The Ghost of Christmas Present

We're Country Hicks these days, the In-Charge and I.
It wasn't always thus - back in the day, we were happy-go-lucky Londoners, but these years there's a good bit of straw in the auld hair and heaven knows what on the boots.
But recently we threw some vaguely respectable duds in the back of the car and headed to Dublin for a couple of days.

Listening to some radio show en route, I instantly resolved to see Matthew Bourne's Sleeping Beauty at the Bord Gais Theatre. I feel very deprived with regard to Matthew Bourne, as I never did see his Swan Lake. It was, the radio said, the last few performances of the ballet, and - knowing the In-Charge would rather watch paint dry, I planned to sneak in a matinee while he visited a friend's studio.
We had several lengthy appointments to work around, but still...

A meeting on the way took a bit longer than anticipated, so we got to Dublin later than planned, too late for that day's ballet matinee, anyway.
After checking in to the hotel, we headed round the corner to Oliver Sears - an obligatory pit-stop every visit. The In-Charge knew that the gallery was showing a Donald Teskey exhibition, so definitely not to be missed. It was fabulous, and if it's still on, go and see it for yourselves.

We play a game in galleries - daft but inevitable.
We separately decide which painting we can't possibly leave without.
Teskey's prices being what they are, it was going to be a picture imprinted on the brain or the phone, but better than nothing.
It took me ages to choose.

One of Donald Teskey's paintings at Oliver Sears

And even so, I'm still not certain.
I loved the Carrowkeel series too, and would have been happy to have left with those under the other arm.
Teskey spent a period of the summer up in Sligo, so the paintings particularly resonated.

One of the Carrowkeel series, Donald Teskey at Oliver Sears

After that, there was nothing for it but to nip into the National Gallery for another fix.
They had a new exhibition of portraits by John Butler Yeats, father of the more famous William.
The In-Charge liked his self-portrait. It makes him look a jovial sort of chap, but I'm not sure that he was.

JB Yeats - self portrait

I preferred the portrait of his daughter Lily (Susan) but on balance I'd probably have chosen a Sargent or an Orpen.
Or a Lavery. I've always wanted Lavery's portrait of Hazel and Alice and Rodney Stone.

Lavery's portrait of his wife

Maybe it's really Rodney Stone I want. He's just so beautiful.

Rodney Stone

After that, of course, we had to go into the National Gallery shop where we fell in love with more dogs.
This time Charles Wellington Furze beguiled us with his fanciful Diana, but there were lots of others too.

Diana and her hounds

We bought a book for a friend and moved out into the streets, slightly punch drunk. Looking at wonderful paintings seems to do that.
But being in Dublin's streets had another effect on us - they time-warped us forward. Although it was only mid November at the time, everything was wall-to-wall Christmas. I suppose that's normal, but not in our sleepy back-water and, to us at least, the 'Festive Season' still seemed a long way off.
The shop windows were spectacular, the pubs and restaurants were decorated to within an inch of their lives, and pre-Christmas sales were in full swing.

A Dublin pub in full Christmas regalia

 

 

 

 

A cross between Twenties glamour and Narnia's snow queen

Windows on Grafton Street.

I didn't make it to the ballet. Sadly, our appointments on both days overshot the matinee performance.
We didn't even make it to Suffragette, a movie I'd really wanted to see, as we'd missed it at home. On arriving at the cinema which still advertised the film on its programme, the box office said: 'Not Tonight, Josephine', or words to that effect. It was late by then, so we gave up and went to James Bond.
A bit of a damp squib, but there you go.

Before we knew it, we were heading back to the sticks, and now, several weeks on, our brief Dublin trip is receding into a ghostly reminiscence, but we both feel we've done Christmas.Somewhere along the line, there was even a turkey, ham and cranberry sandwich.

Now I am in the UK, where, amidst the floods and winds, there are Christmas trees and sparkly lights.
It feels rather odd, somehow, because surely by now we ought to be launching into New Year?

Blessings in Disguise

The gulls were high in the sky this morning, shrieking with laughter; the sky blue from end to end, and the sun hot on the back of my neck as I walked round the garden with the dogs.
I often wonder what the seagulls find so funny, but I love to hear them, just as I love to hear the rooks shouting and arguing like souk stall-holders.

It was not thus yesterday.
We awoke to wind and rain, and the day had that settled look that doesn't bode well when it's wet.
It was Bank Holiday Sunday, and over our bacon, eggs and marmalade we relinquished our gardening and wall-mending plans and debated whether or not to give in to the weather and curl up beside a fire with books and movies.
But then I remembered that a friend had posted about a craft fair on Facebook.
We piled into the car and set off.
It was being held in the Museum of Country Life's hallowed precincts in Co Mayo.

I admit with shame that despite having lived here for the last two decades, I've not previously visited the Museum. I've driven past it on numerous occasions, but only en route to somewhere else.
It occupies an old country house, and the new building housing the bulk of the exhibits, has been beautifully designed to fit as minimally as possible into the grounds.

A stray grass stalk spoiling the view of The Museum of Country Life

We had a great afternoon.
The grounds contain a small lake, a lovely greenhouse, a garden with herbaceous planting alongside a second lovely greenhouse, some handsome trees and a few interesting sculptures.

My camera pretended to take some nice pictures of the rampant flowers in the greenhouse

I took lots of photos in the gardens, but unfortunately my camera battery was on its last legs and it turns out that it was just pretending to take pictures, something I only discovered when we got home and it was too late to take them all over again.  I must have spent a good hour clicking away in happy oblivion. Mercifully it did finally resort to the black screen of death.
Luckily the In-Charge had his camera too, but he'd disappeared soon after we'd arrived. He's better at museums than I am, and was doing the rounds - methodically.

