You shall have a fishie....

Part fourteen.1

So, apart from wandering aimlessly round the countryside in questionable weather, falling into bogs and getting stupidly close to dangerous precipices (in a high wind!) I did manage to achieve a few things.

The spuds did pretty well really, not least because I got somewhat carried away at the planting stage and grew enough for a substantial family with greedy children.  This meant that potatoes formed 95% of my carbohydrate intake (and about 60% of my overall food intake) for my stay. I still have four or five large sacks in storage, although I may develop a rat problem in consequence. I have received endless advice on how and where to store them. Most of it conflicting. The beans struggled a bit, the broad beans produced a reasonable harvest, despite an overwhelming attack of Ramping Fumitory (this is a real name of a quite pretty plant). The French beans on the other hand had an attack of the vapours and were swallowed by the couch grass. The onions didn’t do too badly where I had managed to keep them clear of weeds but the garlic was a bit stunted and unimpressive. The raspberries recovered from their earlier sulk and went for it, unfortunately I had to leave before they got there, likewise with the tomatoes. The rabbits seem to have gone off my nasturtiums which might be down to the efforts of the foxes and stoat(s).

my veggie garden

yummy raspberries (the caterpillars think so too!)

new peas

and the tomatoes are nearly there....

This cornucopia of produce encouraged me to think about other ways in which I might feed myself. Quite by chance I picked up a book from one of those charity shelves you sometimes see in pubs. The book itself was absolutely dreadful. The sort of crime novel that makes ‘Murder She Wrote’ look like an intellectual tour de force. It did however (and rather bizarrely) contain a number of recipes which looked a lot more interesting than what passed for the plot. One of these was for smoked chicken. It just so happened that there was a cast iron casserole dish for sale in the local charity shop… €1! The rest was history. I experimented with incinerating a variety of sticks and herbs and so forth by sticking a barbecue grill inside the pot, bunging the lid on  and shoving the whole lot in the woodburner. The experiment was satisfyingly successful. Brigitte gave me a couple of fresh mackerel, which also turned out delicious. This prompted the purchase of a fishing rod. The only flaw in the plan being that I hadn’t a clue how to use the damn thing. I somewhat sheepishly crept down to the beach one morning, rod in one hand and bucket of sharp things in the other, heading for a spot where I had seen others fishing. Of course I had no idea what state of tide was most propitious for catching mackerel. Not that it mattered anyway. I spent the first half hour entangling myself in miles of line, and then attempting to disentangle myself (and everything else) from said line. Having done that I then tried to figure out what the reel was supposed to do and how to make it happen. This resulted in further knots and a lot more swearing. In the end I gave up, having caught a fair bit of seaweed and my finger, but nothing I fancied smoking for my tea. A couple of further attempts resulted in much the same outcome and eventually I lost my lures. 

Still no bloody fish!

At this point my mate’s husband came to the rescue and we all went fishing together (although my mate stayed on the nice flat pier with her dog while us idiots went scrambling over the rocks). She spent the next ten minutes doubled over laughing, watching me being earnestly instructed in the finer points of rod handling (stop sniggering!). I got the hang of casting, narrowly missing catching my dog in the process, but failed to reel anything in. My dog was looking nervous amidst all the flying hooks and whirring reels and started to slope off. Being nice, I took her back across the rocks to my mate and her dog, at which point the man caught a bloody fish! With MY bloody rod!! I gave up and went snorkelling. 

At least I might SEE a fish this way?

I did get the fish though, and it was delicious (a Pollock).

In an attempt to use up all those carbs I had been consuming I used my bike to go to the village and to do a bit of exploring. I was loath to leave the dog behind, especially when the weather was so lovely. I did try to find a bike basket for her to travel in, but failed. My alternative plan was to stuff her in a backpack. On the first go she vanished completely inside it, so I stuffed a cushion into the bottom to support her. Luckily she’s a very even tempered little animal, neither of us was unduly traumatised. She looked a bit apprehensive to start with, but rapidly settled into enjoying the view and the smells. In fact she much prefers it to being in the horrible noisy smelly landrover and her little head poked over my shoulder as we freewheeled down the hills (I was too sweaty and breathless to notice what she was doing on the way up). The only downside was that we nearly caused several accidents as people in cars turned to stare (and drifted towards the ditch…) 

 Being on a bike also gave me a wonderful opportunity to observe some of the local wildlife. One prize specimen is the parish lurker. A gentleman who would give Quasimodo a run for his money in the ‘hideously ugly’ stakes. I suspect Quasimodo probably smelled better though. The lurker is a true professional who has found his calling, he flags down cars on the pretext that there’s a problem with them, jumps in and demands to be driven to the pub of his choice. Once he is in the car, the only way to extract him is to deposit him at his desired destination. He is also a stealer of cigarettes and part time peeping tom (his is not a face you would wish to encounter on a dark night!).

