Tis the season.....For cloudscapes, storms and blind panic!

Part Seventeen.

‘All over the world, strangers talk only about the weather’…. (Tom Waites)

Well there was certainly plenty to talk about. The outward trip on the ferry was absolutely fine, no problem at all, flat as a pancake. Nonetheless I treated myself to a cabin as I had got a ‘buy six get one free’ trip. It is soooo much more civilised, whether you sleep or not (and sadly it’s mostly not as I get paranoid that if I fall asleep I won’t wake up and the whole car deck will remain at a standstill while I snore on and that I will eventually be extracted from my cabin by a burly steward and have to do the walk of shame in front of scores of psychotically irate motorists, this despite having set the alarm on both phones, because the battery will die on at least one of them). The fact that the tannoy (seemples again!) is loud enough to wake the clinically dead fails to reassure me. So I toss restlessly in my bunk. It’s still better than being wedged into a slightly sticky plastic seat, with some obese smelly bloke clutching a Peppa Pig pillow and duvet settling down on one side and a tribe of  hyperactive infants tripping out on sugar and additives with zombie parents on the other. The bloke will, inevitably remove his shoes to expose threadbare socks through which horny yellow toenails protrude. 

Then, out of politeness, he will settle down with them pointing towards you, and the smell starts to insinuate itself into your sinuses. Meanwhile, the infants will shrilly and insistently demand food. When it is eventually supplied they will spread it over the widest possible area while fighting volubly with their siblings and vociferously demanding money and entertainment from their defeated parents.

So, not appreciably rested, but at least not actually hallucinating (yet) I disembarked… and forgot to turn my headlights on. Luckily I was stopped and informed of this before anything terrible happened. Much to my disgust, nobody had asked to see the dog’s extremely expensive passport, I was on the verge of whipping it out and waving it at the bloke who stopped me to tell me about my lights!

I have developed a sort of routine, so I know the best service stations to stop at to ensure optimum distances are covered before I run out of diesel. In fact, I am almost relaxed about my erratic fuel gauge now. Instead I just have to worry about my leaky rear axle and the distressing rumbling sound it makes if I decelerate (a bit like ‘Speed’ without the explosives, well, probably without the explosives).

We progressed sedately towards our destination, although the dog got a nasty shock when I started singing very loudly. I do this to keep myself awake, unfortunately it is an utterly tuneless racket and I can only justify it by telling myself it’s good for my oxygen intake. Needless to say, anyone overtaking me (which would be everyone else on the road) gets the impression they are sharing the tarmac with a deranged woman, which might explain why they speed up so dramatically (although it might also be because they wish to leave the acrid cloud of diesel smoke behind as swiftly as possible).

As usual I remember very little of the drive, but I did the usual stop at the supermarket where I bought some entirely unsuitable clothes for my grand daughter and suddenly realised it was my mate’s birthday. We traditionally get the dates wrong, or just plain forget, so delivering a card on the day would be a once-in-a-lifetime event. It still will be, as I failed to deliver it on the day.

I know I must have arrived safely (not so sure about other road users, but there were no major dents in my Landrover….) and unloaded (there was stuff all over the place the following day and the van was empty), but that’s about it.  To my eternal embarrassment and shame, the replacement glass for my stove (which I purchased through a less than helpful and efficient UK agent at huge expense… I still think he shafted me on the delivery cost) arrived on my mate’s birthday, at her house (I never know where I’m going to be on a given date until I arrive) in a huge box. Thinking it was a surprise present, she set to unwrapping it and was both bemused and disappointed to discover it’s contents. Apparently her face was a picture… One which I’m relieved I didn’t have to see, as all I had got her was a pair of socks….

The following morning dawned clear and frosty, another novel event as frost is exceptionally rare in that part of the country. The dog and I ventured forth for a walk, but she somehow failed to notice the legions of rabbits scattering before her.

Either her eyesight is going or she just can’t be bothered, still, it was a beautiful morning and I tried her patience, spending an hour collecting pretty shells until she got fed up and yapped relentlessly until I got a move on.

The weather remained clear and dry, if rather windy, for much longer than I had a right to expect. 

I did a fair bit of weeding and have rediscovered several herbs, although I’m not at all sure what they are. The horseradish has gone into hiding and several onions which I failed to harvest are coming along nicely now the weeds have backed off. I am experimenting with the use of crocosmia leaves as a weed suppressing mulch, however the gales may have buggered things up just a bit. I also put down some heavy duty weed suppressing membrane. Ditto for that in the gales, despite the ton or so of rocks I used to secure it.

