Dogged and hounded.

Part Eleven.

Back in Blighty as my presence was required in order to dog/house sit and scrape crap off the bottom of a boat. I didn’t want to leave Ireland, I felt like I’d only just arrived and still had so much left to do. It wasn’t all work, I did try to make a point of doing more than painting and digging, I mean, the idea is that I enjoy being there, right? Whatever the weather….

On our seaweed harvesting expedition the dog and I did a little beachcombing. One of my favourite activities (dating back to my childhood with my dad) is rooting around the shoreline, peering into rockpools and under stones. Buffy is interested in this activity, things that wriggle and scuttle fascinate her, if only briefly. We (ok, I) unearthed small blue crab, a smaller edible crab, a pair of pipefish trying desperately hard to pretend to be a piece of seaweed, a brilliant scarlet coloured winkle and a Blenny. 

A very attractive shade of mauve!

A little small for dinner just yet.

Can you spot the pipefish?

This one?

Interesting take on the concept of camoflague

Blenny

WTF????

It was a day determined to encompass every possible type of weather (an antipodean visitor once remarked to an acquaintance of mine that you don’t get seasons in Ireland, you just get weather). We went for a paddle, or in Buffy’s case a wade with a bit of swimming.

What an intrepid animal!

Even inshore the water was a bit choppy, but she was very intrepid and we arrived on the opposite shore. There was a tiny waterfall running down some rocks and I thought a drink might be in order. Following the stream upwards, we came upon a tiny pond which was suddenly and magically lit up by a butter yellow sun.

The weather continued to sweep through in waves and of course torrential rain soon followed.

Sunshine...

And showers...

 As we scrambled and waded back I noticed the couple in the vintage Citroen were still in the carpark, where they had sat, reading the Telegraph for the last hour, never seeming to look out across the water. I reckon they could have saved on petrol and stopped in their garage!

My last day dawned fine and clear, so I made an executive decision to go and enjoy it. We went for a stroll on the (unofficial) local nudist beach. 

merciful absence of naked flesh :-)

Thankfully although the sun was out, the wind was cutting, so wrinkled flesh was not in evidence. The slight rise in temperature had brought out the spring flowers, of which I took pictures. Now all I need is a book on botany. 

I know this as a sea pink... any other suggestions?

Bog orchid? Maybe?

Dactylorhiza purpurella (thanks Robyn)

Ok, I think this might be an owl pellet, but I don't have a turd chart handy, so please, inform me.

Bird's foot trefoil...?

More bog orchid?

Ladies smock? Or is it?

I have no idea, someone please tell me?

Ajuga reptans... possibly. (Thanks again Robyn)

On impulse I headed over to the other side of the peninsula, the site of a spectacularly unsuccessful drugs landing. Not that I was looking for leftovers, that was ancient history.

The cliffs were breezy and a couple of gulls wheeled in the gusts like a pair of synchronized stunt kites.

The slipway is improbably steep and the bravery (or insanity) involved in launching or recovering a boat here is almost unimaginable. The sea constantly surges and thrashes on the rocks at the bottom, it is the lee shore from hell. 

You wouldn't seriously consider landing here...

Would you?

The extremely rusty winch at the top testifies to  the inadvisability of using this slip. 

Requires some attention

For parts or spares???

The dog was showing great interest in a strip of blue plastic, which turned out to be a small defunct lizard with a beautiful iridescent blue underside. 

Smelly lizard

I bagged it and brought it home, then I surprised a very nice man by phoning him out of the blue and asking him how one dries a lizard. Turns out, air drying is preferable, but meths will do if you wish. So now it’s in the garage (it was a bit whiffy) resting in my soil sieve. I even found a special display box for it!

Now since I got back, nothing has been simple. I have exchanged texts and emails with a nice man who sells old sea charts. He very kindly hunted through his collection and found a slightly dog eared copy of my area for me, available at a discount. 

Do I own this...

Or don't I???

So far so good. I tried to pay (online). Technical difficulties. Tried again. More technical difficulties. Tried the next day. Still more technical difficulties. Tried the automated phone helpline. Swore a lot (for all the good it did me). Eventually spoke to a human being, who explained that’ technical difficulties’ were, ummm…technical difficulties. Not particularly helpful, so I persisted, and eventually we achieved a solution. Bloke paid, now to arrange delivery. This is trickier than it sounds as I never really know where I’m going to be next week. I suggested delivery to my mate’s mum, he suggested she could pick it up, I thought it was a little far for her to go, so I suggested maybe he could drop it off at my cousin’s. No problem. Checked with her, she’s at the wrong end of the country but could arrange an assignation. I provided mutual phone numbers and have heard nothing since. There are (at least) three possibilities:

The assignation never happened.

