St Agnes

31st July 2020

15th July 2020

Today is a bit different, in that the plan is the woods rather than the beach. The weather looks a bit iffy,but to be fair it has started like that everyday so far and most times ended up sunny and warm. 

We meet up with Paul's family again. They know the place well. Three dogs run happily, two children ride bikes another is pushed in her buggy, while the adults enjoy each others company, chatting in small groups. 

The aim is to have coffee and cake ( I probably won't have cake) in the cafe in the middle of the woods. Unfortunately when we get there we find it closed. Another irritation in this Covid dominated time. It's a beautiful area with swans swimming on the pond, the water glittering, so we sit for a while on the benches outside the closed doors. Even the outside toilet isn't open.

"Come back to ours for coffee then," says Paul's mum, "it's nice enough to go in the garden." no going in the house at this time. I say nothing, but think maybe it'll be nice to do something on our own , have our coffee in the camper, go exploring. 

"Where shall we go then?" Peter waits, hands on steering wheel, ready now to drive wherever we decide.

"I'd really like to go to St Agnes, see if we can find the tins mines. It's just a few miles down the coast from  the campsite" 

"OK, let's go."

We drive to St Agnes to find the tin mines. 

Apparently Cornish tin has been produced and smelted in Cornwall for over 4000 years. 

The town of St Agnes grew up around the tin mines. It's boom years were from the 1830s to the 1870s, when the price of tin dropped and many small mines were forced to  closed.The three largest mines in the area,Wheal Kitty, Polberro and Wheal Friendly merged and as one company continued into the  1940s

St Agnes is an unexpected treasure for us. We park about half a mile outside the village and walk in, which is just as well as the roads are all so narrow and windy and there's very little parking. Also, ambling along gives us a chance to take in the beauty of it.

Coming down the hill we get a view of a tin mine in the distance.

Going further, the road down to Trevaunance Cove takes us past some lovey cottages.

 

We get to the cove, it's small ans busy, with surfers braving what looks to me like a rough sea. 

We find a place to sit and watch. We listen to  crashing waves compete  with squawking seagulls for which could be the most noisy - or so it seems to me.

 

We take these precious minutes to just be, to enjoy each others company, a rare moment just for us. We reminisce about old times when we'd have all the children in tow and sitting taking in the world around us was impossible. He holds my hand, I lean into him, grateful for our life. 

But we came here to find the mines , so we go back to the camper and drive a little way down the road to find a car park on the cliffs. From here we can see way out to see and also, apparently quite close, the tell tale chimneys of some tin mines. 

  

The views along the cliffs are stunning, with a dramatic coastline that takes mt breath away. Although we try to capture it in photos, they never do it justice. 

I stand in the wild heather, its colour, its glory , thrilling to me. 

We take a long, sometimes difficult,  walk along the cliff and all the while I'm lifting up my heart to the creator in thankfulness for such astonishing beauty. I can hardly contain my joy, it often brings me near to tears. And it's not only the scenery, but thinking of people, family,  friends, chance meetings, all of it gives me cause to be grateful. 

It's our last night on the campsite with Jo and Paul and we've been asked to come and have pasta with them, probably our last dinner together this holiday. We chill out, me reading and Peter playing the guitar until the children are asleep and they are ready for us, about 8.0pm. 

When we get arrive it's clear Jo has forgotten that she asked us for food, but quickly Paul gets pasta and sauce organised. We have a drink and for a couple of hours make the most of being together.

Hayle

30th July 2020

14th July - Tuesday

Again, this morning, the weather doesn't look too promising, but Paul has promised that he'll take Molly surfing today, "no matter what". 

That's how we end up in Hayle, a safe place to teach her, having stopped at the surf shop so the she could buy a good surf board with some money she had saved from her birthday. To say she was exited would be a huge understatement. In a shop a few doors down, we find a "play" surf board for Raphie. Jo let's him  "choose" one for himself, picking out two she thinks suitable, one with sharks the other with dolphins, "Raphie," she enthuses, "this one or that one". Proudly, determinedly, he makes his choice. 

Hayle is just across from St Ives, with the estuary to the River Hayle  (Cornish: Heyl, meaning estuary)  in between. 

We meet Paul's parents and his sister in the car park, have a quick coffee - we can do that with the camper - and head off to the beach. 

We find a protected spot, between the cliff and a sand dune, away from the wind and lucky for us the sun does shine. 

Peter and I bring nothing with us, no chairs - left them at the campsite in the awning - no rucksack with food and water and swim things. Oh well. I sit on Jo's blanket, aware it's going to be an uncomfortable few hours. 

As the children are covered in sunscreen adults bring out lunch and snacks. I look around. Paul's mum offers me some soup, homemade. I notice the cool breeze touch my face and think, that would be nice.

