Last Tuesday, I went over for the funeral of a very dear friend of mine in the North of England. I had worked with him in the 80s. I blogged earlier in the year, after a visit to Antrim, about how Northern Ireland no longer engaged my feelings of attachment, but I always thought that I would feel at home ‘at home’ so to speak, but no. After thirty years living in Ireland, and attending this funeral in England, I now definitely feel more Irish than English.

Of course, I didn’t really want to be at the funeral of my dear old friend but I was pleased to visit York as I had never been to the city. It was beautiful: narrow cobbled lanes, with fine Georgian and Edwardian architecture and we were lucky to have glorious sunshine. I wandered along the lovely river Ouse, and enjoyed the hues of the autumnal leafy tree lined streets. There were cafes, restaurants, pubs, markets, quality shops, art galleries, museums, and beautifully maintained parks. York is, no doubt, (to steal the strap of my own alma mater) a fine city, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

I went to Patrick’s funeral because he was a very good friend and he was Irish. Obviously, in Ireland, funerals are an important part of the community. However, going was a mistake. I wasn’t part of this English community. Obviously, I knew Patrick’s wife from back in the day, but we were not close. He and his girls had visited us in Ireland when he visited his mother, but they wouldn’t remember as they were too small. He and I met up most times when he came to Ireland (he did the MA in Writing in Limerick in 2015), but generally we met alone and gossiped. Last Thursday, I was pleased to see that the church was full (which the PP commented on) but it felt like a staged production. All the men were dressed formally in suits, and it felt like something out of The Gilded Age. The ‘wake’ after Patrick was cremated was crowded with people nibbling tortilla crisps dipped in chili sauce and avocado, and small roasted green peppers and there was little mixing between the groups of twos and threes. I felt totally out of place and after greeting his wife, I made my excuses and left.

Now, I’m glad to be home for a while.

Still can’t get photos.

Having left Greece, I had a one day turn around in Cavan, and then headed back to the airport to meet Roisin, Jack and granddaughter, Aine, and fly off to Estapone, near Malaga in Spain. After a delayed flight, we headed out into the darkness to eat and were greeted by brilliant coloured flowers, pretty narrow cobbled lanes hanging with bougainvillea and jasmine, and, I want to say ‘succulent’ water features because they almost assaulted the senses as they splashed and sparkled in an array of blues, pinks, yellows and reds. In daylight the old town is as lovely…pots of hanging flowers adorn the white painted houses, and there are gorgeous statues and art scattered around the place and the water features are lovely. The tiles and cobblestones glisten underfoot and this morning, on my morning constitutional, they were filled with children holding hands on their way to school.

From our large, light, spacious (if rather soulless) apartment, the laughter of children outside drifted up from a school playground (a large yard, full of pitches, and painted circles.) In both Spain and Greece, schools are attractive places where the children seem to be cheerful and enjoying themselves, while in Ireland and England they are rather grim, concrete buildings, that look rather like prisons. We could learn from our European colleagues. Anyway, one morning, from our balcony, I watched a class of six year olds play a game where one boy stood in the centre while the others gathered in a circle around him. He performed various actions and they copied him, then he ran off and chased them all. They gathered again in a circle with another child in the middle and then caught sight of me and shouted ola and waved. I waved back. The teacher arrived, so I waved at her too. Then the kids started waving again at me. I scratched my head. They scratched their heads, so I waved both my arms, and they waved both their arms, I clapped, and they clapped. I turned around and so did they. I took a bow and they took a bow…it was such fun!

Estapone is definitely a child centred place. People actually took the time to stop and chat with Aine (though I should say that she is full of the most wonderful smiles which she flashes liberally around the place). There was a fantastic, imaginative playground on the prom aimed at various age groups. And spending Halloween in Estapone was great fun. Everyone (adults too) dressed up and witches and axe heads and monsters milled about the old town streets, going into the shops to trick and treat.

