My lovely house (with apologies to Father Ted): Bucolic bliss.

I saw Orcas here

Part Nine

It was with considerable trepidation that I approached my next trip to Ireland. After the amount of rain there had been I half expected to find mangroves sprouting in my front garden. On my last visit I had taken to leaving the gate open (and risking the accusation of cattle rustling if anything strayed in) in order to get a good run up through it. My little van had coped womanfully, but I did cringe when I saw steam (or possibly smoke) arising from her front tyres as Himself tried to bully her through the gate. I really must put some hardcore down….

At that time the Landrover (a venerable Defender 90) had not been quite ready for an epic journey…. And then it got nicked. Having recovered it I still wasn’t convinced she was ready for an Epic Journey and I suspect Himself had his reservations too. The bullet however, had to be bitten, so I set off into the night, fully equipped with a bewildering variety of necessary fluids (for the vehicle), an enormous jack which I struggled to lift, a tommy bar (whatever that is) and a 19mm spanner, so I could grovel underneath the oil filter every few hundred miles in order to tighten the nut where the oil was pissing out. I also had a generous supply of Valium for the dog who had developed an instant and deep seated antipathy to the new wheels (emphatically and colourfully demonstrated by honking into my lap in the middle of nowhere… several times. Just very occasionally I am grateful that I never bother to tidy up all those old crisp bags and sweet packets….)

I was ready to beg Himself to please please (grovel, snivel) come with me as resident mechanic (and electrician), but he had more important things to attend to…. Or possibly he just wasn’t that interested in how long it would take him to develop terminal piles in the passenger seat.

In spite of my worst fears (and they were graphic and legion) the dog and I made it off the ferry and into a grey, cold and dank Dublin morning, leaving only an oily puddle in our wake. I stopped outside town to refuel, after a brief but entertaining game of ‘Whacky Races’ down the quays (driving the roadgoing equivalent of a tank is a revelation, I got space and respect from taxis!! Well, sometimes). I have little confidence in the fuel gauge, it swings wildly back and forth like a bloody metronome with every bump, incline and corner, leaving me none the wiser as to whether I had another hundred miles in there, or whether I was about to grind to an embarrassing standstill in the middle of the motorway.

I took the (great) opportunity to prostrate myself on the garage forecourt and tweak my offending nut. As I emerged, slightly soiled, the bloke at the next pump sucked his teeth, shook his head and advised me that I needed something called ‘Threadseal’. I might have been more gracious in my response had I not already been covered in unnameable awfulness, and had it not been a freezing seven AM in the middle of nowhere.

We trundled on in the slow lane, my kidneys and various other internal organs vibrating in a syncopated counterpart to the efforts of the landrover. Daylight occurred eventually. At some point I became aware that I was no longer capable of focusing on the numberplate of the lorry I was tailgating, which suggested it might be time to take a break. In Ireland there are virtually no motorway services, so my comfort break detour was something in the region of thirty miles by the time I found and rejoined the motorway( I had seen it a tantalisingly short distance over a couple of fields, time and again, but never within reach of the road… would anyone notice if I just took a shortcut…..?)

The Satnav wasn’t much help, mostly I couldn’t hear it above the roar of the engine, not that it would have made any difference. It spent most of the time placing me in the middle of a bog and urging me to ‘turn around where possible’. Perhaps it is in need of an update?

The dog dozed in a reasonably happy stupor, I envied her and must confess I considered joining her (there’s no difference between dog valium and human valium is there?). Perhaps I actually did, because I don’t remember much more of the journey. Or possibly it was just mind numbingly dull and I was nearly catatonic with exhaustion.

As far as we can figure out, the top speed of the Landrover is about 55mph, after which a whole new symphony of distressing noises commences. I don’t know which ones are significant, but then again, do I really want to find out? We had done a brief roadtest and ascertained that the speedo (and probably the mileometer) were overreading by a factor of about ten percent. By now my brain was to beaten up to give a shit and when I wasn’t being overtaken by tractors I was overtaking Garda cars.

We did the usual ringroad hell, not improved by the fact that my lovely Landrover is one big blindspot. Only an utter nihilist would attempt to undertake me. It seems that there are a few of them about. More by luck than judgement, there were no expensive crunching noises and we made steady if laborious progress. I was having happy fantasies about a lovely comfortable bed when it dawned on me that it might be a good idea if I had one. I have dreamed about a lovely comfortable bed of my own for years. When I first married we had a mattress (with it’s own colourful and unfortunate history), but no bed. Eventually we got a bed, but a new mattress was considered a shameful extravagance by the ex, so the old one stayed. It moved with us to a new house, but even when I had to put several blankets on to protect my tender bits from invasive springs, and he moaned constantly about a stiff neck and sleeping badly, a replacement was still beyond our means. The mattress was finally replaced at about the same time I was (oh the irony…) As for Himself’s sleeping arrangements, well, they are antique, but not in a good way. His mattress could best be described as a hammock with an ecosystem.