Then there was the lady, or possibly gentleman whom I spotted getting off the bus and was later encountered holding forth in the pub. This is not Sydney or San Francisco, so I suspect that it was probably an ill favoured lady, in what were approximately ladies clothes who had cornered an unfortunate tourist, although I might be mistaken.

There is another very pleasant, quiet gentleman, who lives in a neat bungalow with an immaculately tidy garden. By local standards he is dapper and well presented (although I’m not too sure about the provenance of his hair). He always has a smile for me. That’s the scary bit. His teeth are quite extroverted, in fact I’d go so far as to say that they live a full and independent life of their own.

There is almost no end to the local colour (in much the same way that the pavement outside a kebab shop on a Friday night is colourful). I spent a couple of days up a ladder painting the windows of my mate’s house in the village. This gave me an unrivalled observation post. The second day in particular was a tumbleweed day… Nothing happened, and continued to happen as the wind picked up in fretful gusts. A few cars passed through without stopping and there was an odd cinematic quality about everything, as if the mind numbing dullness was leading up to some momentous event. A bloke (who had previously tried to give me his teddy bear…don’t ask) came out of the pub and conducted an argument on speakerphone while sat on the opposite kerb. I now know more than I ever wanted to about his personal life (I wasn’t so high as to be invisible either!). The occasional tourist stopped in the middle of the crossroads and looked bewildered, usually just before driving up a road which would bring them to where they had been five minutes earlier. Some of them repeated this  more than once. I did give some directions, God alone knows where the recipients ended up. It probably didn’t matter as most of them had no idea where they wanted to be.

Some of the local characters rolled through, giving me uncertain waves and wondering if they were supposed to know me. A bloke pulled up in a newish car, got  out and walked briskly to the shop, hands clasped behind his back, brigadier style. On his return he knocked peremptorily on the private door of the occasional pub (there are three full time pubs as well) and after a lengthy pause was admitted. Some time passed before he emerged, to sit in his car looking disgruntled and slightly sinister. I began to wonder if he had committed some foul deed upon the elderly spinster who resides within. She then emerged and asked me if I had seen a pigeon. Apparently it was a specific pigeon which had been rather unwell earlier. Given the number of feral cats in the area there wasn’t much I could say….

Things I have done:

Weeded most of the vegetable garden.

Harvested the spuds and onions (and garlic).

Dug over the spud patch and removed the latest crop of brambles.

Mowed the lawn and a path around the field.

Repainted the worst windowsill (two coats so far)

Decided against hanging the mirror in the bedroom, hung it at the top of the stairs instead, or rather, I will, when I get around to it. I did get the mirror plates though.

Collected trunk (decided against having both, no room in the back of the landrover anyway)

Made some progress with sewing the quilt (I MUST NOT attempt to do anything that involves measuring after I have had a drink!!!! Whoops…)

Got Hammerite and painted butchers block.

This has led to a further ‘to do’ list.

Get a brushcutter!!!

Poison all the weeds,

Get weed suppressing black plastic

Safaris and so forth....

Part Fourteen.

Upon arrival at the cottage I got all businesslike and composed a list. It consisted of the following (of course the first thing I actually did was go for a foggy walk on the beach).

Ummmm.... are you sure about this?

Things I must do.

1) The garden consists mainly of weeds, I must weed and rescue my herbs and veggies. This will have to wait until the monsoon abates.

2) The spuds must be harvested.

3) Ditto onions and garlic.

4) The lawn needs mowing.

5) The windowsills need repainting as they have developed bubbles.

6) I must decide upon where to hang the mirror in the bedroom.

7) I must finish sewing the quilt.

8) I must collect the trunk or trunks (I must also decide whether to buy one or both).

Hmmm…

9) I must get some dark green hammerite and paint the butcher’s block.

10) I must get some sturdy mirrorplates in order to hang the above mirror.

