Bon Voyage?

You may recall that we dug the house up last week, to sail it to greener pastures.
Well - I am exhausted. I also have a headache and a sore throat.
I think it is all the paddling, in the teeth of a tearing gale.
On the bright side, it seems that we successfully annexed the shed and the hen's paddock before departure,  as they are bobbing along behind. On the down side, no sooner had we 'slipped the surly bonds of earth' than the ever-changeable Atlantic bared its teeth and turned nasty on us.
The wind has been like knives, thrown edgeways at our jugulars, the rain non-stop. At one point, I wondered if all the glass had fallen out of the windows as we slewed down the shingle beach - but no, the glass purports to be in situ, even though it is doing nothing to protect us.

At least the divine duo are happy, as I took the precaution - while my husband completed the digging operation - of packing the woods into the spare bedroom, so that our daily constitutional could continue unabated on the high seas. I find the walk most beneficial, and deem the wind howling through all those trees in the next room at night a small price to pay, (even though it has kept me awake once or twice).

Under-Dog in the woods

As we were pitching in the briny off the headland, I had planned to steer for New York, where I know someone who is a devilishly good cook and who wouldn't mind putting the hen-house on her roof for a week or two. But sadly we were blown off-course almost immediately, and I can only think it was Iceland that eventually loomed up on our starboard bow. Or was it port? And is it a bow, even? I'm not hugely nautical yet. Anyway, it was on the right and it nearly did for us.

Napoleon had gallantly volunteered to man the lookout amongst the chimney pots, (Wellington having informed me that he has more important tasks to perform, although he didn't elucidate,) but unfortunately Napoleon is given to deep and recumbent sleep in the afternoons - a foible that I suppose we must forgive. I did quiz him about it, but he just looked surprised and, with what I can only describe as a Gallic shrug, asked what else was there to do after lunch? I only mention this as we nearly hit Iceland. (If it was Iceland.) I had brought a long stick for repelling boarders and icebergs - exhausting tasks, both - and luckily I had it to hand, and was also peering down the sights of the shotgun at the time, which doubles neatly into a two barrelled affair and also a telescope.

Was it Iceland? I rely on your help in this matter.
There was indeed some ice and a lot of rock, and while the fjords seemed very pretty, I spotted a distinctly dodgy looking volcano and was struck by the rather fishy smell lingering in the air. On closer inspection there appeared to be quite a lot of cake around and some very nice horses, both of which seemed excellent reasons for landing. However, the remains of a very bad crash site - in which I spotted the fallout of what appeared to be no less than three banks - and a distinct rumble from the volcano made me hesitate, and the divine duo clinched the matter when they pointed out how few trees were visible from the shore.

So we're still in mid-Atlantic somewhere between here and there, and listing, I might add, rather heavily to the rear where there is a distinct drag factor. Further investigation has revealed that this is being caused by the spare dog bed bobbing along in our wake.It is tied to the back door by an assortment of leads joined end to end, and rather like Winnie the Pooh's honey jar, is sometimes afloat and sometimes not. Under-Dog, when questioned, immediately pointed the paw at Top-Dog who had the grace to look sheepish and said it was for incoming parcels. Apparently, they have entered into an arrangement whereby Paul the butcher continues to deliver the necessary once a week, without which, they say, their lives are rendered meaningless and devoid of hope and marrow. Top-Dog hastened to add that I was not forgotten in this transaction. My heart glowed momentarily at the thought of cheering hot sausages to fend off the Arctic winds, until he explained that I am just to be in receipt of the bill.

Top-Dog apologised to the Boss

Top-Dog apologised to the Boss for acting without due consultation and was let off with a caution as I have other matters on my mind. As I mentioned earlier, the house is leaking - water is literally pouring through  windows - and the hen's paddock is flooded. We could be growing rice - cold rice, it's true, but rice nonetheless. (Now there's a thought.) Also, I have started knitting rubber boots for the hens. Wellington is very chuffed, and has suggested we call them Wellington boots after him. A novel idea that I feel might catch on. He is obviously not as useless as I thought and clearly not to be wasted on such frivolous things as look-out duty. (I notice that he is also far too busy receiving the adulation of his girls.)