"No thanks," I say, "we've not long had breakfast,"  which is true and anyone who knows me will be aware of my weird obsession about not eating lunch  if I've had breakfast and on the other hand if I've had no breakfast I'm up for lunch  pretty early.

 

Hayle is just across from St Ives, with the estuary to the River Hayle  (Cornish: Heyl, meaning estuary) in between. 

Clouds start to come our way from out at sea, but looking across to St Ives I can see it sits majestically in the sunshine, the water a beautiful blue turquoise colour reminding me of the mediterranean.

Years ago we were eager to visit such a distinguished place, a small fishing village renowned now for its famous artists and art galleries. Peter, being an artist himself,  had been looking forward to it for months. Maybe we went at the wrong time. All I remember is that it rained and the children, our oldest two, were miserable. So, we were not impressed. I'd quite like to go back one day, get the real vibe,  see what all the fuss is about. And we'll have plenty of opportunity when Jo and Paul move down to Cornwall next year.

Paul's mum, being organised has prepared some pasta and combined it with the leftover salmon from the evening of the BBQ. She offers it around. And although I feel guilty for not having brought anything to share myself,  the thought of the salmon is a temptation I can't/ don't want to resist so I have some. Delicious.

Sitting proves painful and as the children are in at the waters edge, Molly trying out her new surf board with Granny, I take a stroll over. On the way my eye catches some small shells, pretty and delicate. Ten minutes later Peter and I have collected a pocket full to bring home for Mary who uses them for her artwork. 

I think, although It hasn't been warm, my lips are burnt. Darn it. That means I'll probably get some cold sores and they'll be around for at least a week. I have been trying to protect them, but being out all the time in all weathers and not being able to use sunscreen - i have an allergy - it's inevitable, I suppose. 

In the evening, back at the campsite, I reheat the chilli that I brought from home, cook up a bit of rice and we take it, with a bottle of red,  across the lane to share dinner with Jo and Paul. The previous night I'd taken the mushroom and potato curry . This is what's lovely about camping. Sitting together, enjoying a meal,  good wine (  my tastes are defined by alcohol percentage and cost, obviously) and the brilliant company, while watching the sun go down.  

 

 

St Piran's Oratory

29th July 2020

13th July 2020

The weather forecast is for cloudy skies, with rain in the afternoon.
Not a beach day then.

" We could go for a walk across the dunes," Jo says, "it would take a few hours to get to Perranporth and back, by the circular route. What do you think?"
"Sounds good to me," this is more my cup of tea. I'm not one for sitting on the beach all day, especially as I suffer with my back. Peter usually brings a chair for me. Getting old...

So, with trainers, raincoats, and lots of water, plus snacks for the children, we set off.
Our trek takes us by St Piran's Oratory. I remember seeing this years ago when we brought Peter's mum and dad on holiday with us. Back then I'd strayed away from the Church and although I loved seeing the old ruin because of times past, it didn't have much meaning for me.


The remains of the 6th century oratory is one of Britain's oldest Christian sites and was established by Piran, an Irish Saint  who landed on the beach here after being exiled from his homeland.
Legend has it that Piran, a 5th or 6th century Irish monk, thrown off a high cliff with a millstone round his neck,  by a jealous ruler, rather than drowning floated across the sea to Cornwall.
He became the Patron Saint of Cornwall and is also revered as the Patron Saint of Tinners.
The Cornish flag uses his white cross on a black background, symbolic of the white tin emerging from the black ore and also spiritual truth shining amid the darkness.

I take it all in.

Attempts have been made to protect the ruin, but very little of the original building is left to see.

It's nearly midday and with no rain yet to impede our progress we continue on our way, up and down the hilly dunes towards Perranporth town.

We hope to go along the beach but as we get near we can see the tide is coming in which means it's not possible, so there's nothing for it but to climb the stairs over the cliff and join the coast path.

At the top of the stairs  Jo searches  her pockets..

"Can you ring my phone mum, I can't find it ?" 

Before I have a chance to ring her I see that there's a call from her phone ten minutes ago. I know it wasn't her. We assume someone has picked it up and tried to contact her. I ring back but there's no answer, so Jo sends a message hoping that their intention is to give the phone back.

Sure enough, an hour or so later, they message back and arrange for her to pick it up at Perran Sands, which is next to our campsite. Relief for Jo.

When we reach the town, we decide to treat ourselves to fish and chips for lunch, a reward for the arduous exercise we've just completed.

And then what happens? Why, it starts to rain, of course.

Molly gets upset that her chips are getting wet, so Paul pulls his coat over her and himself and makes a tent affair for her which cheers her up no end. 

Peter's chicken is covered with batter which we remove hoping that he won't react to any gluten left around the remaining pieces of meat. I asked for chicken for him thinking it would be a leg or something, like you used to get in the old days. As it is he may as well have had the fish.