11) I must get a sheet of ply and paint my flag signals

As a reward for achieving any of the above I created the following list. Both lists existed in order to give me some kind of frame of reference for day to day living… the strangest things start happening in your head when you are living in splendid isolation up a mountain which is frequently swathed in thick and impenetrable fog. This blog is in fact a testament to that!

Things I wish to do.

1) I want to go snorkelling and try my new camera. This will require sunny warm weather (this reminds me, I must find a spot for the barometer and hang it)..

2) I want to go for a walk on Xxxxx head, a map would help.

3)I want to find out if the lakes are phosphorescent at night. If they are I will try and take my mate to watch me swim there.

4) I want to cycle around and explore (NB lights and a dog carrier would be good).

5) I want to cycle up to the cottage I didn’t buy and check it out.

6) I want to get up at dawn and go for a swim.

7) I want to turn  my driftwood into something useful and attractive.

8) I want to kick Xxxx into gear and achieve that walk.

All this was well and good, and some of it even got done, but somehow I kept getting sidetracked. It was the weather you see… I didn’t rain hardly at all. Rather than waste this great good fortune doing stuff to the house or attacking the undergrowth (in what I now accept is probably a loosing battle) I decided to get out there and make the most of it.

I got a wonderful present of a waterproof camera from Himself. This has created a monster, it dictated almost everything I did… If I was digging the garden and spotted an interesting insect, or cloud or…. I would dash inside to get the camera and spend the next twenty minutes shooting the object of my desire from a variety of angles, before getting sidetracked by yet another interesting bug/stone/plant/bird. It is no wonder that I was to be found frantically digging spuds on the day before I was due to leave.

Here are a few of the reasons the gardening didn't get done.....

Help with identification would be useful please?

Small tortoiseshell on the hydrangea

Ummm...Lizard and spider?

Small tortoiseshell on the allium

Caterpillar.... but which caterpillar?

Another small tortoiseshell on the hebe this time.

Slightly blurry bee on the montbretia, what kind of bee?

Male common blue on devil's bit scabious (thanks Heather :-D)

Wall brown... maybe?

Slightly scary spider....

Burnett moth (six spot...maybe?)

Bee or hoverfly?

Definitely bee!

Lizard (common??)

I think he's rather cute

A female Gatekeeper apparently! Thanks again Heather.

Ummmm...help?

Grasshopper (before the dog arrived, she's got rather good at hunting them)

Might be Bog Pimpernel, but I'm not sure.

BIG hairy caterpillar capable of great speed!

Stoat (my stoat, eating my bank voles I reckon)

I had the brilliant idea of climbing a (small) mountain in order to take pics of the peninsula for my mate In fact I climbed it twice. The first time the cloud rolled in and the pictures I had envisaged taking consisted mostly of, well, cloud… 

On my way up I was vaguely looking for a path, though without any great expectation of finding one.  

Up we climbed, or rather I climbed and the dog was carried due to an incompatibility with gorse. She becomes quite heavy quite quickly. There were a number of trodden paths, although trodden by whom or what is open to speculation. Every now and then a small cairn would appear. Assuming that these denoted an official, or at least semi official track, I followed them.

That little pimple in the middle is one of the cairns, can YOU spot the path?

 Of course the track I was following would inevitably peter out and I would find myself waist deep in gorse, or bog or face to face with a twenty foot wall of vertical slimy rock. I would eventually pick up a track, probably made by wild goats (who must be enormous if the droppings are anything to go by, and the rabbits must be the size of St Bernards. The caterpillar I found was colossal

When it grows up it will be an Emperor Moth

God knows what they all live on, gorse perhaps?) and sight another cairn, towards which I would aim. It took a while for the penny to drop. The only thing which the cairns signified was the presence of some other idiot up there at some point. They did not signify any kind of path and nor were they any kind of indication as to the subsequent survival of their creator.

I knew I had finally achieved the summit when out of the clouds, a cross (newly erected) loomed above me.

Such things are not uncommon in this part of the world. To me they represent a sort of grand whimsical folly. I mean, why??? It isn’t an official place of pilgrimage, despite the awe inspiring view (when you can see anything but cloud).

It isn’t even a recognised walk. It’s just a bloody difficult, spiky, wet and disorienting scramble up a large hill (dog carrying is not obligatory) which then doesn’t go anywhere. There are a few houses and farms nestling on the eastern foot of this large hill. This is the reason why you cannot go anywhere except back the way you came. One of these houses sported a German flag fluttering gaily in the breeze. Nearby was another house which had no visible means of access, it looked like a suburban Sleeping Beauty castle, all tangled undergrowth… This led me to speculate about various cold war type scenarios and other intrigues.