I did manage to chop down a formidable bank of brambles and had my most successful bonfire ever. It burned for three days. Apparently the family record (held by my 102 year old aunt) is somewhere over seven weeks.

I am very far from being a morning person, in fact I am positively sociopathic until well in to the afternoon according to some people (others just say I am sociopathic all the time), but dawn arrives at a more civilised time in winter, and there were some magnificent sunrises. These saw me capering around the back garden in my pyjamas brandishing the camera and freezing my more sensitive bits while trying to avoid stepping in the dog mines. The dog, of course, having completed the necessary was curled up comfortably on the sofa. Some of the results were worth it though.

I always have the best of intentions for writing while I am in Ireland. They always come to nowt. I’m not sure why this is and I can’t blame the drink this time as I abstained (mostly). Perhaps it’s being too close to my subject?

Instead I went to visit my cousin and return her tiller. The plan was that I would assist with planting the orchard in return for the loan of said tiller, so I dressed appropriately and turned up looking like a bad tempered gnome who had spent the night in a ditch.

Just as we were about to head for the orchard-to-be a neighbour and her dog turned up, with news of a poorly baby seal on the slipway. The seal pup turned out to be very ill indeed.

We hunted the internet to try and discover what to do. My inclination was to wrap it up, but the website said not to. It turns out that the reason for this is so that you don’t get bitten. I ended up spending several hours standing guard over the poor creature while my cousin attempted to summon assistance. In the course of this I met a couple of gentlemen. Well, only one to begin with. He was peering at the seal and I explained that my cousin and myself were doing our best to help it. He offered the opinion that it had been shot, as the local fishermen have little time for seals. It then turned out that he was a tallships sailor and we had some mutual acquaintances (this was by way of being a huge coincidence bearing in mind that I am standing by a lake in the absolute middle of nowhere)

 and that he knew my late uncle. It transpired that he was there to keep an eye on his friend who was in swimming (it’s December, that’s insane!) and his friend is a retired captain of Irish Shipping who knew the man that bought my uncle’s house after he died and found a collection of family papers therein. I was quite astonished by this turn of events, but it didn’t seem appropriate to pursue the conversation further as the poor man was standing there dripping and naked (apart from a pair of Speedoes, which don’t really count). We exchanged numbers and they drove off into the sunset.

In the end we decided to summon the vet as the local seal rescue failed to respond. It was too late for the seal pup, who had to be put down.

I had somehow managed to ignore the approach of Christmas. Suddenly it dawned upon me that I had bought no presents whatsoever. I did get a text from Himself, asking what I would like. Now I’ve been hinting (very specifically) about a bracelet I rather like for a couple of years. So I suggested a bracelet. No response. I asked him what he might like. No response. Deciding that maybe the bracelet had failed to capture his imagination, I suggested a chainsaw (petrol). This elicited a lengthy response, the gist of which being that a chainsaw was too bloody expensive. He asked for a monocular with compass and light. Such things simply do not exist in the furthest depths of rural Ireland, and I had no internet! I asked my daughters what they might like. A nice jumper, said one. A nice coat or a pair of long boots said the other. So I spent the next week frantically searching the local shops. The trouble is, my daughters live in London and Leeds. Their shopping expectations are somewhat at variance with the reality of small town Ireland. I took pictures and emailed them. Nope, didn’t like anything. I suggested a side of bacon and a bale of turf as these were readily available. I don’t think my daughters share my sense of humour.

I departed a day early in order to do a bit of frantic shopping in the big smoke. On the way I came to a Garda checkpoint. They were looking at tax and insurance. As I was in a UK reg van I thought they would just wave me through…. Uh uh… Some cheeky little fecker who was still learning to shave said

‘are you resident in Ireland?’ Uh, no? ‘

Are you sure?’ Ummm, yes? It’s not something it’s easy to be confused about. ‘

Do you have any identification?’… so I produce my passport and he can’t find the photo page (he was intrigued by the Russian visa though). Eventually I put him out of his misery and told him it was at the back.

 ‘Are you working in this country?’ Er, no? ‘

Are you sure?’ Well, yes, it’s something I’m sure I would have noticed.

‘So you don’t pay tax in this country?’ No, what are you? Customs and revenue in disguise???