Wellington, well known for his boots

The wind is picking up again, and hail is clattering on the windows, so I shall, with regret, have to abandon New York as a destination. Lashing the roof down in a 95mph NNWer once in a week is quite enough, and I am tired of being seasick, so I shall plot a course due south to -  I know not where. Dinner - even with some fancy French sauce - will have to wait. Balmier weather and calmer waters are beckoning. At the moment, even the doldrums seem enticing.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Shoot them at dawn! (And anyone who wants to can watch)

Hooray, hooray - the pole warmer is up!

I have always felt that happiness is a decision.
It's not an accident, or the luck of the draw, or incidental.
It can, of course, be all of those things, but primarily I think it is an act of the will (even though sometimes it may prove impossible to accomplish).

And before anyone criticises me for being privileged enough to decide when I am, or am not happy, I don't think it's as superficial as that. Just look around you at the people who are, or who aren't happy.
There's no logical rhyme or reason.
Yes - I am privileged, if by that you mean I live in the west, have had a good education, have good health and have most of what I need to get from day to day.

However, there is (always) more to life than that.
And while I do have lots of things, I don't have a job, and although I live in the west, I live in Ireland.

Don't get me wrong - I love Ireland, I love this wild, wet, wonderful coast, I love the Atlantic beating in my eardrums. But Ireland is not a great place to live at the moment, any more than Greece is, or Italy, to name but two. Ireland is depressed - in every sense of the word.

Apparently our fearless leader is going to address the nation tonight, and I guess the burden of his tale will be just that - Ireland is not a good place to live at the moment..As I am unable to get RTE on my television, I won't be watching him.
And, to complete our joy, tomorrow is Irish Budget Day.
More cuts, more austerity measures, more gloom and despondency.
The newspapers will be full of it for weeks.

Everyone in Ireland is living in fear. There's no work, no money - no hope of work and no hope of money. Even the people who have any money seem terrified of spending it (well, maybe everyone is partying in Dublin, but they sure ain't in this neck of the woods), and I keep hearing that anyone who has any cash is doing their damnedest to get it out of the country for fear that it will be worth shirt-buttons in a week or two.
It's terrible to utterly lose confidence in something, isn't it?

And all very depressing, quite frankly. Cumulatively depressing.

I should probably be outside with a pick and shovel trying to dig up my house, so that I can remove it from the country, as everything I have is basically tied up in its ageing bricks and mortar. In fact, it's so wet here that maybe I could slide it off the edge into that wide Atlantic, and paddle it somewhere better, drier - more economically stable. I should pack the divine duo and the four cats into the car (especially poorly Hobbes and my little blind Pixie), stuff the hens into any spare spaces, mount Wellington, my enormous black cockerel, onto the bonnet, and tow the house away.
Where to, I wonder?
Denmark seems to be 'hot' on Irish lips.

Digging up the house

But if I can't tow my assets to financially greener pastures, maybe I could relieve my frustration by shooting someone instead.

Over the last few years the bankers - that generic term for everyone who has more say over my euro than I do - have come in for a lot of stick. And quite rightly, as by and large they have pissed an awful lot of money up against someone's wall. (And it wasn't mine. I checked.)
So let's shoot the bankers.

And no, I don't mind saying that out loud.
Jeremy Clarkson was pilloried in the UK this week for suggesting that public sector workers who went on strike should be shot in front of their families. In fact, it all became rather a storm in a teacup.(You'd think Britain had more to worry about, quite frankly.)


Jeremy Clarkson is a buffoon in my opinion. He is like some tiresome schoolboy who doesn't go away, who probably thinks the flour and water trick is still funny. But if he thinks people should be shot, why shouldn't he say so? Mercifully, his opinion doesn't make it be so. (And let's face it, anyone with half a brain could tell he wasn't exactly recommending a course of action.)
I've got to say, buffoon or not, I'd rather have him than that wet drip of an MP who bellyached loud and long about children having nightmares over their parents' fate as a result of Clarkson's remark. If I was in his constituency, I'd be campaigning for a by-election, but maybe his mother is proud of him.
(What has happened to make Britain so prissy these days? What has happened to freedom of speech? It's gone a bit lop-sided if it's OK for that clot to bang on about children's highly improbable nightmares, but not OK for Clarkson to have a bit of a rant. Maybe freedom of speech went out of the window along with our right to privacy. Daft really, as it's probably safer to let people have a bit of a rant than make them bottle it until one of them goes on a rampage.)