The rain continues and so do we, along the road this time, the quickest way back to Tollgate Farm. Molly does  six miles  but needs help for the last mile home. We are all tired.

I sleep for an hour or so when we get back , then Peter and I  both read our books whilst listening to the rain and eating the last of the rice pudding.

Perranporth

28th July 2020

Perranporth

It only takes us an hour to get from Fingle Bridge to Perranporth, so as we're here we go straight to Tollgate Farm, where we've booked five nights, hoping that we can get in early ( ie. tonight).
"No chance, I'm afraid," I couldn't tell whether his accent was a country farm lilt or just Cornish. We will hear the same drawl  many times over the coming ten days. "we're fully booked tonight."
OK, what to do now.
We drive to town, have a walk by the sea. We only have an hour on the car park, but we find another one that looks as if we might be able to wild camp for the night.
We ask the attendant,
"Don't tell anybody," he whispers, "but yes, you can stay. But I didn't tell you that," he winks, "as there's a no sleeping in the vehicle policy."
We decide to chance it, pay the man £3 and find an inconspicuous place where we can "hide".
After going out again for a more relaxing walk by the sea we come back to the camper, have dinner of sardines and salad, with a bottle of red wine and Peter gets his guitar out to do some practice.




As we're wild camping we leave the top down so as not to be obvious.
We have to be ultra organised when wild camping. There's not much space. The guitar sits on the cooker and the awning fits behind the front seat along with the bag of books and our laptops. We have to position the porta potti exactly between the bed and the drivers seat. It's a tight squeeze but we make it work.

There's another van parked Illegally in the field, looks  like a works van but the young chap has made it a very comfortable home, with drawers that pull out and are accessed from under the bed at the back when the door is open - clever.

We wake early next morning to be ready to move off. Just as we pack the bed away Jo and Paul, my daughter and her husband turn up. They've wild camped a little way down the road. They bought an old school bus and converted it. They've taken it on many trips, including on the continent, and continue to improve their design. We'll be on the same campsite as them for the next five nights. So exciting.

I'd told them about the field we're in but they couldn't  get in because of the 2 mt barrier. Being no bother for us I never gave it a second thought.

I make tea while Paul pops into the Co-Op, which is next door, for croissants and we have a leisurely breakfast.

We are away well before the 10.00 am deadline and we pull up beside Jo and Paul before heading back to the beach with them all, children and dog included.




Paul's parents and his sister join us and it's not long before the children want to go in the sea. I'm a coward, too cold for me. And those waves, I'd be drenched too soon. I like to get in slowly. Raphy is a bit grizzly, apparently he'd not had a good night, so I take him for a stroll in his buggy.
Backwards and forwards I walk along the wet sand for thirty minutes, then he finally falls asleep.
Five minutes later I take him back to the family,  in another ten he's awake again. Oh well, at least he's in a better mood.

Paul treats us all to Pasties, except that Peter has to have a baked potato with beans , poor thing. Being gluten free is so resrticive.
The pasty is yummy - only in Cornwall!

Paul's parents invite us for a BBQ at theirs in the evening , so we leave them  around 2.0 pm and head to the campsite to get settled.

We're in  a different field to Jo and Paul but it's ok.

Our new awning is getting it's first proper try out.
It doesn't take us long to get it up and then we're on the road again.

I'm a bit apprehensive about the visit and want to get something to take with me, flowers or something. I pray all the way there that we'll find a supermarket.
Only two roads down from their house we find a Londis. No flowers. I buy chocolates and red wine . Who wouldn't like that?
I'd also have some gluten free sausages for hubby.

It's warm and a brilliant evening for a BBQ, with their garden brimming with beauty- trees, including cherry tree, roses and much more- so relaxing.
And the food - salmon on skewers chicken, salads of different kinds, burgers - lovely.

Fingle Bridge

27th July 2020

Travel continued...

10th July 2020 

Having packed everything, so we thought - two frozen dinners for later in the week, pegs, tablets, musn't forget my journal - we said goodbye to Mary and Dominic, who are both working from home, and set off around one.

After driving for a few hours, a lot of the time in the rain, we eventually stop for a short break. Peter gets out, walks around up and down , stretches, and off we go again.

A little while later we are held up in a  traffic jam, which, we find out later was caused by a lorry breaking down. 
"Shall we stop soon,"for the night, I mean. I check out "pitch4night", looking on the map for suitable places. It's the first time we've used this app. It's specifically for wild campers, who, when they find somewhere useful they recommend it to others by adding  it to the list.
"No," he says, "I just want to get past Exeter. We'll find something the other side.

We stop again in a lay-by, with a coffee cabin - closed, obviously - as is the outside toilet. Oh well, we have the Porta-Potti.