It happened and my cousin has the chart tucked away safely.

The assignation was so successful that they ran away together.

In the meantime, I have custody of a pair of retired dogs (greyhound and guide dog). They have a number of idiosyncracies. The greyhound is extremely sensitive, she yowls if you touch her the wrong way, or if she even thinks you might. She frets and whines (but not all the time, sometimes she just crashes). She likes her food, quite a lot. She hates being out in the cold and rain and is soooo slow. Now and then she has a mad moment when she remembers her racing days and performs what are colloquially known as ‘zoomies’. I just stand there and hope she doesn’t injure anything! When operating at a slower pace, her gait resembles that of an amateur stiltwalker.

little and large :-)

Greyhound ecstacy 

The retriever is also unbelieveably slow, though she has sudden and unexpected bouts of playfulness. She also has sudden and unexpected bouts of incontinence. We suspect she may be suffering from doggy alzhiemers.

I was working rather later than I had intended last week and was really looking forward to a long hot shower and a nice tea. To this end I decided to drive via my own house (these dogs don’t travel, I stay with them) and pick up some bits for my tea. I drove past the doghouse and on to my place. On arrival it transpired that my keys remained at the doghouse… I tried and failed to break in, Himself’s security improvements were most effective. So I called it quits and went to the supermarket. I bought some tasty things for tea. Then I drove back to the doghouse, where the retriever had spectacular and smelly diarrhea . On a positive note, I had bought wine.

The dogs have a peculiariy. They need to go out at some point during the night (mostly the retriever does) So I am awoken by a deep ‘woof’, go downstairs, let her out, stand there while nothing happens, bring her back in after ten minutes, go back to bed, repeat process. Another odd thing, whichever door I let them out of, they will invariably go to the other to gain readmittance. I think I am going mad. I don’t know how their owners cope! I attempted a strategy of going to bed earlier, they just wake me earlier. I think they get bored and do it on purpose. I tried a neighbour’s helpful suggestion of leaving the back door open for the dawn run. I found the retriever standing in the kitchen, looking out…. With a pile of poo behind her.

I beg your pardon madam, but you appear to be standing in my sun

They do mean that I am somewhat tied to one location, so while all this is transpiring my younger daughter is planning a trip to the cottage. She planned it down to the last detail, flights and car hire. This was a slight problem, as it is almost impossible for anyone under the age of 25 to hire a car in Ireland. Eventually they found a website which would take their money. Unfortunately, when it came to it, they wouldn’t hand over the car. This left my daughter and her boyfriend stranded at the airport, 80 miles from the house. Further research on my part (at stupid o’clock in the morning) revealed that several car hire firms had impenetrable and difficult to find terms and conditions. The Hertz website, for instance, stated that the prospective driver must have been eligible to hold a licence for a minimum of six years and had held one for at least two. Fine. Phoned their representative at the airport. Nope, no under 25s. Right, so, IF you have been eligible to hold a full licence for six years, well, that’s 17+6, yes? So that’s 23, right? Apparently the website doesn’t really say that (sorry, but I had it open in front of me). The nice (but perhaps numerically dyslexic) man suggested that as the wee lad has held his licence for the maximum possible period and is very nearly 25 they might be able to come to an arrangement, one which will cost about €2K. Sorry, but I could buy a car for that!

Mercifully I found a hotel with a very nice and helpful man who did us a good deal, so I dispatched daughter and boyfriend to the city centre, where, by all accounts they have had a whale of a time.

They did make it to the cottage eventually, on the bus. They had to change buses en route, so they took the opportunity to do some grocery shopping. The fresh langoustines may have been a mistake with another hour on a warm bus and possibly a long walk to follow. I had impressed on her ladyship that the sanitary arrangements (the dreaded septic tank) were not to be put under undue stress (one (sheet) for a wee, two for a poo!). I did feel a bit sorry for her boyfriend at that point, his face was a picture (of what, I’d rather not speculate). This meant that the condition of the shellfish was preying somewhat upon her mind. All credit to everyone I mailed and begged for help, they were safely delivered to the door (after a couple of pints). It appears they did a lot of walking and I have a large black bird which comes and knocks on my door at 10 every morning (and scares the shit out of my daughter). Further discussions have determined this to be a hooded or 'huddy' crow, a species not found in England. They are generally a bit of a nasty piece of work, living on carrion and baby birds (and other small helpless creatures).

They returned to the city after the weekend and seem to be thoroughly enjoying themselves (she reckons she instigated a lock in at the hotel bar).

The dogs continue to defeat me. All my strategies for more sleep and less shit have been foiled. I have booked another ferry.