Tuesday 22 August

So, the French odyssey began this day with the boat to Blighty on our way to Boulougne via London, and Deal but firstly Leeds. Six days of travel and visiting friends and family before a month in France.

I woke up to the familiar clangs of the Irish Water Board doing whatever they do weekly across the road at 5am and couldn’t get back to sleep. In my stomach, colly wobbles pattered about my stomach about travelling, but my head sported a sombrero of calm (I could see it, black, broad, intimidating) because these days I have had so much time to be organised! I used to feel excited about change or travel but with age has come a more sang-froid approach to everything, which might seem good but it’s a little boring!

However, despite the organised calm, I woke up to find a thousand thoughts spinning about inside my brain …will I remember how to drive on the English motorways? Are they going to let Poppins in (I didn’t mention her to Stenaline)? Will she be alright in the car alone on the ferry? Will I find somewhere to stop and walk her? Should I take my favourite tea? I don’t have enough time with my best friends, Ruth and Maria. Have I forgotten anything? I haven’t done enough about the Friday picnic in Finsbury Park. Am I going to be too tired driving now because I am awake too early and thinking these thoughts? Will I take my pillow? What about my duvet? I keep making decisions, like no, I won’t take my duvet, but whatever I decide, the same thought pops back up again. Oh dear,  despite the calm, these days, I find few answers, and generally only half arsed solutions that don’t satisfy.

Sunday 28^th August DEAL

As you probably guessed, I did remember how to drive and manage the motorways but that was more because, while the motorways point the same way and look as they did, they no longer resemble high speed, four laned madness. As it turned out bollards, accidents, variable speed limits, low emission zones, and traffic jams are the new dangers of motorway driving. Why have motorways, I wonder, when they don’t work? The North Wales shore lines and mountain tops looked pretty spectacular (they seemed to have got rid of the long line of caravan parks that marred the view) as we dashed (if you can dash at 40mph) through Anglesea on the start of our long motorway whizz drive to Leeds where we eventually landed up, thanks to Mrs Google guiding us  through the back roads and by routes of Yorkshire avoiding various collisions, junctions, and breakdowns.

Mags and Joe, brother and sister in law, welcomed us with open arms, wine and array of cheeses. A perfect reception, if I may say so. Next morning, Mags and I were making bread,  preparing salads, walking Pops and catching up on the perils of old age, retirement and the general lack of world leadership while walking through the lovely local park full of forests, lakes and cricket pitches. We were joined in these discussions later in the garden by other brothers and sisters in law who came to pay homage to the Irish contingency of Fitzpatrick’s, including the latest addition to the family, Matilda of ten months…our first family grandchild, possibly the next world leader!

After lots of hugs and farewells, we made our way along the M1 accompanied by thunder, lightening and lashing rain, floods, more variable speed limits and low emission zones (no locusts). At this stage we were hoping that our Irish number plates would provide some protection from these unknown and rather alarming warnings and announcements. Again, thanks to Mrs Google, we got to our destination where Maria welcomed us with delights from Waitrose. Over the weekend, we had a lovely picnic for the friends and Family in Finsbury Park (thank you, Maria and Waitrose), and there, while we continued the debate on poor leadership, trans issues, and outdoor swimming opportunities, Pops chased squirrels and rats through bushes and burrs so that she became more burrdog that collie! The next morning, I had to spray her with coconut, vegan kitchen oil, and spend three hours picking them out to release her tail back to its former glory.

So here we are at the water’s edge, looking across to France doing the last of the visitations. This time staying with my brother who has banned any discussion on the decline of the West. Not a bad idea. We went to visit Margate and a rather wonderful Ingrid Pollard exhibition the Turner Art Gallery (do google her), and the eccentric but wonderful Walpole Hotel which does perfect cream teas and sports a wonderful exhibition of ‘stuff’ from the last 200 years. Lovely soft bed linen at Marc’s and a perfectly cooked Pot au Feu of which Poppins had the bone!

The visitations have been a fabulous start to the month. Thank you, everyone. Just half an hour on Le Shuttle today and we will be in France for a month!

After watching the Tory leadership candidates’ debate, I can see why Boris got selected back in 2019. There seem to be few members of the Tory party that have charisma, energy, commitment as well as integrity.

