Irish Adventure

11th July 2019

Adventures in Ireland

We are home now, got back five days ago, although our ferry docked in Pembroke very late the Tuesday before. We spent a few days seeing children as we made our way to our own house and our own bed. 

Not that we missed the bed, we sleep very well in the camper, thank you.

 Nor did we miss the house, now a good advertisement for "The Day  of the Triphids" - the weeds were literally two feet high and that was just after nine weeks. 

And when one of the children said , "are you EVER coming home ?" after about the sixth week.... well, we were very nearly tempted not to.

Here I am at the farm, now derelict , where my grandmother was born and grew up and yes, it's raining. It is the Emerald Isle, after all. But not even the rain put a damper on my imaginations as I thought how I'd like to live here and look out at the same mountains that she looked out at all those years ago. Unlike the house, which has no firm foundations, my roots go back a long way around these parts. The years merged closer as I Imagined Nan when she was a child playing with her brothers and sisters . So much space to roam. 

I am glad to be home.

Happy to see the children and grandchildren - there's only a few left to see and then we'll have touched base with them all.

But, we had the most amazing adventure in Ireland, so we did.

More to come - hopefully, when I get more time. Odd how you can be so busy just living.

Rope

Rope.

The mother brushes her daughter’s hair,

 teases the tangles

 until

knots turn to soft,  smooth locks, shining  golden.

Each single hair so fragile, could easily be pulled 

from its follicle,

effortlessly snapped.

Slowly, deliberately, she divides the whole in three 

equal parts

brush on autopilot with every stroke.

She takes the separate tresses 

 plaits them together

one over the other  - delicately - and

she remembers

she remembers the spray of the sea on her face, 

the yacht, the rope,

her father,

his strong hands - power of nature contained there-

sails swinging this way then that in the sway-

working together against the elements,

his patience unending - no let up till the thick rope is secured
 firmly to the quay.
He was her life pulse, threads to her hope - 
merciful, kind- her comfort, 
her link to the future which now has a sad space

 where he is no more.

She weaves the plait into a coil and when finished

lays her hands on her daughter’s 
shoulders 
and sighs . 

On The Practice of Writing

26th April 2017





On The Practice Of Writing


There is a lot of advice out there for writers.
From where to, when to and for how long ...

• Read everything you can lay your hands on - I'm not actually keen on fiction, but love memoir and poetry.
• Always carry a notebook - when I want it I've always left it at home. I very rarely need to use it when I do carry it.
• Protect the time and space in which you write - Having a large family there's no point in trying that one. Sunday afternoon, when everybody is happy I might let myself do something for me ( I am getting better at that one)
• Have a writing room or at least a designated place                      of your own - I thought this one would solve all my problems of leaving my work somewhere where I could go back to and mean that I would be "left to do my work". It hasn't happened. Even though I have a purpose built writing room, I am often found writing at the dining room table on my laptop or in a chair by the window ( the sun streaming in) 
• Write at least five hundred ( 200, 1000, etc etc)                            words a day  - well actually, if I can get started , the numbers of words don't seem at all relevant and it seems more important to get down what needs to come out.
• Write for one ( two, three , etc etc ) hours a day - and again, Sometimes I can write for half an hour and I've done what I set out to do and other times I will write for nearly two hours. I never get to three or more. 

These are just a few of the ways I fail at writing . 
No wonder I'm getting nowhere.
No wonder there is no book to boast about
No wonder I feel that I am lying to call myself a writer at all.

But, I do have nearly 30,000 visits to my blog.
So someone is reading some of the things that I share .
And that is good, isn't it.

So, I will start tomorrow. 
I will plan to write 500 words in 2 hours .
I will write in my writing space .
When I go and have coffee with my friend I will take my note book.
And I will do the same the next day and the day after that , until I have something worthwhile written.
I will 
I will...

7th April The Mountain

7th April ( but written on the 8th)

A bit late. Preoccupied yesterday with family coming to stay.

The Mountain

I build a mountain , a monument to passions,
Daily piling on more earth,
The soil of attachments,
Keeping me from getting close
To you

So much stands now in the space between us
The space that isn't space
Filled as it is with life's distractions
Cannot even get close enough
To see you

And all of a sudden it all seems like dust
A pile of nothing but rubbish
And what's important I see now
Is how will  I get  close
To you

So, with a teaspoon I begin to dig at the face
Of the huge mountainside
And little by little with each swing of my arm
I Throw the dirt behind until I get
To you