"I'll make a cup of coffee. It's ages since we had a drink." I get the kettle and turn the tap on. "It's not working," I tell him, when no water comes out.
"Oh, shit," he says, "I forgot to fill it"
"Oh no. And I didn't fill the bottle either," something we usually do for convenience.
This is definitely an irritation . I'm anxious now as we'll need to find water soon.
"It's your fault," he jokes, "If you hadn't got me washing the car last night , I'd have finished what I was supposed to be doing." I never asked him to help me wash the car.

The water problem set our agenda. We might even have to find a supermarket and buy water - not if I can help it though! I pray we don't have to.
We take the next turn off the A30 and find a garage with a Travel Lodge next to it, closed, obviously.
On the way to get petrol I spot a water tap. Hurray!! My whole body relaxes at the thought of being able to fill up with water, and without going near a supermarket.
There are lots of parking spaces outside the Travel Lodge and they're hidden from the busyness of the garage. Maybe we can stay here.

We hang around for a bit, make coffee and take a walk, but in the end we don't feel comfortable  - isolated behind the hub of activity at the garage and the Spar Shop.
Park4Night tells us there's a good spot about twenty minutes away near a river. We head for it.
Sat nav lady takes us down windy, narrow lanes, then, "you have reached your destination on the left." Studying the wooded area, we see no sign of anywhere we can park . We try a little further along, possibly the postcode was incorrect, no luck.

Off we go again.
Now we leave it to chance, on an adventure of our own.
And , oh my goodness, we find a little gem - Fingle Bridge . An inn sits next to the bridge with the River Teign running by.
We are blown away  with our good luck.

The owners of the inn are out putting cones in position for the social distancing they'll need when they open the next day.

"Unfortunately we can only open for take aways," they tell us, "it's all we can do at the moment. But people can sit in the gardens and eat , so we're hoping for good weather."
We chat for a while - how business has been, how they expect it to be, furloughing staff - then we walk over the bridge , where we see a chap with a small dog, fishing. Of course he and Peter share stories , dogs, fishing.

Going over the bridge we amble along the pretty lane beside the river, edged with a large gassy area. Again we stop to talk to another walker, obviously local.
"There's a lovely circular walk on up, right to the top, then a bridge across and back down. It follows the river and there's great little spots where the river rushes down. Best to start this side though, and come back the easy route."
"Maybe tomorrow, "Peter replies, "If we decide to stay."

"What do you think?" Peter asks me when we leave the man behind.
"I'd really like to stay, it's lovely here. And I'd like to do that walk he told us about."
So that was it. Dinner in the camper that evening was Chicken salad.

The next morning we are up early, keen to begin the long trek, the difficult climb.
Listening to the gushing of water as it comes down over the rocks, not exactly waterfalls, but exhilarating nevertheless.
Two hours later we are back , the descent easier, tired, hungry.

Back at the camper we have rice pudding, again something cooked at home before leaving, then sit on the bridge with a coffee, look down at the river, with its rocks, its brown rust colour and gentle rippling sounds as it heads towards the sea at Teignmouth. A lovely quiet moment , only a couple of dog walkers off in the distance. We say nothing, just let the flow of nature fill us. A meditative space.
Then...
"Oh my goodness, love, a flash, blue,  turquoise, a bird? What's that?"
A stunning image, from branch to water to branch, right in front of me.
"From the colours, sounds like you might have seen a kingfisher, lucky you." He stares into the branches, "He'll be fishing," he says hopefully.
In the blink of an eye it darts past again. This time he sees it.And what magnificent sight.
While we wait for him to repeat his performance a yellow wagtail flits from rock to rock,playfully and we rejoice to witness  morning on the river.






Not having had breakfast we decide to patronise the Inn, after all we are now parked in their car park area. We sit by the river, watching children and dogs playing in the water, and many people enjoying the good weather. It's obviously a popular place.



Back at the camper we have rice pudding, again something cooked at home before leaving, then sit on the bridge with a coffee, looking down at the river, with its rocks, its brown rust colour and gentle rippling sounds as it heads towards the sea at Teignmouth. A lovely quiet moment , only a couple of dog walkersoff in the distance before we set off again for Perranporth.

The Trip Begins

9th July 2020

Hello everyone.

Today we start our camper van trip to Cornwall. 

The camper is packed out and ready. All preparations have been made. 

But me?

I don't feel ready.

Would you in this time of pandemic? There's a tiny part of me that says, stay put.

Had my bath, last for a while, even on a campsite the only option is a shower. Hair washed, legs and under arms shaved. That should be it.  

But I have a nagging feeling that I'll forget something, something important. Should make a list, be more organised, like a friend I have who has lists for everything. I always have good intentions to do so and I'm convinced it would free up some space in my mind too.

What about you, are you a list writer or, like me, just wing it?

 I'll write a list straight after writers hour. 

 It could be the last one for a while, as it's not always easy to get wifi. I hope not though. 

