My lovely house (with apologies to Father Ted): Storms, spuds and songbirds.

Part Ten (possibly).

Finally and at last I made it! The run oop North (about an hour behind Himself) was memorable due to a sudden and inexplicable loss of power whilst in the fast lane of the A1. I’m not sure which was worse, trying to barge across into the slow lane as everything attempted to over and undertake, or rooting around under the bonnet on the hard shoulder while Armageddon rolled on by and Himself and myself exchanged obscenities at the top of our voices via my mobile (he insisted I should call him before the AA if anything untoward happened). The warning light unhelpfully suggested a problem with the engine management system (what is it and how do I find it so I can hit it with a spanner?). It just as inexplicably resolved itself and I nursed the old girl through the next 101 miles with my heart in my mouth and my wheels firmly in the slow lane.

When I finally got there I did a through run from the back garden (I had called and requested the gate to be opened in advance) through the house, out the front and straight down to the local curry house. I was a little peckish. The following day, while Himself fiddled and swore at my engine I got down to digging up a sizeable portion of his back garden and removing the big lawnmower destroying rocks, this by way of being a bit of a warmup for when I got to Ireland.

Before

After

A little (not so) subtle blackmail persuaded Himself to accompany me this time. To sweeten the pill I went to great expense and booked a cabin for us. True to form, a couple of days before departure the dog came down with a nasty case of the scours. £60 later she’s on a restricted diet and I had inveigled a hefty quantity of valium from the vet to see us through the journey. I was sorely tempted to sample a few on the ferry. It was a close run thing which vehicle I would take, the Berlingo was hopefully cured (air getting into the fuel pump) but the exhaust was discovered to be on the verge of dropping off. This was remedied with the help of some bungee cords. It still is, as the donuts we ordered were forgotten in the excitement of the arrival of the new bed, and remain on the shelf at the auto supplies. I haven’t tried the bed yet, as it arrived on the morning of our departure. All I can say with any certainty is that it’s vast.

I really wanted to take the Berlingo this time as she uses half the diesel and I had a sofa jammed into the back which I didn’t fancy trying to extract, and it was too long for the Landrover anyway. When we eventually set off Himself drove and I sat with my shoulders hunched and my knees jammed under the dash (this was to be Himself’s fate once we arrived in Ireland as he isn’t insured to drive over there). The cabin was quite comfortable, although I had to clean the piss off the toilet seat before I could use it. I could have complained, but all I really wanted to do was sleep. I had just drifted off (not on the toilet!!!) when the tannoy sprang into life at full volume and the captain began to welcome us aboard (shutup shutup I don’t feckin care, just shutup). Unfortunately both his voice and his accent bore an uncanny resemblance to a certain meercat in an ad for a price comparison website….. which made it hard to take him seriously (seeemples…).

shhhhh!!!!!

By the time he had finished and the safety announcements had concluded I was wide awake and quite pissed off.

When we got to Dublin Himself insisted that the dog (and her delicate stomach) needed a walk (she was lying across his knees and farting prodigiously). I made a detour into the Phoenix park where she happily crapped on the polo ground. I planned to exit at the other end so we proceeded past Aras an Uachtairan , Viceregal lodge and other sites of interest for which I gave a bleary and totally inaccurate potted history. The gate by which I hoped to exit turned out to be locked, so we turned around and I cursed my way back into town. We made it eventually, despite frequent ‘are you very tired dear’ enquiries from Himself (read ‘your driving is becoming scarily erratic, allow me to irritate you in order to keep you alert).

On arrival I was excited to see that I had the beginnings of vegetables, the spuds in particular were looking promising….so were the weeds. The raspberries on the other hand, were sullenly refusing to do anything but look like rows of dead twigs. It was only with very close inspection that I spotted the beginnings of buds. It appears that the slugs adore parsley and coriander, they also rather like marjoram, and are quite partial to a bit of spearmint. Peppermint on the other hand, holds no allure whatsoever. Thyme simply doesn’t like my garden and I think the baby bay froze to death. The garlic is looking good though.

The spuds break ground

Horseradish (yes, I know I should have planted it in a lead lined concrete bunker, but I didn't have one handy)

Spuds look orderly, but take note of the plants on the right... it was a bit breezy!

Taste testing the compost amongst the garlic.

Garlic, peppermint, spearmint and bay, with a couple of reluctant raspberry canes on the right. (the bay is a replacement)

Sulky raspberries

Baby onions

Spuds making progress

It didn’t take long to deduce that I have at least one fox, if the numerous piles of black stinky stuff were anything to go by, Thankfully the dog showed no interest at all in it’s spoor (if she had she would have been banished to the garage until the smell wore off). While I was putting clothes away in the bedroom Himself sat gazing out the window, still traumatised by my driving. It was then he spotted the biggest dog fox either of us has ever seen, strolling casually along the hedge (well,, the 10 ft bramble bank). He clearly saw my garden as his territory as he stopped to mark here and there before disappearing into the gorse, all at a casual swagger. We didn’t see him again, but any leftovers I threw out were always gone by morning, and the piles of crap continued to appear.

I am led to believe that the area is popular with twitchers, a fact confirmed by the presence of a couple of blokes in heavy camouflage gear and enormous lenses (I couldn’t tell if they were attached to cameras) commando crawling around the sand dunes at the bottom of the road. They came as a bit of a shock, as obviously they intend to be as inconspicuous as possible, which can lead to one falling over them. The dog found them fascinating…. Much to their irritation.