I thought the most interesting person on last nights hustings was Kemi in her bright yellow outfit but, from what I read or have heard of her, I find her political views, particularly on immigration and abolishing the court of human rights, most abhorrent. She reminded me of the ‘bold’ girl at school, always ready with a retort. Tom reminded me of the traditional neat and tidy headmaster who lives in a mock Tudor executive home in Surrey, Richie seemed like the arrogant school prig whose parents drive a Bentley and an Armstrong Sidley, Liz floundered on being asked to stand up and recite her times tables and Penny was definitely Head Girl.

The wavering audience were a motley looking crew too and, in the end, it didn’t seem that the famous five above did much for them either.

I think it is time to recruit our politicians differently. What other profession allows individuals to rock up to the front door and offer themselves up for the top dog position without any suitable qualifications or skills, and then snigger gleefully, all the way to the bank.

So here is my person spec for a Member of Parliament. I’m sure its missing key ingredients but its open to consultation. Please give constructive comments.

We are looking for someone who lives or is from the local area to represent us in Parliament. They must have a good knowledge and understanding of the region, its social history, its key industries, be an excellent good communicator and highly motivated.

Essential criteria

• To demonstrate a commitment to change and improve people’s economic and social lives.
  • To provide evidence of past engagements which demonstrate integrity and energy
  • To have extensive experience of team working and community development
  • To display a good grasp of the social and economic context of the region.
  • To have strong communication skills, both oral and technological
  • To demonstrate an ability to network effectively to improve the life of constituents
  • To have a strong understanding of governance at local, national and international level
  • To provide evidence of excellent time management skills
  • Driving license

Desirable criteria

• To have a strong sense of humour

Sunshine, islands, spider fish, sucking sands and huge waves were key features of my stay in Olhao. The spider fish were filleted and battered but despite this, I suspect they were the reason for my waking up in the hot Portuguese night unable to open my eyes. Stumbling to the bathroom, through a crack in my lids, I saw the underneath of my eyes and my eye lids in full puffy, blossom. Not a pretty sight. Apparently, according to Google,  this could be known as surfer’s eye. I considered that possibility as, earlier that afternoon, I had sort of been surfing. After enjoying myself rolling around and floating on the swoop of the waves, on trying to exit the sea, the sands beneath my feet disappeared, the water swept in, the surf submerged me and literally tossed me around like a rag doll. Salt and sand filled my mouth. I managed to surface briefly, hurl a scream, crawl on to my knees, and burst out laughing at the experience, before being smashed against the sliding sands again, the roar and water silencing me again. I threw out my arms to be saved, but my son, Joe, was unable to maintain contact as once again the waves took control and tossed me, scornfully, on the sand, only to claim me back again, as I struggled to get up before the next surge forward. Eventually, I emerged, not laughing, breathless, swimsuit torn from my boobs, hillocks of sand in the most unlikely places, dripping seaweed…but alive. This morning, peering into the mirror, I wondered, could this be ‘surfer’s eye’? Hum, I thought, more likely to be spider fish poisoning, or maybe it was the after-effects of two jugs of delicious watermelon sangria.

We discovered the joy of watermelon sangria on the third night of our holiday. We were celebrating being on holiday, as one does, but spending the evening in a café rather than going back to the Casa we had rented because of the alarming creature we had encountered the previous night on our roof terrace. I will explain. On our first day, Joe and I had spent the morning walking around the coastal Rio Formosa national park, through the salt and fresh water marshes, inhaling the pines, admiring the white, red and purple of the oleander trees, blue skies, and, on the way there, the orange and white sign of the Intermarche shopping store. So, that afternoon we had returned and splashed out in Intermarche, buying foods of interest for a picnic on our terrace. At 9.30pm, we had returned from our aperitif, laid the terrace table with tomato salad, flageolets, anchovies, cheese, gherkins, bread, curried hot dogs (joe’s choice), cornbeef, pates, green glace cherries and flan and were just digging in, when a very blonde, angry, slim, half naked small man appeared on his side of the terrace wall. He proceeded to speak very fast, accented English about noise, where he slept, the bang of doors, feet on the stairs, and the fucking motherfuckerness of the owner. All this time he was wildly gesticulating and being very aggressive. Sadly, as a result, we spent much of our time outside the Casa in cafes…which explains the two jugs of sangria, and the possible symptoms of ‘surfers eye’. Anyhow, whatever the reason, the eyes got better, and we got more familiar with the cafes on the prom.