I mean, if I don't get the travels on the blog while we're away, I rarely get a chance to write them up later as I'm usually on to something else. I have so many journal entries of our adventures that I'd intended to blog about, but they never got written up. 

And today, I've woken up grumpy.

I seem to spend a lot of time grumpy,

I know, wasted time,

or worse,

badly used time.

That word that he said, 

why can't I ignore it,

rise above it,

or at least,

forget it.

No, I let it in,

welcome it even, 

give it hospitality,

 until it becomes, my boss .

It then gets me to let others in,

ones I'd sent away,

never to return, I thought.

And they leave no room for me 

with their big ideas.

I don't like them at all.

Why do I let them in?

I'm going to try to only let in 

the kind words,

and when they come, 

to give them the space they need, 

to encourage 

a thankful heart.

Words can show the good side of life,

I'll let those in,

meditate with them, 

drink in their harmony.

Must put toothbrushes on the list, and tablets - paracetemol, hayfever pills - the prescribed meds are already packed. 

Oh, and I have to clean the downstairs loo before we go.

The Awning

1st July

The Awning.

Today, we had a delivery. An awning. I'd not planned to have an awning for our small camper, especially as we've only done wild camping in the past and had intended to continue to do so for the foreseeable  future. In my mind we didn't have any use for one.

But that, like many things, was before Covid 19, before borders were shut, before we were unable to travel any distance at all.
We would have been away in Cornwall  for the whole of May and most of June, camping in hidden places, finding off the beaten track spots where few people would come.
That was the plan.
Campsites will  open on 4th July

Now, being  reluctant to go wild camping with policing being more vigilant,  we've booked some time away in Cornwall at a campsite. At a campsite!
Hence the awning.
It looks like this:

We've spent ten weeks travelling through France and Spain, another ten touring Ireland and I could probably count on my fingers the number of
 times, due to wanting a shower and clean clothes, we had a night in a campsite. We rarely spent two together.

Funnily enough , I am positively warming to the idea of the awning, seeing  that it could bring many worthwhile  benefits.

It's a drive away tent, which means we can still take off and explore the countryside and have a base to come back to . So convenient. When we're wild camping we often spend quite a bit of time searching for somewhere to park for the night. 

Another bonus is the extra space it'll give us making  our daily living arrangements so much more comfortable.

To be fair, rather than going for comfort in the past, we've gone for the open road and touring. It's been great finding unusual places to park up for the night, not putting the top up so that we look like a big car. Incognito.

So, this will be a very different trip for us, a   more relaxing experience. Staying in one place has its advantages. We won't have to pack up every day. We can still explore our surroundings by walking which means we'll get to know the area well.

Hopefully, I'll get  to write about our adventures on my  blog in a travel writerly sort of way. Well, it'll be my version of Travel Writing anyway. And I'll have time for more reading which I have difficulty fitting in when we're on the road and I have to navigate.
Yes, it'll be more leisurely all round.

We also treated ourselves to some new camping chairs, similar to the previous two, which, after three years,  had become  rather tatty. And although we went for the cheapest again,  the new ones are so much kinder to the body.

Of course, we had to try the awning out straight away. Can't turn up at the campsite and look like idiots. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough room in the back garden, so we put it together on the front drive, after parking the camper in the road. Having had years of experience putting up tents of all shapes and sizes,we had it sussed in no time. Actually, about ten minutes, which we thought was pretty good. Packing it away was the most difficult part, getting it small enough to go back in the carry bag took two attempts. But we know this for next time.

 

I'm so looking forward to heading off. Let's just hope the weather is good to us. But even if it isn't we've got a new "holiday home" to get used to and will enjoy the extra space.

Have you an experience to share about camping??

For You Jan

28th June 2020

For You Jan -  A Little Ramble.

You are with me, in my mediation, this morning.
You, dressed in purple,pink and red, 
making flames dance daintily or your face.
Diamond stars sparkle below your ears.

 Your smile, encourages, welcomes, comforts me 
good to see you, dear Jan . 
You ask me, with interest,  to tell you more, 
more about the Irish trip. 

More about those trad evenings 
you,  I know,  love everything Celtic. 
So, stay awhile, let me tell you about Jim o the Mill.
An old farmhouse cottage, thatched, hidden,

 along a boreen, way up in the mountains, not easy to get to. 
Round the outside of the house, lights, lanterns, balloons,
 in multitudinous colours, decorate the windows and walls,
like its Christmas.

 Cars line the lanes, fill the fields. 
Musicians gather, eagerly cradle their instruments, 
Ah, I see your eyes widen now, music is always your thing
Shall I go on? 

Others, greet with hugs, ask how each other are, like it’s a family affair.
 But we also  meet travellers who’ve come from afar
Africa, America, Germany, even Bulgaria.  World renowned is farmer Jim.
 A  micro bar, the size of a tiny parlour, open only on Thursdays

Serves Guinness and Cola and Irish whiskey.
We’ve become fond of the Guinness.  The evening unfolds
 music, poetry, storytelling fill the three small rooms. 
Bodies squeeze in too, sit on benches, on dirt floor, or perch on stairs. 