Now I had picked up a double bedstead quite cheaply (well, free actually) in England, but since I first brought it home to Himself’s garage I have been unable to squeeze it into either the van or the Landrover. Even if I did, it has no base or mattress. If I had been less tired and more resourceful I could probably have cobbled something together out of old pallets and a couple of dead sheep, but I wasn’t in the mood. My subsequent course of action could probably be blamed upon sleep deprived delirium. I pulled up at a furniture emporium just outside the nearest market town. God alone knows what passed through the proprietor’s mind as I dropped my travel soiled bulk on a series of brand new mattresses, at least I had left the dog in the Landrover (much to her disgust) . He was most obliging though (except when it came to haggling) and after a short time I staggered out having somehow agreed to the purchase of an unreasonably large bed (and mattress, I didn’t have time to go mowing down unsuspecting sheep, who start to smell after a while anyway). This would mean that I would need a whole new set of bedlinen, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Delivery was arranged for ASAP, after a protracted and tortuous explanation of how to find me. In the end I gave up and just gave him my mate’s phone number and address, saying I would lead them from there. I uttered dire warnings about the possible state of the track, and suggested that it would be wise if the delivery crew wore wellies as they might have to manhandle the whole lot from the front gate. The poor bloke was probably regretting his clinching offer of free delivery by that stage….

When I got to the house it seemed my worst fears were realised, my neighbour (this is a relative term, he’s at least half a mile away) has cattle in the field below me. A full set of cows, calves and a sizeable bull in fact. He’d been using the tractor to bring fodder to them and the gateway now resembled the aftermath of a re enactment of the battle of the Somme. The Landrover cruised gently over all the mess, and all was instantly forgiven (once I had shuffled my kidneys back into place). Having emptied what I could from the landrover I ate something and fell over… I think.

My main mission was the digging of the vegetable garden, which would start with the excavation of all those bramble and nettle roots and hopefully conclude with the planting of spuds and other veggies. I had bucolic visions of digging up fresh new potatoes, seasoning them with my own herbs and plucking ripe fresh raspberries for dessert. Obviously this picture is illuminated by clear golden sunshine, birds singing and maybe a gentle breeze carrying the mingled scents of the ocean and new mown hay.

That vision would have to work hard to sustain me, as what I had right now was a cold grey mist, interspersed by an even colder scouring rain with accompanying wind, the scents were mainly cow slurry and burning gorse, with a delicate backnote of rotting seaweed.

The next morning I ventured out to assess the situation. The first job was to chop up the remaining gorse which I had hacked down last time. This at least had the virtue of warming me up and providing fuel for a week or two. The vagaries of our recent extremely weird weather meant that the temperature stubbornly refused to climb above four or five degrees, so I was grateful for anything combustible.

For the first time in months (or so it seemed) is stopped raining for a measurable period of time, so I approached the recently cleared bramble patch armed with determination and a garden fork. Within ten minutes I had bent a prong and utterly failed to extract even one bramble root. It was clear that I could spend the next two weeks pursuing this approach and get nowhere! I needed mechanical assistance. On the basis that I couldn’t afford a JCB and they probably wouldn’t let me drive it (spoilsports!) I decided that a rotovator was the way forward. The first place I called would sell me one, but didn’t hire, The second would hire, but insisted I would need a trailer, which they couldn’t provide. The third stroke of genius was to call the man who cuts my grass (should it ever become warm enough for it to grow). I had never met the man. We communicated by largely incomprehensible voicemail messages. Eventually I got him in person (unless voicemail has advanced to the point of conversing…). He had no rotovator, but he did have a trailer he could lend me. By this rather roundabout method I arranged the hire of said rotovator. The trailer was due to be dropped off the following morning. In order not to frighten the poor man with the full horror of my morning visage, I set my alarm for early. While waiting I got on with some housework (the county sized bed was also due to arrive at some point).

Normally the dog is an excellent doorbell (which is just as well as I don’t have one). If anyone approaches the house she kicks up murder, and will continue until the interloper has rewarded her with an item of food. Perhaps it was the after effects of the Valium, but she never stirred, when I next looked out the window a trailer had appeared, delivered by the phantom gardener.

The bed duly arrived, escorted by my mate’s husband. As I may have mentioned, my house is a little tricky to find, so he offers himself as the Irish answer to Sherpa Tenzing. The senior half of the delivery partnership (whose van had overcome the hazards of the gate, so wellies weren’t a requirement) remained in the van, supping tea from a thermos, while the junior half lugged the various bits of bed up the stairs, only emerging for the assembly stage. It turned out that he had fitted the carpets some years before. I hope my hoovering was up to scratch!

Once the bed was installed I couldn’t resist dressing up the rest of the bedroom…. And the other one. The temptation to keep warm and dry and stay indoors playing at interior decoration was powerful, but vegetables don’t wait.

THE bed

ZZzzzzzzz :-)

Vaguely Moroccan themed bedroom

The next day, in order to make the most of my (rather expensive) machinery, I set off at sparrow fart, into what turned out to be a beautiful morning. Unfortunately I was heading East, so I could see bugger all. The dog sensibly remained in bed.

Sunrise from the front bedroom

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz!