Sorry - I digress. I was meant to be cleaning my shotgun, ready for the shooting party, and stumbled on my soap box instead.

The thing is - I'm not sure who to shoot first.
It would be immensely satisfying to shoot a few bankers, even though I'd have to fight my way to the front of the queue here in Ireland, to have my turn.
It would also be doing the world a favour to shoot quite a few politicians (let's start with that weedy wet, that damp squib of an MP whose name I can't be bothered to remember).


But - and here's the thing - really and truly, it's the journalists we should shoot first.
Just think about it.
Where did you hear IT first? Where did you find out that you should be panicking? Who is always trafficking in anxiety?
It's the 'media', that broad, faceless mob. They are the ones who create the panic, the fear; so many of the problems - they take something that MIGHT happen (or might not) and make it happen, they augment it, manipulate it, shape it and decide how to present it, how to convince us that all is lost, that the worst is upon us, that our nightmares are realities, that the sky has indeed fallen on our heads.
They have more power over us than God.
They don't deal in words, they deal in emotive response, in the demolition of confidence, in the power of suggestion. They create unease, because stability doesn't serve them well.
And like sheep when a dog appears in the corner of the field, we all react.
The more we run, the better they like it - and if anyone stops running, they only have to lurch half a step forward and we're off again.
I heard a quote many years ago that I have never forgotten: 'A life lived in fear is a life half-lived'.
It's what we're all doing in Ireland at the moment.
That's what you call a shocking waste.

So, know any journalists?
Put crosses on their doors. We'll come by with carts in the half-light of dawn and take them away, because they're the ones who ought to be shot - first.
It might be painful to start with, but we'd all be better off in the long run.
And I don't care who watches.

But until I catch one, I shall have to carry on as best I can, and for a kick-off, that means making the most of every day. If nothing else, the Current Economic Situation (a phrase so much in common parlance, we might as well abbreviate it) has reminded us that our lives are full of simple pleasures that cost nothing. All we have to do is appreciate them. 

So - for one thing - da-dah! - the pole-warmer is finally up (and no, we didn't pop it over its head - we opened it wide and invited the pole to step in, which it did, blushing coyly.)

A snugly, buggly, blushing pole

It looks great, and makes people smile. And, closer to home, this evening, behind the rain-filled clouds, there is a hint of pink in the western sky, and a half moon is skimming the bare trees. Despite the cold wind, it is beautiful. Also, my hens are safely tucked in against the fox and the weather, the fire is lit, my gorgeous boys have phoned to say all is well in their lives, and I - yes, I will be happy.

Who knows what the morrow will bring, but today I will be happy - and that can only make me stronger.

And while any remnant of freedom of speech remains, don't hesitate to let me know what you think!


PS  If there are any politicians out there, having palpitations, just try to look on this as a metaphorical call to arms. You can do it.

PPS  If there are any hide-bound H&S executives out there getting hot under the collar, first you must ask yourselves, is it safe to get hot under the collar. Then, and only then - I don't actually have a shotgun. I haven't finished knitting it yet.

Where Have all the Children Gone?

I'm knitting a telegraph pole warmer.
I know - I know!
It wasn't actually my idea, but I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse!

It's for the pole outside Beltra Country Market and so far I've completed about six or eight feet of very colourful stripes. I have heard the odd grumble that it's a shocking waste of wool, but I don't agree. Sure, it will take a good bit to finish it, but by and large it is being constructed out of other people's left over balls (of wool, that is!) which wouldn't have been used for much else. And just the sheer daft concept of it has made a lot of people smile.

Anyway, spare a thought for the telegraph pole, standing there in wind, rain, hail and snow, with nothing to do all day but prop up the market's bunting. Oh, and all those telegraphy-pole things of course. I think it will be quite chuffed to have a cheerful, technicolour, stripey Joseph's-coat style warmer.

