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.
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.
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.
