Merry Christmas, Belfast!

A window in City Hall

I've been dodging the rain recently - if at all possible.
I was back in Suffolk, visiting my folks, where it is notoriously dry compared with the rest of the British Isles. While I was there, the In-Charge was nearly washed - and blown - away here on the west coast. I ended up staying on in the UK for an extra few days, not as a deluge-avoidance tactic, but because my Dad wasn't in great form, but it was a sensible decision all round, as it seems doubtful that my plane would have landed - mid Desmond - at our exposed local airport, had I returned on time.
When I did get back, I just about had time to swap the contents of my suitcase over before we headed off to Belfast for a long-booked, three-day break - a wonderful present from a friend.
Gorgeous #2 Son came home to mind the shop, as it were, in our absence, bless him.

City Hall, with the Christmas Market clustered around its walls

Bliss.
I would quite happily live in a hotel, if the Model Dogs could come too.
What, as they say, is not to love? Especially at this time of year.
The Christmas trees were up, the bed was gloriously comfortable, hot water power-hosed out of the taps whenever I wanted a bath, the room was cleaned and the bed made while I was out doing happier things, and we had only to lift a telephone to receive sustenance, night or day. There was also a fridge to chill my prosecco, and breakfast, each morning, catered for every whim I might have had, the restaurant offered dinner if you couldn't be bothered going out, the bar drinks.

We were both tired, and decided to just have a relaxing couple of days pottering around.
At least, that was the plan. But no sooner had we dumped our stuff in the hotel, than out we went for a scrummy - but restrained - lunch at a delectable city cafe up the road, immediately blew that by having large helpings of pudding; staggered off to see The Lady in the Van (wonderful); got caught in the rain, missed the bus (my fault), hailed a cab; steamed in the bath to ward off rain-induced chills; and then settled down to a long, lazy dinner over a bottle of nice red in the hotel restaurant.
(If the Models had been under the table to discretely receive the bits I couldn't manage, all would have been perfect.)

One of the tables in Harlem Cafe - a glass-topped box of shells. Beautiful.

The lovely interior of City Hall

Over breakfast the next morning, which neither of us did justice to (too much dinner), we planned our day. It was miraculously dry, but breezy and cold outside.
At home we'd have been eating porridge, but as we'd both peered separately into the steaming silver vat on the buffet table and decided that we only fancied porridge if we'd cooked it ourselves, we opted for other fare. Porridge, let's face it, is not felicitous to behold.


The In-Charge then went off to catch up with his mate Colin, and see his studio. I went - surprise, surprise - to the Christmas Market clustered around the City Hall, five minutes walk from the hotel.

By the end of our three days, we'd done at least a week's worth of walking, visited most of the shopping  areas in the city centre, wandered around St George's Market, seen the Christmas Market at night, bedecked with fairy lights, eaten and drunk our fill several times over, been to IKEA and an English supermarket, shoved all our festive UK-bound mail into a British post box and seen three movies. We'd also popped in to St Malachy's, the lovely old church the In-Charge helped our friend DodoWoman to restore a few years ago, and visited Colin Davidson's amazing 'Silent Testimony' at the Ulster Museum. It is a superb exhibition - portraits of people bereaved or injured during the Troubles.

St Malachy's Church in Alfred Street, Belfast.

The In-Charge helped our friend DodoWoman repaint the specialist artwork of the interior a few years ago.

St Malachy's Roman Catholic Church, whose foundation stone was laid in 1841. The church is an unusual shape - wide but not deep, as apparently it was decided not to build the nave, but instead to give the money this would have cost to poor relief. The 1840s were the period of the Great Famine in Ireland, in which over a million people died of hunger or related diseases. A further million emigrated, with many more following in later years.

 

Colin Davidson's portrait of Jeff Smith who was paralysed by a bomb in Fermanagh

Colin Davidson's portrait of Mo Norton, whose brother was killed by an IRA bomb

The In-Charge went for a drink with Colin in his local. It had one of my favourite WB Yeats poems on the wall, put together out of old printer's blocks. He took a photo of it for me. I think it's rather wonderful, but I wonder how quickly, after it was made and polished and put up on the wall, its creator spotted the spelling error?

It was a lovely few days in a beautiful city.
We were almost too tired to drive home, but fortunately the In-Charge is deeply reliable at times like that.
I just about caught a snap of 'Rise', the vast football-shaped sculpture on the way out of town, before I fell asleep and left him to get us home.

Thank you, Clare.

Belfast's sculpture 'Rise' - it looks like a vast football within a football. Perhaps that's the idea!

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.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

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.