And it's not just the market members and our shoppers who will enjoy it. I hope it'll brighten up the morning for all the people who drive up and down that road every day, on their way to work, to college, to school - to sign on. 

14.4% of the population, that is. I know it's not just Ireland. The whole world is in a sorry state these days. The G20 Summit doesn't appear to have achieved a huge amount, except accentuate the fate of Greece, the Euro, Italy, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all. Everyone - everything hanging in the balance. Just a short while ago Ireland was at the top of the casualty list, right under the spotlight. And our condition didn't stop being critical just because we got bailed out.

I can't really take that term seriously. It always brings to mind the occasion when, driving in Hong Kong with my sister, we were stopped by a policeman for speeding. He insisted that we should accompany him to the police station 'to bail out!' - to which she caustically replied: 'Why, are you flooded?'

But I digress.
Ireland was bailed out. (It is regularly flooded, you see.)
It's not that I'm ungrateful to the powers that be who put their hands in their pockets on Ireland's behalf, it's just that I wonder what difference it has made to the average Joe Soap walking our streets. And the same goes for lots of other countries too. Instead of being in hock for all the things he signed up for - like a mortgage, a car loan, a credit card or whatever, now everyone in Ireland owes their bodies, their souls and even the unformed aspirations of their minds from now on, even unto the third, fourth and fifth generation. I'm no mathmatician, but this seems an un-do-able equation.

Unless of course people opt for the modus operandi advocated by Blank of Ireland - in which case they may get off debt-free even if not scot-free. But as it stands, the country is in a pretty bad way and financial security is a thing of the past.

It is 18 years ago this very week that we moved into our house. And in that time I think we have run the whole gamut of financial insecurity. Despite that, I have to say I don't regret coming to this beautiful part of Ireland for a minute, and given the chance to turn the clock back, I'd do it all over again. We were much younger then, and when you are young, financial security isn't generally your prime motivating force. Luckily - or none of us would have any adventures at all.

And I suppose it was an adventure. It was certainly a leap out of our comfort zone at the time, moving from South London to the west of Ireland, where the locals assumed we only had one ulterior motive. 'Oh, so you surf then?'
Surf? SURF?
Er - no!

We hadn't noticed the surf.
It was only later we discovered that the people who moved here generally came for the waves. It was the house we fell in love with. In truth, we hadn't even noticed the village - which is so tiny you daren't blink - but when we did, we found that it had a burnt out house, several derelict buildings and, eerily, no young people. Someone locally described it to us as: 'A one-horse village, and the horse has left.' Certainly all the kids had left. They routinely left when they finished school, because there was nothing to stay for. Everyone had a son in America, a daughter in England, a nephew in Australia...

The Irish are good at emigrating. They have had lots of practice. Back in the 1830s, when the Great Famine was still just a shadow on their horizon, cholera devastated much of Sligo, in many places leaving 'barely enough living to bury the dead.' And then, fifteen years later, cataclysmic food shortages decimated the remaining population and millions, as many as were able, left Ireland to make a new life anywhere that could offer them food, work and a future.

All tragedies in history leave a permanent scar on the peoples that endure them, but we didn't expect to find the legacy of that trauma still having such a potent effect 150 years on - people still leaving their country for the same reasons that caused their forebears to leave.

That was 18 years ago - the early 90s, a long time ago. You'd hope things had changed in the interim.
Sure, there was the much vaunted Celtic Tiger that leapt, wild and exotic into our midst, but sadly, like all wild, exotic things, its stay was short and glorious. Especially short. Perhaps it would have been better all round if it had been a paper tiger. Because now the country seems to be back in that deeply-hollowed, dark, familiar place that it hoped was a thing of the past. The place that has made the Irish the tough, resilient people they are.

Some reports state that 1000 people a week have been leaving Ireland for pastures new this year. Who knows if that is an accurate figure. But with a population of around just 4million, it's a lot of people if it is true. Just a few days ago my sons' friend told us that this year alone, more than 150 young people, known to her, have left from the village and its environs. Mostly to Australia and New Zealand.Who can blame them, if there is no work here, nothing for them to stay for? My own sons left a few years ago, to make their lives elsewhere.

