Scones across the ocean

For years we lived anyhow with one another in the naked desert,
under the indifferent heaven. By day the hot sun fermented us;
and we were dizzied by the beating wind. At night we were stained
by dew, and shamed into pettiness by the innumerable silences of stars.

It wasn't quite as intense as it was for Lawrence of Arabia [The opening of his The Seven Pillars of Wisdom] and we didn't blow up any trains, but me and my pal Θ shared an office at The Institute for the 7 years before Coronarama. We covered for each other, commiserated when the exams for marking made a Manhattan of our desks, laughed about (but never at) our student's quirks and errors and shared our petty triumphs over an indifferent bureaucracy. Θ lives diametrically opposite The Institute from Caisleán Bob and twice the distance. But since I've retired, between the end of exams and the Summer recess, she's come out for tea&gossip each Summer. Same this June. I was going on (and on) about the wonders of our traditional hay meadow and its biodiversity and Θ said she'd bring her research group out to see this marvel - as a way of broadening her team's outlook and input.

Well that happened last Thursday after I'd received a text to say expect six for tea and scones, one each from Benin, Egypt, Greece, India, Kenya and Mexico. hoo-wee, I thought that was a rather wonderful metaphor what New Ireland means. TBH, I've no idea what their status is w.r.t. to The Man in his Indefinite Leave to Remain hat. They may be just passin' through, as I was when I spent 4 years in Massachusetts 45 years ago. But they're definitely contributing to Ireland Inc.! Working hard; pushing the frontiers; jollof rice! cilantro! bakalava! [not better than bacon & cabbage but different].

But it was a pretty good way for us all to spend an afternoon - apart from nearly an hour in a car to get here; and the weather. It wasn't exactly raining but humidity was 100%: like we were in the cloud. They weren't too distressed that they'd missed the biodiversity of the traditional hay meadow (which was knocked 2 weeks ago) and seemed interested in heritage tales about the House The Bomb Fell On and The Ringstone.

We passed through the polytunnel on our way back from a field tour and I was delighted to share mint and rosemary clippings with cooks who use those species in meal prep but just cannot find a source in their local shops. Now most people agree that home-baking can be a treat and I'd made a bowlful of dinky 5½ cm egg-glazed, touch-of-cornmeal, buttermilk scones. I explained that the best, traditional Devonshire, way of eating them was split in half so that each half acts as a vehicle for butter, then jam, then whipped cream. Unless you're lactose intolerant you can't have enough full-fat dairy products.

And soon enough (time flies when you're having fun) everyone had to pile into the cars and return to base - two mums had to lift childer from the creche before closing time. I can think of worse ways to spend a tuthree hours: sharing recipes, moaning about the patriarchy, and chatting about the various microbiomes both inside and out. A blob-back-catalog consult indicates that we'd been Failte Ireland for far-from-home students before in 2013.