On the fourth day, having promenaded enough in Olhao, we hired a car and skedaddled to Seville in Spain, 150 miles up the motorway. What a gorgeous city it is. It was vaguely on my bucket list and is now one of my planned features for a city break next year. It is certainly one of the most beautiful cities I have ever been in. I loved the narrow streets, the small squares, the river and canal. The Real Alcazar, a Spanish palace of Moor and Christian architecture was spell bounding. The tiles, the intricacies of the plastering, the colours, the symmetry, the gardens were astounding, it was a truly magical place. The Casa de Pilates was similar, though it didn’t have the amazing gardens. However, the acoustics in its music room was gorgeous. The Plaza d’Espagna also took my breath away. Sadly, the actual plaza building which was built in the 1920 in a mix of baroque, Moor and romanticism styles, was being set up for a big event, so the view was somewhat ruined, and, anyway, we were running out of leg muscle power (I think we walked over 20kms in scorching heat in Seville) and time. We wanted to sit down, and eat Paella still before leaving Spain and heading back to to return the hire car and the delights of watermelon sangria.

In fact, they didn’t want the hire car back, said we could keep it until we drove it back to the airport! Joe was just about to park it outside our Casa when a local slipped in and nabbed our space. That night we returned from a delicious meal of grilled tuna and final jug of watermelon sangria, to find flashing blue lights, the politizi and all the neighbourhood hanging about outside our Casa! There was a lot of heated discussion going on. They were staring at the parked car outside our house. A massive transporter, with orange flashing lights, arrived, edged its way down the narrow lane, and picked up a stray vehicle that it seemed had drunkenly sliced its way down the narrow street grazing all the parked cars. There, but for the grace of God…we left early next morning, returning an unscratched citroen, sun sated and full of the joys of Olhao.

BTW, PM me if you want the recipe to the watermelon sangria!

I was reading The Story of a Life by Konstantin Paustovsky recently, a celebrated 20^th century Russian writer, recommended by a BBC book podcast. I had never heard of him, but, apparently, he is much loved by Russians (he is a Ukrainian) and he succeeded in avoiding the various gulags and Siberian camps to which Stalin sent many Russian writers, partly, I guess, because one of his books written in the 1930s praised the industrialisation of the country.  

This book is beautifully written. It is his life story, and I started to read it just as the Russians invaded Ukraine which made it more poignant. It gave me an appreciation into how intricate and dovetailed the states of Ukraine and Russia have always been, even before the Russian Revolution. He writes fabulous descriptions of cities, trees, the sky, people. He lived through exciting times – war, revolution, the five year plan, civil war, which made his adventures as a medical orderly on a train travelling through Russia, Ukraine and Belarus picking up wounded soldiers, a journalist in Moscow during the revolution very exciting.

Paustovsky was born in 1892 on 31^st May, which is my birthday! He had a happy childhood but when his parents split up, the separation of the family led to his life fragmenting and his writing reflects a boy and a young man always seeking salvation or something which is elusive. He casts a lonely figure in his stories, but his writing is very lyrical and romantic. Perhaps a little too sentimental? He describes his experience of cruelty, war, and death vividly. It was an oddly reflective of the scenes I was watching on the TV. It reminded me of how circular life is.

The circularity of life, including how our human reactions  seem to lead, inevitably, to diminishing circles is also apparent in To Paradise by Hanya  Yanagihara which is another long book (both this and The Story of a Life were three volumes!). On the surface, this book was very different to Pautovsky because it is science fiction, but it was but as grim in terms of its portrayal of human nature.

To Paradise is set over three generations of a wealthy and renowned family from the late 19^th century to the late 21^tst century. In the first book, families are made up of same sex marriages and we follow the story of a grandfather looking after his grandchildren after the parents die of a virus. America is divided into free states, the Wild West and the bigoted south and shifts between the different places. The first book has a Henry James feel to it. The story starts with the portrayal of an anxious, wealthy boy who doesn’t appear to grow up. This ineptitude seems to be the general thread through each protagonist of the following generations. I began to feel a little exasperated by them. The three books are about familial relationships and while excellent in parts, in other places was hard to follow and occasionally I felt lectured at.