#2 Son and I headed to the Craft Fair in a marquee behind the house, and had a great time chatting to the different stall holders. Two friends were there, Liz Courtie who makes jewellery and buttons and ceramics and Jane Dunn who is an artist and sells prints and cards of her work.

Liz Courtie's ceramics and Jane Dunn's paintings and prints

We admired some felting and bought some goat's milk soap from Carra's Garden, and spent a long time chatting to Ella, a potter from Poland who had a range of stuff glazed with blue glass that sang to us. Her pottery is called Mood Designs.

Gorgeous blues, birds, felt and soap from Mood Design and Carra's Garden

Afterwards we joined the In-Charge on his tour of the museum. At least, we tried to, but once again he proved to be so elusive that we started to wonder if he'd actually accompanied us after all.
The museum was full of people, and was interesting, but I get a bit claustrophobic in museums, so, although I did the full tour, mine was, well, on the quickish side.

Eventually we all met up in the cafe and ate large wodges of cake, and then I borrowed the In-Charge's camera and went off to take a few photos - alas, not of the gardens.

As we were driving away, we paused to admire the bird boxes amongst the trees along the drive - there were lots of them.

 

An array of bird boxes in the grounds

I am very into bird boxes, especially having read that 12 wrens saved their lives by huddling together inside a nesting box during the very cold winter a few years ago.
I'm not sure that birds would nest in the Museum's boxes - I've a feeling birds are very particular about front door size and things like that - but they looked very pretty, and you never know.

While I was admiring the bird boxes, I walked through the trees to the edge of a large hollow. It was very steel sided and deep, and at the bottom a few lines were strung between the branches, with towels hanging on them.
The Museum's washing? An Installation? Campers?

I'm still wondering what that was all about.

The Museum's washing? An Installation? Campers?

It was a great afternoon, and not at all what we'd expected, looking out on the dismal torrents at breakfast.
I guess every now and again the rain is just a blessing in disguise.

One of the sculptures in the grounds.

 

Effing Visitors

Time flies.
Time lingers.
Time is elusive.
But mostly it just stalks you, and gobbles you up when you're not looking.
I have been gobbled.

The trouble is, it also leaves you gagged. It's like bumping into someone you haven't seen for ages, and the silence draws out between you, stickily, rooting you to the spot with an inane smile but nothing to say.
Where do you begin? The intervening days, weeks, months don't lend themselves to broad sweeps of the brush, yet the minutiae seems irrelevant, trivial.
'How've you been?' you ask lamely.
'Fine - great! Well - you know...busy...'

I haven't intended to be away from these pages. In an ideal world, I would sit down on Wednesdays and Sundays and fill in the gaps - dash off a few lines summing up my week, my life, my plans for world domination; stir in some photos and hopefully a pinch of spice and try to get it to the boil before life embroiled me again.
But then, in an ideal world, my house would be spotless, I'd live somewhere warm and dry and my bank manager would call me 'Sir'.
For some unknown reason, nothing ever works like that.
Why is that, d'you think?


Fantasies aside, I'm not really sure where the last few months have gone.

What was Henri doing in the cherry tree? Posing

I went to England for while, and when I got home it was blossom time - which suits the posers in my household to a T. But have you ever noticed that the clock moves at very high speed during April and May? The days, which allegedly are getting longer, in fact get shorter than ever. There is never time for anything, and the weeks whizz past with unseemly haste and no decorum.

Goldilocks on the terrace

Model Dog sashaying past the tulips

I don't think the In-Charge really noticed the blossom at all. He has been working like a demon, practically walling himself into his college studio. His Grad Show was last week, he is taking part in another Exhibition which opens this weekend - Sligo Emerging Artists, and has just submitted some work to a third.

He's there, at the moment, hanging - not himself, hopefully - but lots of pictures: drawings and paintings. I saw a good few of them for the first time this morning, and will be very disappointed if I don't see them on the wall later in the week.

It's not that I don't trust him, but quite frankly, I wish I was there, hanging them myself. He is all too likely to dismiss his own work and put it to one side. Left to his own devices, he wouldn't even have taken most of them to the gallery this morning.
In my experience of the In-Charge, taking them is no guarantee of hanging them.
Eejit.

The best and loveliest thing that has happened this year was way back in April. I'd just returned from a visit to the UK, and on the Saturday morning set off for the market, as is my wont.
'Will you be gone all morning?' the In-Charge asked.
What kind of question is that?
When did I ever return mid-morning on market day?
When I did get back, there was an unknown British car in the yard and my heart sank. I was tired, and unexpected visitors were not what I wanted, especially as the house resembled a bomb-site.
I sat in the car for several minutes, watching the hens and gathering strength. It would probably be someone who'd grown up here, or stayed with us when we were a B&B. We get visitors like that quite often, which is lovely in general - but just not that particular morning.
The In-Charge appeared. 'We've got effing visitors,' he said tersely, confirming my worst fears. 'You'd better come in.'
It took several more minutes to get myself sufficiently motivated, but I finally pinned a smile in place and went inside.

There have not been many occasions in life that have rendered me totally speechless, but this was one of them.
My son - my darling, gorgeous, and not-been-seen-for-over-a-year son, the very same, was sitting at the kitchen table, along with his adorable ex-girlfriend and her own little boy .
A surprise visit, cooked up between them and the In-Charge (the rat).
And not a bed made, nor a cake baked, nor a single barrow of rubble cleared from the bomb-site.

But what bliss.
He's been in Miami and the French West Indies since October, and was working constantly before that, so it's been a long time. Too long, but here he was, for his birthday weekend.

The sun shone, the sky was blue and we went to the beach, picnicked, ate cake and drank champagne. All the things you should do.
Total heaven. And the best bit of all was seeing them back together again and meeting her dote of a son.
The best 'effing visitors' in the world.