Meanwhile an extensive queue is developing behind me, the dog has gone back to sleep and I’m munching on a packet of crisps.

 ‘So if I ask the inland revenue they will tell me you aren’t working here?’ Well I should think so on account of the fact I’m not!

He then wandered off with my passport and scribbled something in a notebook. I had lost interest and drifted off into a reverie by the time he returned. ‘I’ll be seeing you around then” …… ‘I’ll be seeing you around then’. Whaa??? Oh, are you talking to me? Sorry, I’d drifted off. No, I doubt you will.

‘You can’t work in this country and drive a UK registered car’ Uh, right, whatever (I’m sure this isn’t true, there’s just a time limit) Cheery bye…..(dickhead).

Timing being everything it was the day of the big storm and I dashed from shop to shop getting wetter and more windblown with each failed attempt. I phoned my daughter about a jumper (she’s quite particular) but was none the wiser. To be honest, I reckon I spent as much on phone calls about the bloody jumper as I did on the jumper itself. I found a coat for the other one, but it was many sizes too big. Eventually I gave up and got in a taxi to my cousin’s house, bundled the reluctant dog in and set off. Did I mention the storm? The one which blew the roof off the railway station? The one which lashed rain to the point where no one could see a thing and I nearly got squashed by a lorry? The one which saw all the ferries cancelled, except mine. It was packed. I was lucky as I was one of the few single travellers, so I had no trouble bagging a single cabin. I stuffed the dog into the dog smuggling bag (I hate leaving her in the van when it’s rough) and we settled down in relative comfort for the night (although I did wake to find her on guard, with her bum in my face). The remainder of the journey was relatively uneventful, although I realised my alternator was kaput somewhere on the M62 and spent the remaining hour in a cold sweat, praying my lights wouldn’t fail.

I got the bracelet.

She didn’t like the jumper.

Stop me and buy one (again!) go on, go on, go on......

I took all of these in Ireland, I'm going to post them in batches. If you would like a print of one (6"X8"), then please donate to either of the selected charities, Cancer Research or http://cuhcharity.ie/donate/online-donation/,  let me know which one you would like (I've given them all numbers)  via comments or email and I will send you a lovely glossy print :-) Handy for Xmas???

These are just a small selection.....

2a

2b

2c

2d

2e

2f

2g

2h

2i

2j

2k

2l

2m

2n

2o

Deja vu???

Part sixteen.

I’ve been waiting for the dog’s passport to become valid (which reminds me that mine is due for renewal). While she is hopefully becoming immune to rabies, I have headed Oooop North. 

One of the primary reasons for this is a househunting mission. It seems that in the course of the last couple of years I have become no wiser when it comes to estate agents. Of course I did all the usual stuff, spent hours trawling the internet looking at slightly misleading pictures… How exactly do they make an 8X10 living room  appear to be 16 X 20? Perhaps they have a stock of specially miniaturised furniture?

Of course I am not at all familiar with the area, so I got Himself to drive around a bit and do a recce. The area in which my daughter is most interested is the student area. It appears on first (and second) inspection, to be a human zoo. It is also overpriced and boasts the kind of housing stock that gave Dickensian landlords a bad name.

Further forays to the surrounding areas have proved to be an education… When house hunting in Ireland, it was unnecessary to consider the concept of the ghetto (it makes no difference to the price of your house whether your neighbours are cattle or sheep). This is not so in Leeds. Failing to pay attention to the local demographic could be disastrous.

After our excursions I emailed the various estate agents, who by and large ignored me. I did get the details for a number of properties about twenty miles away (and very attractive they were too), but my criteria of ‘under £XXXk and within walking distance of the university’ seemed to have got lost in the ether.

I did finally manage to speak to one or two individuals, and attempted to explain myself and my ignorance. I thought the simplest way to do this was to say ‘if you wouldn’t want your 19 year old daughter living there, then neither would I’. This strategy met with varying degrees of success. For a start, perhaps I should have mentioned that she is violently asthmatic and horribly sensitive to fungal spores, so a property with moisture pouring down the walls and an exotic pattern of mould on the ceiling (sometimes indistinguishable from the wallpaper) will not be suitable.