In view of the quantity and variety of bird life I invested in a guide to said birds. I should have invested in earplugs, the dawn chorus began at daybreak and quickly reached a sustained crescendo.

For a house in the back end of nowhere, with double glazing, it can be rather noisy. Apart from being woken regularly by the dawn chorus (which lasted most of the day, spring is definitely in the air, if not the weather!) I was woken by a pair of amorous crows trying to do something unmentionable in my chimney. I was also woken several times most nights by the wind, which threatened to remove slates, and possibly sections of building. This was occasionally augmented by monsoon like downpours beating a tattoo on the roof and sounding like a cataract as the water gushed through the downpipe.. As a result, I spent a whole night dreaming that there was water pouring through the roof, but I was too knackered to get up and do anything about it.

In an attempt to identify my extremely vocal birdlife, I had purchased a CD of the calls of common birds. Either I have thousands of robins, or I have a cloth ear, because I remain none the wiser. If (when it isn’t pouring rain) I sit out on the patio and close my eyes, I could be in the jungle. There’s a clamour of competing birdsong and the harsh rustle of the New Zealand Flax in the wind (does anyone know how to get rid of the bloody stuff without recourse to a JCB???) There is also the distant boom of the sea beating on the rocks on the north side of the peninsula . I discovered that if you are prepared to stand up to your neck in gorse, clutching a rickety barbed wire fence for balance, you can also see the sea from my back garden. I toyed with the idea of building a viewing platform up there…. for about 30 seconds, which is about how long it would last in the wind!

If you look carefully you can see the sea!

I have persisted in my attempts to identify birds in my garden. Apart from the amorous Hooded Crows I have spotted lots of Swallows, many Robins (Himself says Robins are territorial, so we had an argument about whether I saw lots of Robins or the same Robins many times. He suggested I mark them. I suggested a paint gun) and Blackbirds, several Wrens and Dunnocks, quite a few Pied Wagtails and Goldfinches and something that looked like a miniature avian raccoon, complete with mask.

My Mate has better luck. She puts out bird food and then sits in the kitchen to watch. Once, when an acquaintance of her dad’s, an avid twitcher, called in, he described in great excitement the rare bird which had brought him and many others to that part of the country. They had spent hours freezing and soaking in bogs, fields and brambles with little success. It turned out my Mate had been sitting in comfort watching it tuck into the birdseed for the last week!

My Robins showed great interest when I began to dig my vegetable patch, but they soon gave up as I seem to have no worms whatsoever in my soil. This is a little surprising as it has clearly been uncultivated for some time and is of a reasonable quality and consistency (I think). I attributed this lack to a shortage of organic matter, and while at a garden centre in search of climbers to cover the unfortunate stumps I had just created (I was forced to annihilate a rather attractive shrub, it had turned triffid and was threatening my well)

Before

Good for privacy, bad for well.

After... I felt like a vandal.

But it has added to my firewood collection

Now I just need the honeysuckle and clematis to grow!

I purchased some soil improver. The nice lady offered some sheet plastic to put the bags on, Himself’s response was ‘why? Are you afraid they might get dirty?’… (he deplores the state of my van, his car is always immaculate. This is mainly because he uses my van to shift the mucky stuff!). The soil improver was very organic indeed. The atmosphere in the van developed character and personality on the way home. The dog was most interested and taste tested the contents as soon as I put them down.

While I got on with the outdoor stuff, himself was put to work sorting my lighting. There are a number of wires poking out of my walls. I assume these were intended for lighting, so I bought light fittings. It’s just as well I pressed Himself into service. As I may have mentioned he’s a bit of an expert and also, well, a bit….anal. This regularly drives me to distraction (and drink).

On the other hand, I learned my wiring skills from my father. These generally involve electrical tape, matchsticks, tinfoil and if you are being all posh, the odd chocolate block. They often work, but for a limited period before something blows up. As a boy, my dad was fascinated by radio technology (in this case a coil of copper wire and a magnet, we’re talking the 1920’s here). He constructed his own crystal radio and rudimentary battery. This battery required charging. Therefore a power source was required. My dad’s house didn’t have electricity (or he was too scared of what my Grandma might do if she caught him), so he went in search of another power source. In those days the wires to houses weren’t insulated. He spotted the perfect line, discreetly located along the bottom of a row of back gardens. His charging arrangement , by all accounts, resembled a grappling hook with a wire, which he heaved over the cable. There was a bang, the cable snapped and dropped… Landing neatly on the row of tin roofed privies which ran along the bottom of the gardens. Dad ran for it and one can only speculate upon the mental and physical effects the event had on those occupants engaged in something deeply private at the time…. It certainly lends new meaning to the phrase ‘going live’.

I may still be forced to commit murder!!!!!

The light in my kitchen is now blindingly bright, which forces me to clean all the previously ignored crevices. The positioning of these large enamel shades involved Himself wobbling precariously, one foot on a stepladder and the other variously on a wobbly stool, the kitchen worksurface and fresh air while waving said shades in an assortment of likely positions. My response (having been summoned from the garden whilst doing something important) of ‘ummmm, yeah, it’s fine, whatever… ‘ Drove himself to a state of near apoplexy. A similar procedure was followed when hanging the picture /reading lights, but this time without the gymnastics.

The sofa which I was so determined to bring over is great though, soooo comfortable I fell asleep on it most evenings (nothing at all to do with the wine, honest). The other sofa has been moved upstairs to complete the tart’s boudoir.