What was also impressive about Estapone was the number of people zooming around in wheelchairs. The prom is a wonderful place to walk; it’s flat, smooth full of gardens and flowers. The old town is more hilly but where there are steps, there are usually ramps too. Pots of flowers and flower bushes run amok, but they are hanging and don’t impede a pram or a wheelchair. It was very easy to get about.

I think chasing dolphins was a favourite part of the holiday. The captain of the boat and his wife were really welcoming. They followed a band of birds flying above the waves and she clicked her tongue and whistled. Suddenly there they were, a flock of dolphins leaping around the boat, playing beneath it, performing synchronised jumps. It was as if they were performing just for us. It was very exciting and truly magical.

Overall, I had a lovely week milling around with my beautiful daughter and Jack, her fiance. I loved the orchid museum full of fantastic flowers and plants but actually, Aine was my favourite part of the holiday…she is a bundle of joy and there is no better tonic than the laugh of a baby.

Still having trouble with photos…its taken me an hour to get three up as the majority of my photos are being saved as HEIC instead of jpeg which means I can’t use them here.

It was still dark at 7am when I walked Poppins early in Swellan last week before our flight to Greece. It was damp, raining and chilly so I was surprised to find the world already up and about. People were out walking, running on the green, even doing exercises under the street lights. Various kitchen lights were on and I could see kids watching cartoons  and parents getting breakfast together. I had completely forgotten the morning routines of family and working life as, while I am an early riser, I do not go out and about. Two hours later, I was in Costa, in Athlone meeting Joe who would take Poppins while we were away, and this time I was watching well dressed men and women having coffee and earnest conversations in twos and threes. They were clearly work colleagues having scheduled meetings and I wondered about their working lives…it is so easy to forget the parameters of the working day when one is retired.

Two hours later, the packed airplane made sense – the majority of people were Irish heading off on holiday with a few Greeks returning from the cold, dreary weather of Ireland and after that thoughts of work, routines, and children disappeared altogether as we touched down six hours later in Athens.

After a gorgeous restorative meal of stuffed tomatoes, peppers, and roast potatoes, cousin Ruth and I put the world to rights with a few bottles of wine, chatting deep into the night about the various afflictions the world finds itself in: Gaza, the Greek elections and new Syriza Leader. If only people would listen to us!

Delicious food and drink were a strong theme during the Greek visit, though we did squeeze in a visit to the new Contemporary Art Gallery in Athens. There were two exhibitions: the first on Sonic Odesseys by Iannis Exenakis which looked and sounded interesting but which I didn’t understand at all and not because it was in Greek. The second was a series of exhibits on Modern Love which while interesting were also a little depressing. However, I liked the design of the gallery itself, which had been an old beer factory and definitely enjoyed lunch at the foot of the Acropolis and for dinner later that evening I had the most succulent lamb shank and mash.

Di Bi and George also fed us delicious lamb when we arrived in Tolo which is in the Peloponnese. We were staying five nights with  my oldest friend, Mandy and her partner, Barry who are now living there and on our first night we went to visit their very good Greek friends, Di Bi and George. We ate outside on their balcony, overlooking the shadows of mountain. Wild dogs were barking in the background, large cats were prowling around our feet, Molly (Mandy’s new pup) was on my lap as we ate and drank having riotous discussions about the SWP and punk rock! Happy out.

Napflios, which is their local town, is a lovely old city (the first capital of Greece). It’s on the sea, has beautiful marble squares, castles, tavernas and a market which, on Saturdays and Wednesdays stretches along the concourse for miles full of grapes, aubergines, colourful peppers, pomegranites, wine, greens, and of course, olives in abundance.

Mandy and Barry were in great form and why wouldn’t they be living their days in sunshine, strolling along beaches, and sipping cocktails, wine and metaxa in tavernas!