Apart from the slightly worrying crap (if there’s something THAT big up here, where is it hiding and what does it eat…..?)

 A wide variety of wildlife was in evidence. There was obviously a Peregrine somewhere in the vicinity as I stumbled across the remains of it’s dinner, a seagull.

I can’t think of much else that would take a seagull on, they tend to be evil tempered buggers at the best of times. There were many raucous choughs on the way up the mountain. They sound rather common and lower the tone. There were several magical little lakes, home to many dragon and damsel flies, which whirred and buzzed about the place.

I discovered that it is almost impossible to take a picture of a dragonfly, the move too fast (even while mating!). The damselflies were more sedate, though I think they were also busy making more damselflies.

A random fish dropped (I presume) by a gannet or seagull played host to vividly coloured carrion beetles, (so did a turd left by the dog, but I didn’t take a pic of that),

I did some more exploring, going to visit a derelict Napoleonic tower which was subsequently used by Marconi as his first signal station. It is perched precariously upon a sliver of rock which projects out into the incessant pounding of the Atlantic.  

True to form, the cloud descended. The speed at which the weather changes is astonishing (this is usually, but not always for the worse). One minute you might be basking in sunshine, the next you are thoroughly damp and unable to find your car.

 Don’t get me wrong, the weather was absolutely fantastic all summer, it was just the days on which I ventured out that inexplicably turned grey and wet. I struggled up a wet, spiky and overgrown track to the unprotected ruins, where masonry was free to fall and slates to fly off and decapitate the unwary. I explored the piles of rubble, unfettered by warnings, admonitions or barriers.

If this building were anywhere else (in Europe or America anyway) it would have been carefully restored and offered as an ‘experience’ at €10 a visit, café and gift shop attached. I can’t decide whether it’s abandonment is a tragedy or a blessing. I made a damp detour through the long grass, the dog disappearing down green tunnels of undergrowth.

We scrambled over a partially collapsed drystone wall and across an overgrown field. I had to carry the dog again… more gorse. I carefully avoided the worryingly fresh cowpats, keeping a wary eye out for the culprits. While there were numerous smelly splats in evidence, all of the cattle appeared to be in a neighbouring field (unlike the large bull I encountered wandering along my road the previous evening), maybe the incontinent ones had dropped off the edge? Slipped on their own shit perhaps? The slope either side of the narrow track was becoming increasingly precipitous.

If you look very carefully, you can see where the path isn't... It's dropped into the sea.

I couldn’t help recalling Himself holding forth on the subject of walkers falling and getting themselves killed (and we had been on a much broader and gentler slope at the time, a broken leg rather than instant messy death on razor sharp rocks). In Ireland, there are few, if any denoted footpaths. One takes one’s life in one’s hands and follows a random goat track (their prints may be seen in moist ground and their shit abounds). There are no safety notices or fences (except the odd ‘stop’ sign approaching a precipice), however, no pedestrian precipices are protected. One gets lost all alone and unaided.

This is like some sort of prehistoric toll gate...

Er.... Mum...?

By the time we reached the end of the path (or more accurately, the point at which I lost my nerve) I had put the dog on her lead as she seems to have no fear of heights. We sat down on the crumbling path on the edge of the cliff in order to take pictures of the large chunks of said cliff which had fallen into the sea (for those who suffer from vertigo, look away now).

If I had been in England, this vantage point would have been fenced off half a mile back, possibly sensibly so, although I am unaware of any recent casualties at that spot.

We then explored the derelict mining village, eerie in the all enveloping fog, with the signal station looming through the cloud at the brow of the hill.

There are many ruins around here. There is a reason for this, despite the mental image of a cozy rural cottage with a blazing turf fire, these houses were rubble walled hovels which sucked in the damp and had two bedrooms (one walk through for the children and a terminal one for the adults and infants) a kitchen and living area (stone floors and a plank on boxes to sit on). The sanitary arrangements consisted of a water butt or stream and a long drop toilet if you were posh, otherwise there’s plenty of gorse….

The dog was very pleased to make it back onto tarmac and civilisation as she was rather wet and spiky.

That didn’t prevent her from acquiring an admirer who popped out from a gap in the hedge and followed us for some distance. She was unmoved by his devotion and ignored him.