Now if I were religious,,,,,,,

I have heard so many horror stories about towing (wheel bearings going, trailer wheels rolling past the towing vehicle, hapless motorists stranded on the hard shoulder of the M-whatever with the remains of what used to be an expensive boat/caravan and a colossal bill, loads shed and insurance claims filed…and don’t even get me started on the livestock!) that I dread the prospect of having to do it myself. I endeavour where possible, to palm the job off onto Himself or any other bloke in the vicinity. This often turns out to be even more terrifying. Consequently I proceeded at a snail’s pace, the trailer nonetheless spending much of it’s time with it’s wheels in the air. My arrival (bang crash wallop in a cloud of diesel smoke) did not go unnoticed at the hire shop and I was awaited in the forecourt. I thought it wise to drive round the block rather than attempt to reverse. Some tentative experiments in this direction had proved the trailer to be more than a little wayward. Whichever way I put the wheel it jack knifed alarmingly to starboard in an instant.

The man in the hire shop was most concerned for my welfare. Somehow in the course of our phone conversation we had drifted onto the topic of my heating arrangements. I may have mentioned that I had gorse to chop in order to stave off hypothermia (please note, there are electric heaters, I just choose not to use them due to the arcane charging system and extortionate bills that result. Someone is still raking in the lucre while the rest of us wrap up with sleeping bags and hotwaterbottles).

I was led to my machine, which looked like a reject from a Mad Max movie (too improbable). My memories of the family rotovator, ‘The Allan’, consisted mostly of my dad and uncle surrounded by bits of metal, getting sweaty and frustrated before abandoning the enterprise in favour of the pub (plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose eh?). ‘The Allan’ was eventually left to quietly rust behind the garage in a tangle of chickweed and nettles, probably because they mislaid a vital bit and it was too bloody heavy to do anything else with!

I had to hope that this beast was going to be both more reliable and more tractable than the old family retainer. My hopes were not raised when the nice chap assisting me asked if I ‘had a man at home to help me’ with it. Slightly caught unawares (this is a county of strapping farmers wives who would think nothing of wrestling a bull to the ground while preparing dinner and fixing the tractor) I replied ‘none that would be any feckin use to me’ without thinking….. He looked deeply concerned and expressed doubts as to my ability to start the beast. I tried to reassure him that I was not unfamiliar with generators and outboards and suchlike. To be honest I was starting to feel a bit sorry for him. He pointed out all the relevant knobs and levers before asking me to start it, so he knew I could cope. I knew he meant well, which is why the Gardai were not required to attend the scene (those who know me will understand). I sweetly complied and pulled the string. I suppose all concerned should be glad that I didn’t rip the thing clean off, but I did need it to work… We loaded it upon the trailer and I spent an enjoyable five minutes lashing it down. I’m sure he doubted my sanity when I explained that I like tying knots…. Eventually I set off….very slowly indeed.

After a couple of false starts I got the hang of using the beast and was rewarded by the satisfying crunch and clunk of bramble roots loosing the battle (yes, I know the war is not won and they will be back next year, but at least it shouldn’t take a pickaxe to shift them).

The beast was too big to wrestle into some of the tighter corners and my next big discovery was the pickaxe in the garage. It did a sterling job on all the awkward bits (it’s just unfortunate that I have ended up looking like Popeye in the shoulder department…). The only difficulty arose when I was dogsitting my mate’s enormous Red and White setter.

Spot the dog.....

The day didn’t start too well. I was running late, so rather than pick up the horse manure on the way to feed him and bring him home, I went to feed him first (he insists on regular mealtimes). My mate assured me he would be fine sitting on the front seat, as the back would be full of the smelly stuff. There were only two problems with this. My seats are shiny vinyl and he struggled for balance like a spider on stilts, nearly squashing my (tiny) dog in the process. She wasn’t too amused. Once he regained some semblance of equilibrium it transpired that I couldn’t see through him. My normally rather restricted view (read ‘massive blindspot’) to the left was now totally obliterated. Narrow twisting roads did nothing to improve the situation. By the time I reached the source of the manure he was keen to travel in the back, but there was no room. It took some considerable persuasion to keep him in the front, I left him there with my dog (they normally get on fine)

It takes a while to catch up when your legs are this short!

and started shovelling. I was disturbed by sounds of savagery emanating from the cab. Without pausing for intelligent thought I bore down upon the pair of them, swinging the fork like a claymore and screeching blasphemies. It was only once I had rescued my (soggy but unhurt) dog that I realised I had an audience in the yard owner and his son. Embarrassed?? Me????

The creature was consigned to the back, horseshit and all, for the return journey. I think he was happier there, but he persisted in drooling down the back of my neck…. I tied him up to a tree when we arrived, until I was fairly sure he was going to behave himself. As soon as I let him off he came to help. Now my dog generally steers a wide berth while I’m working, preferring to lie in the sun (if there is any) and occasionally picking up a stick or having a desultory dig for an interesting smell. This meant I wasn’t expecting to find a large dog between the pickaxe and it’s target. I was in mid swing when he interposed himself and I nearly amputated something significant of his and almost ruptured myself in the process.

He got tied up again.

My dog looked on with chilly distain.