An interesting feature in each of the To Paradise are the ‘pandemics’ that break out in each generation, and the increasing severity of each and how the last one destroys humanity, not just in terms of death but it takes away our ability to be generous and kind. Yanagihara writes about love, wealth, poverty, human weakness, the latter two ever increasing in volume as the centuries pass. Given we were experiencing our own Pandemic while I was reading this, the book was particularly scary. I’m not sure I would recommend it. It can be heavy going.

On a positive note, I went to see The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, a book I much loved in childhood, at Bord Gais this month which was much better than I thought it would be. The choreography and stage set were both excellent, the acting good, though I could have done without the songs. Aslan was a rather good puppet but nothing as wonderful and magical as the War Horse which was staged by the National Theatre at Home during lockdown and was nothing short of brilliant. I watched it on line and loved it.

Now, I’m just listening to sad, wrecked refugees streaming out of Ukraine and three British soldiers deciding to go off on an adventure to ‘do something’ in Ukraine dressed up in knights in white armour. You couldn’t make it up!

Christmas is finished, New Year is done, festivities and little treats (in my case, Lindt truffles, gin and cranberry mince pies from Lidl, classic panettone) are no more. The scales are overloaded, the holidays are booked and seem forever away. So heads down, folks, and let’s skedaddle through to February 1^st,  St Brigid’s day, which many in Ireland consider the first day of Spring. From then on in, life will kick into action. No more introspection. The pace will pick up, the annual rhythms begin. There will be cricket, football, and tournaments of tennis. Elections and riots will be held, borders will be crossed,  sanctions will be imposed and political heads will roll. Wars will start, floods will flow, fires will burn, storms will squall. Financial Indexes will go up and down. People will die, babies will be born and meantime we will all have places to go, people to see and things to do.

Alongside the flotsam and jetson of world events, hopefully, the year will see me continue to walk Poppins daily, write the odd poem, read books, listen to drama and documentaries on both the BBC, RTE, watch TV series, swim, cook dinner, learn French with Duo Lingo, Face Time family and friends and wonder if every older generation feels that the world has gone mad. I do remember my grandparents complaining of a loss of morality. I dismissed them as stone age old farts. Am I now a middle class stone age old fart? Should I try to constrain that inclination I’m developing towards impatience and intolerance? Probably. At the moment I don’t have grandchildren to convince (and therefore myself ) that we can change the world. I hope they don’t come to late for me to change. A new year’s resolution, Kate. Stem disillusion now!

Talking of evolution, I have just come back from a two night stay in Ballina at the Ice House.  The fourth wall of our hotel room was a glass window overlooking the River Moy and Belleek woods. The wide, tumbling, salmon tossed, river winter life was full of fowl, birds, fish, otters, and weather. There was so much movement in tune with hours of the day. The wind, sea tides, night and day made the river rise, fall, burble, crash, there were different rhythms at different hours. At dusk, there was a starling murmuration, ducks squawking, and the family of three swans dipped their heads and settled them under their wings. At dawn, the river woke slowly, with a pale demeanour. Singly, birds abounded in the air, fish began to pop bubbles in the water, and the river rippled over the rapids.

While there are lakes and lots of wildlife in Cavan, and I can watch the starling murmurate over the lake outside my window, I don’t feel the life rhythm here as much as I did watching the river in Ballina. This may be because, even as an older woman with less responsibility, I still live by dull daily routines and don’t afford myself the time or have the inclination to stop and watch. So, I am making a late new year’s resolution: I will note and take pleasure in natural routines…and unnatural ones. For instance, there is a blackbird in the garden who sings throughout the dead of night, every night. S/he starts at about 1.30am and will intermittently sing sweetly (or not as the case may be) until the robins, thrushes, and tits join in the trill around six. This is charming. There is also a car that drives past the house every morning at 5.10am. I will notice and remark. I will take pleasure…

Finally, talking of pleasure…I did like Ballina. It was a twisty, interesting town that liked itself. It had a lot of traditional, interesting shops and not so many trendy cafes, beauty salons and nail bars. Whoops, stop it, Kate. So, I am looking forward to 2022. I plan to wallow in it, like those swans on the River Foy, happily. Happy New Year.