We are in the room where Kathleen is, my cousin, with her fiddle. 
A boy, about ten, with an accordian, as well as a head of curly, red hair,
An American with his guitar.  One begins to play a tune, others join in, 
even if they’ve never heard it. This is an Irish  ramble, all are welcome.

Anyone can play their instrument, or sing or recite poetry or tell a story.
 I look around. You’d love it, the atmosphere. 
In the open hearth the fire gives a soft glow to the spirit, 
far away places imagined in burning sods. 

On shelves, antique looking tea pots, family photos, crock jugs, books.
On walls, fiddles, art work done long ago by children now with grandchildren of their own, and is that a pitch fork, and beside it a hoe,  yes. 
We’re encouraged to join in with songs we know. I know a few, folk, rebel.

My cousin sings for me – Tipperary Far Away, I swallow holding back a river.
An American intones an old Irish balled, haunting,  
hits a hollow deep inside-  I’m off again. I imagine you with us dear Jan, 
shutting your eyes as you do when you listen with intent.

 We leave at 1.30 in the morning, no sign of the night coming to an end. Apparently, you’ll like this, if you’re there in the morning, 
when the sun comes up, they’ll cook you sausages and bacon.
Thanks for listening, until we meet again, so long, Jan, dear friend.

Jan /Nan

25th June 2020

Death Resurrects old Memories 

8.40 pm 22nd June 2020. 

I didn't want to believe what I read. For a moment the words, there in black and white, somersaulted in my brain. It can't be. We were only told around midday that she was improving, that they were discussing how they'd rearrange the house for when she came home, make things

 easier for her.

Then, like a wild animal I let out, I don't know how, it wasn't me, but the most piercing scream. I couldn't help it . It came from some deep place that I didn't know was within me.

"What's up?"  Peter asked, concerned.

He came rushing over. I handed him my phone. It took him a few seconds to understand..By this time my whole body was shaking and tears were flowing. He drew me close, held on tight and added his own sobs to the river of sadness .

She'd died at 6.40 pm Mandy informed us. It was a shock to everyone she went on.

Poor Mandy, I thought, best friends for many years. If it affected us , how was she doing.

All of us from the writer's group she belonged to are devastated. There's something about sharing your writing that is so intimate, nothing compares to it, where you are exposed for who you are like nowhere else. 

Jan's death and the Mediterranean weather we're having just now, sent me back to last year and our trip to Ireland. Jan had a keen interest in all things Irish -  culture, spirituality, music. We had planned to have gatherings at her home to share our favourite Irsih / Celtic songs. Apart form all her other talents, too numerous to mention, she was an accomplished musician.

May 31st 2019 From an entry in my journal.

We leave Portumna after evening Mass, which celebrated the important  Feast of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin, recollecting  the time when  Mary, after being told by the Angel that not only was she herself going to have a child but that her cousin Elizabeth also had conceived and was now in her sixth month.
It's late evening when we drive into Thurles, past images which run like a grainy film through my mind, backwards and forwards, into each other. Silently, concentrating,  I scan  for familiar landmarks.

 As we pass through the square, how busy, I think, I see the tower of the Cathedral on the other side. A good  clue. I could walk to nan's house from here, a familiar route that she and I took a along the River Suir from the bottom of nan's road. Her short round body held up by little stick legs, an old brown shopping bag over her arm, we'd chat about the issues of the day, or the weather,especially if it was either extremely hot or cold, or  members of the family and what they were up to. Every day her and I would walk to early mass -  her routine. Now, in 2020, it's mine too, though not in Pandemic time.

We drive  round the square twice, park in the busy car park . What shall we do now? 
We make a cup of coffee, while I try to find  my bearings.  It's great travelling in the camper, being able to stop anywhere and make ourselves drinks or lunch or dinner. Staring out into the crowded square I don't  recognise the shops. I search for the window of Walter Maloney's . This is where nan came, or sent me, every day to get the messages. At Walter's you'd find bacon, bread, brickets, and all manner of items for everyday use. He seemed to have everything. A mini, mini, precursor to the modern day supermarket. There's a shop that looks as if it could be the place - Theresa's Tanning Palour. Whether it is or it isn't , it looks as if Walter is no longer around.

 There are  more roads leading off the square than I remember.
I see one I do know. I've walked it many , many times.
I turn to Peter. All this time he's left me with my own thoughts. I'm grateful for that.
"I need to go find the house, you know, just to look," I try to  persuade him? "And we might find somewhere better to stay than this car park, more quiet."  He's been driving for hours and is more than happy to stay put. But I also know that he'd prefer a more secluded spot.
"Fine," he says. We put the kettle in it's place in the cupboard and the cups in the sink.  I feel a bit guilty asking, as he's so tired, but I can't wait till morning.