Most of the properties which fell within the budget were pretty similar, so really the deciding factor was the neighbourhood. We were shown around one delightful little place. Recently refurbished (this instantly aroused suspicion in Himself), close to all amenities, neighbouring houses looked loved and tended… There was however, a rather peculiar building occupying all of the opposite side of the road. It was a fetching shade of pink and our agent said it was squash courts once upon a time. I noticed that there seemed to be a sauna there now, next to the bingo hall. I ventured that we thought it might be a brothel, but was informed that it was a private club/pub type thing. Further research online later revealed that it was indeed a Gay sauna and meeting place which boasted such amenities as a ‘rim stool’, St Andrews cross (I’m pretty certain this isn’t a flag…) and several porn cinemas catering for all tastes. I continue to treasure my ignorance as to the purpose of the above implements, but it became pretty clear that the activities within made Sodom and Gomorrah look like a kindergarten nativity play.

 I also discovered what a ‘Bear’ was, which cast a new light on the name of the neighbour’s house…’Bear’s Ave’, which I had previously thought to be a rather weak pun on the name of the road….

I can see all this putting a serious crimp in resale values… Moving swiftly on….

And so we kept on looking (much to the disgust of the daughter, who had fallen in love with the above property…). Not that the experience made me at all twitchy or suspicious, but my research into other potential properties became a lot more rigorous… It appears that the large and extremely well secured establishment opposite another house was home to a large number of shell companies, all of whom had the same directors, one of whom had recently been banged up for getting caught by Customs and Excise…. Very strangely indeed, almost every house on that street had been sold on the same date, for the same price…..

To fill in the gaps between going to view houses (when the bloody estate agents can be bothered getting back to me!) I have been assisting with the upkeep of Himself’s manor. As you may be aware, this is not a task for the fainthearted. I began with a little light chainsaw work,

 as Himself has recently invested in a woodburner. He claims this is exclusively for my benefit. Of course it has nothing whatsoever to do with the price of gas and the large number of trees (free fuel) taking over his garden…. This free fuel however, will not be available till next year, in the meantime he is researching suppliers… And buying from B&Q….

Then we did some rendering, which was a little tricky as the wall in question was very effectively screened by many years of unpruned shrubbery, which may be why the render was falling off….

It was at around this point that he received a phone call and buggered off for a weekend’s sailing. It was an astonishing display of spontaneity, as I cannot normally extract him from his rut without several months meticulous planning and a number of cunningly crafted arguments. I usually end up resorting to barefaced blackmail in the end anyway.

With all this uninterrupted time on my hands I butchered the garden and did a phenomenal amount of washing. He complained about the amount of electricity used.

We then set to clearing and insulating the loft. This may sound straightforward. In fact it meant grovelling on your belly, face down in the sooty remains of the industrial revolution, with fibreglass insulation circa 1960 inveigling it’s way into every crevice. The bunny suits and masks made us look like mutant ducks.... 

It seems we cleared about a ton of rubble from up there, which might go some way to explaining why the ceilings are bowing, and in one case collapsing???

We toddled off to pick up some insulation and somehow managed to jam nine large rolls into the back of my little van.. Well, almost. Due to a slight misunderstanding (I was more or less lying under the van at the time, trying to prevent the last roll from falling out as I closed the door) I failed to notice that Himself hadn’t extracted his hand from further up. So I swiftly banged the door shut… He roared, he hopped, he swore. He kicked the offending roll of insulation before going on to repeat the performance several times. We were beginning to acquire an audience and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the CCTV turns up on YouTube! It probably didn’t help that I couldn’t hide my laughter…..

I bought him an extremely large PLAIN rug, so I don’t have to look at his horrible carpet anymore and re arranged the living room furniture so it no longer resembles an old folk’s home down on it’s luck… He has been extremely reserved in his appreciation of this. I also bought him a special box for putting all his stray socks in, and tidied the landing so it is less of an obstacle course. You don’t have to turn sideways in order to enter the office now. He is complaining that he has bought all the beer this week and was obliged to pay for lunch because the card machine was down.

In the interests of health, safety and sanity I have booked a ferry.

Stop me and buy one!

I took all of these in Ireland, I'm going to post them in batches. If you would like a print of one (6"X8"), then please donate to either of the selected charities, Cancer Research or http://cuhcharity.ie/donate/online-donation/,  let me know which one you would like (I've given them all numbers)  via comments and I will send you a lovely glossy print :-) Handy for Xmas???

1g

1h

1a

1b

1c

1d

1e

1f

1i

1k

1m

1n

1o