looking rock awash in the middle of the current and I boldly used that as a hopping stone to reach the far side. I did not fall on my arse and fill m'boots as I did at the same place in 2023. Win! Friday turned out fine: lots of sun to clock up some solar-kWh; some of which baked 800g of brown soda bread. And the Polish Stove-guy [artisans of '26 prev] came back for coffee to refix the seal round the door of our new wood-burning stove. 

Storm Austen grazed the South coast of Ireland. Storm Boelo, 36 hours later, debladdered itself mainly on the North and West coasts but the whole country got stormy rain all day. A day for huddling next to the toasty stove . . . !?! . . . the stove was out of action Saturday because the sealant needed 24 hours to set. Fall-back plan: huddling under a weighty-blanket with a hot-water bottle. With occasional forays outside to count sheep and look sternly at the drains.  Amazing skyscape on Sat/Sun night: not quite full moonlit mackerel skies with stars, planets in the holes. And Sunday morning started gusty but sunny & all sheep reported in with the requisite number of legs. Come on Storm Chloe we're ready.