We drive down the Mall in silence, my stomach churning, I'm so emotional, I cannot speak, what am I expecting? As we get near Kavanagh Place, the houses become familiar. It's on the left just a little way down. There is a huge Dunnes Store on the corner now, a prominent feature that slightly  puts me off. But now I see the Guards Barracks. Ah here we are. I point left. We turn .

Signs everywhere tell us, "Residents Parking only" What happened to this quiet road a couple of  miles outside the town?  So many thoughts run through my mind. We pass Mrs Peter's house, a wealthy neighbour, good to nan, bringing her groceries and other essentials in difficult times. And there are the gates of Lyons' scrap yard. This family had twelve children and I spent many a summer in and out of their house. I had a crush on Conor, two years older than me. He taught me Irish rebel songs. I loved it, got quite keen on "the cause". He joined the IRA later.

We stop where Casey's used to be, beside nan's house. Although their signs are still up, and there is a tin lean to which they'd attached to nan's cottage, there is nothing else but an empty yard. I glimpse the house, now, is some one trying to do it up? It's hard to hold back the tears - yet why should I cry?

There's the window, on the left as I look up,  of the bedroom where I slept. When my mother and her six brothers and sister were children , this was their room, a double bed for the girls at one end and another for the boys at the other. Mum told me stories of her sisters wetting the bed and waking up in a pool of water. She sighted this as one of the reasons she fled home, never to return except to visit her mother.

On the right the two small windows of nan's bedroom. Here, when I was much younger, I would often sleep with her, unaware then of the impact that closeness would have on my life. Here, in the dark, I learned to pray, as nan would recite her rosary or other prayers. A whiff  of diesel will always brings me back there, back to the sound of Casey's lorries outside those windows.

Downstairs, on the left, the teeney sitting room, only enough space  here for a tv, a coffee table and two arm chairs. This, the best room, was rarely entered. On the right the window of my favourite ,  the kitchen. Here, kept warm and welcoming by the range, all generations, all classes of people would gather, tell stories, drink tea, eat Marie biscuits, the key always left in the door - an open invite. Above the farmhouse table, set into the wall space next to the window, a picture of the Sacred Heart.
Lots of images pile into my mind, as I stand and stare. My feet rooted to this spot where the mist of my ancestors dwells.  No one lives here now. A hole in the roof the size of a football goal has let the rain in for a good many months.

"Shall we take some pictures?" His words bring me suddenly back to the present.
"Yes, good idea," He's been patient, bless him.

"Let's go and find somewhere to park up," we are reluctant to stay in Kavanagh Place with the lines in the road and the signs , added to that the Guarda at the top of the road.

But after we drive around and around and don't find anywhere we come back,  and chancing our arm, spend the night next to Casey's yard with a good view of the cottage. It feels good to be here. Shame about the house, I suppose it will have to be pulled down.

Writers Hour quotes.

Words of Wisdom via Alastair Humphreys:

"It helps if you can separate what is urgent from what is important. Superficially the two words are similar. But extrapolate your life a few decades, and they lead to very different destinations. Urgent shouts more loudly than Important. But Important is, well, important.



On the first Tuesday of every month, my calendar pings a reminder at me. That’s standard, of course; my life is ruled by a crowded calendar (because I am the King of Busy). But this is one ping I always enjoy. Indeed, the busier I am, the more I appreciate the interruption. And that is because my calendar tells me to ‘Climb a Tree’. 

It reminds me to step away from the aimless conference calls and the interruptions and spend 20 minutes doing something which I will never regret. 

 It is a pleasant way to measure and notice the changing seasons…I hope that I never deem myself too busy with urgent tasks to do something as important as climbing a tree."

 –Alastair Humphreys, The Doorstep Mile: Live More Adventurously

Today's words of wisdom via David Bowie:

“I think it’s terrible when artists work to fulfil other people’s expectations…

If you feel safe in the area you’re working in you’re not working in the right area. Always go further into the water than you feel you’re capable of being in. Go a little out of your depth and when you don’t quite feel that your feet are touching the bottom you’re just about in the right place to do something exciting.” –David Bowie

Today Neil Gaiman:

"I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re Doing Something.

So that’s my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before. Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.

Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, Do it.

Make your mistakes, next year and forever."

Ryan Holiday

"You will come across obstacles in life - fair and unfair. And you will discover, time and time again, that what matters most is not what these obstacles are but how we see them, how we react to them, and whether we keep our composure. You will learn that this reaction determined how successful we will be in overcoming - or possibly thriving because of - them.