The economic cost to the country of letting so much young blood slip away is one thing, but it is not the only - and for many not even the primary - consideration. The underlying cost of this financial crisis is the loss of our children. Our unformed aspirations are centred around our young, and for so many, these hopes and dreams will now come into being far away as the diaspora expands again. The biggest tragedy for Ireland is that once again it has returned to mourning its living sons and daughters, to missing them - as I do mine - 'like the deserts miss the rain'.

You need to be resilient.

So while I - while all of us - wait for the tide to turn, I will, like Madame Guillotine, continue with my knitting. It won't change anything. And I can't even claim any creative ingenuity, unlike my friend Frewin who knits handbags from old t-shirts, but one thing I do know - a telegraph pole warmer isn't a waste of wool. If it makes people around here laugh, or even just smile, then it's bloody marvellous.

Marigold petals, anyone?

No salad pix, but here's a good old Irish cabbage

The salad I got in the market is interspersed with bright orange marigold petals.
They are a joy to behold and a pleasure to eat.

No marigold petals either, but here are some carrots to conjure that glorious orange colour in your head

 It's lunchtime - after a walk in the woods.
I made the mistake though, of flicking on the radio. Not for long - it's a ducking out kind of day.
They are trying to save the euro.

I must say, with all life's ups and downs, it's good now and again when something makes you stop and laugh.
Even if it is hysterically.
It helps you realise just how uncomplicated your own life really is.
But the money-mayhem. I mean - where do you begin?
It's like some monstrous progeny of Medusa's head and the Titanic's iceberg.
And don't you think that when monetary problems hit billions and trillions, a kind of fiscal senility has kicked in? Maybe it's fiscal incontinence. Either way, it's incurable and if it was a person, you'd gently tuck it in a home.
If it was an animal, you'd gently put it down.

Don't put us down, it's not our fault. And we don't care, anyway - we're busy sleeping

You may have caught the barest whiff of the fact that I'm not an economist - but haven't any of these people in Brussels got kids? If they had they'd know that loans never get repaid!
It just isn't going to happen.
Their best option, really, would be to say to all these countries: 'Right lads, all bets are off. Tomorrow morning when we wake up, everyone's slate will be wiped clean and we'll start again. Meanwhile, no ice cream for the ones who messed up.'
(I haven't noticed the ice cream on hold in the corridors of power, I must say.
Precious little of it round these parts, however.)

Enough of that - before it drives me over the edge.

I didn't listen long enough to find out what lunchtime in Brussels has brought, but here it is very quiet. The divine duo are sleeping the sleep of the just.The only billions and trillions that lace their dreams are bonios - and not on loan to someone else, but snugly in a bonio-bank to which they have the only pin-number.
Their bellies have feasted, their feet have danced in the high places and consequently, all is forgiven.
For today, anyway.
(The generosity of dogs is unparallelled.)

Dinner guests in the Ramada Silver Robin

I'm not the only one having lunch, it seems.
The wiindow by my desk looks out onto the Ramada Silver Robin.
I am lucky enough that that isn't a hotel.
It's a restaurant. A bird table. And the first lunches of the season are in full swing now that the summer-smorgasbord is coming to an end. Doves, blue tits, great tits and chaffinches today. They can taste winter in the air. I have hung up a fat-ball and a lemon-net stuffed with stale bread.

I can taste winter in the air too. It is bright and sharp, the sun striking brilliant green off the mossy ash tree by the gate. In the woods this morning, the last leaves hung like ripe, golden pennies and the river rushed in clear, brown tea over the stones, but the undergrowth still froths, lush and green. It made me think of Dylan Thomas's poem -'Time held me green and dying, though I sang in my chains like the sea.'
The river was certainly singing, but not the young herons. They have got to know us now and when we approach they don't fly away, just warily swap banks. 'They're our woods,' they declare fiercely, whenever I stop to admire them.'Our woods, our river, and our salmon. So don't you forget it.'
I won't.

Top-Dog pretending to be asleep

I think the divine duo might have a thing or two to say though.