"

– Ryan Holiday, The Obstacle is the Way

Today's words of wisdom via friend of the Salon, agent Rachel Mann:

“Ultimately you write alone. And ultimately you and you alone can judge your work. The judgment that a work is complete—this is what I meant to do, and I stand by it—can come only from the writer, and it can be made rightly only by a writer who’s learned to read her own work. Group criticism is great training for self-criticism. But until quite recently no writer had that training, and yet they learned what they needed. They learned it by doing it.” 

― Ursula K. Le Guin, Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story

Some gentle words from the wise Mary Oliver:

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be

astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever.

Today's words of wisdom via Ryan Holiday:

"People claim to want to do something that matters, yet they measure themselves against things that don't, and track their progress not in years but in microseconds. They want to make something timeless, but they focus instead on immediate payoffs and instant gratification.

Making a beloved classic that last for more than 100 years may seem like tall order. Fine, put that aside. What if we start by just trying to make something that lasts longer than average.

Let's start by internalizing the best practices of those who've achieved intermediate and lasting success so we can give ourselves the best chance of joining the lofty perch of those who have made something truly perennial and timeless. Let's be truly ambitious."   Perennial Seller

Or in Wendell Berry's words, we did "our real work":

“It may be that when we no longer know what to do,

we have come to our real work

and when we no longer know which way to go,

we have begun our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.”

― Wendell Berry, Our Real Work

Today's words of wisdom from Rumi:

“I said: what about my eyes?


He said: Keep them on the road.



I said: What about my passion?


He said: Keep it burning.



I said: What about my heart?


He said: Tell me what you hold inside it?





I said: Pain and sorrow.


He said: Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”



― Rumi, Sufi Poet

Nice work today writers. We showed up and did our job.

Today's words of wisdom (thank you Graham for the curation and reading):

“To speak out about the world as it is, says James Baldwin, is the writer’s job.”


"Writers are extremely important people in a country, whether or not the country knows it. The multiple truths about a people are revealed by that people’s artists - that is what the artists are for...



It seems to me that the truth about us, as individual men and women, and as a nation, has been, and is being recorded, whether we wish to read it or not. Perhaps we cannot read it now, but the day is coming when we will have nothing else to read. 



We are the generation that must throw everything into the endeavor to remake America into what we say we want it to be. Without this endeavor, we will perish. However immoral or subversive this may sound to some, it is the writer who must always remember that morality. If it is to remain or become morality, it must be perpetually examined, cracked, changed, made new...
Not everything that is faced can be changed; but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

–
James Baldwin

Via Anna, today's words of wisdom from Wendell Berry:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

–Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things

 

Today's words of wisdom via the one and only Maya Angelou:

“I’ve always had the feeling that life loves the liver of it. You must live and life will be good to you, 

give you experiences. They may not all be that pleasant, but nobody promised you a rose garden.

. But more than likely if you do dare, what you get are the marvelous returns. 
Courage is probably 

the most important of the virtues, because without courage you cannot practice any of the other

 virtues, you can’t say against a murderous society, I oppose your murdering. You got to have

 courage to do so. I seem to have known that a long time and found great joy in it.”


– Maya Angelou, 

Today's words of wisdom:

"Every single day, I get emails from aspiring writers asking my advice about how to become a writer, and here is the only advice I can give: Don’t make stuff because you want to make money — it will never make you enough money. And don’t make stuff because you want to get famous — because you will never feel famous enough. 



Make gifts for people — and work hard on making those gifts in the hope that those people will notice and like the gifts.

 Maybe they will notice how hard you worked, and maybe they won’t — and if they don’t notice, I know it’s frustrating. But, ultimately, that doesn’t change anything — because your responsibility is not to the people you’re making the gift for, but to the gift itself.
"

– John Green (author of the Fault in Our Stars)

Today's words of wisdom via lovely Mary Oliver:

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right direction, will the earth turn

as it was taught, and if not how shall

I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,

can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows

can do it and I am, well,

hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism,

lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up. And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang.

– Mary Oliver,

Thanks for writing with us today. Today's words of wisdom from Mary Oliver:

“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it.

 There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be.

 We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. 

Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back,

 that sometimes something happened better than all the riches or power in the world. 

It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins.

 Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. 

Joy is not made to be a crumb. 


– Mary Oliver, 

PS - Today's words of wisdom:

"We push and push - to get a raise, a new client, to prevent some exigency from happening.

 In fact, the best way to get what we want might be to reexamine the desires in the first place.

 Or it might be to sim for something else entirely and use the impediment as an opportunity to

 explore a new direction…

We wrongly assume that moving forward is the only way to progress, the only way we can win.

Sometimes, staying put, going sideways, or moving backward is actually the best way to eliminate

 what blocks or impedes your path. There is a certain humility required in the approach. It means 

accepting that the way you originally wanted to do things is not possible…We can use the things 

that block us to our advantage."

― Ryan Holiday, The Obstacle is the Way