Tolo where they live is a small touristy village with a gorgeous beach and an array of restaurants to choose from. It was end of season so we strolled around with ease and I was went swimming every day in the sea. The English are very much in evidence, and Mandy and Barry have made a good number of friends. And all credit to the Greeks for most of them speak excellent English, aside from the one older Greek woman who came and knocked on the door on Sunday morning to complain about our raucous night of drunken laughter the evening before. She didn’t in fact speak English, but she called up her son from downstairs who was able to come and tell Barry in very precise and angry English terms about the noise levels and the bad review that was going to be given by his Airbnb clients next door!

Of course, we all blamed Mandy who, in a loud voice, gets rather voluble after a few drinks. She also sneezes like a trumpet on steroids, likes to dance and, at the point of complaint, was still in bed! Quite rightly, Mandy saw it as a badge of honour to be 64 and still loving life. Debauched and Happy With It…its what she wants written on her grave stone.

Unsurprisingly, Mandy and Barry have many friends who join them in their laughter and metaxa and most of our evenings were passed in a haze of storytelling, gripped  tummies and snorts of explosive laughter. It’s quite a thing to spend time with someone whom you have known and who has known you since your were a baby. It’s like cavorting around the crown of a tree which has grown out of a beanstalk, but the roots of the tree are still apparent.

I have to mention the castles around the Peloponnese which are amazing defensive structures spanning the mountain tops. Barry drove us up to Palamidi in Nafplio. For the most part, they remain in tact and look amazing. The surronding sea is glorious, absolutely clear, warm, with REALLY big fish in the shallows. But best of all was the Tsatziki, Greek salads, and Sword fish served to me on the beach, the ocean lapping on my feet….all I missed was Tom Conti from Shirley Valentine. I started this visit with lamb and I ended it the same way, crunching delicious lamb chops with cousin Ruth  who took us to a meat taverna on the way to Athens Airport. Delicious. Thank you cousin Ruth, and Mandy and Barry for hosting us. I feel like I have been away a month already yet tomorrow, I am off to Spain with Roisin, Jack and baby Aine. Talk about living the dream!

Still having issues with photos. Might have to change this blog from wordpress

The last discoveries to mention include Boules of Cidre de Bretagne (delicious), Noix St Jacques (scallops) really delicious, and the Ile de Batz in blazing heat. During our meanderings across Batz (which is rather like one of the Aran Islands. It has a population of 400 people, two schools, and life is based on agriculture, fishing and tourism), we passed the time of day with an old man with a huge hump on his back, teeth as long as tombstones, and a face ravaged by a sea of wrinkles. He used a walking aid to get on and off the boat and explore the island in 25 degrees of heat. So impressive. He must have been about 90,  and , would you believe, was yet another Englishman who had fallen in love with a French woman and stayed in France, but he struggled more with his memory of English so we discussed the tip of Collie dog tails in French.

Since giving up smoking, my French has somewhat deteriorated as I no longer do Duo Lingo in the porch while having a quick ciggie. While I understand quite a lot, and can certainly get by, I don’t remember certain phrases. When people gabble a sentence or two, I get the gist, but I can’t quite remember how to respond. It’s very irritating. I might have to start Duo Lingo again, but its unfortunate I associate it with smoking.

I have found being in France and not smoking very annoying. I used to love sitting in cafes with a vin blanc cassis or a Ricard and a cigarette and now an important part of my enjoyment is missing. The French smoke in such a natural way…the cigarette belongs between their gnarled finger tips, particularly the men. I always felt very at home smoking in France. And now I can’t!

Finally, Poppins and I have discovered there is rain in Brittany…and its quite wetting…but it’s actually quite nice to sit at home, do a little writing, painting and to have the walk to the patisserie in the afternoon to buy Far de Breton for tea as the main attraction of the day…not to mention the Irish/ Tonga rugby match tonight.

So, after the excitement of the rugby match, the days have slipped into a habit of silvery blue…I now have to make the decision to take a separate path to the village for our baguette instead of my habitual one, the evening swim follows a routine promenade, the aperitif will happen at the witching hour (mind you, that will happen wherever I am), my feet know the curvatures and footholds of the coastal path. The sunsets are familiar, the Casino supermarket is home to me now, the couch has moulded itself to my fit and it is time to get ready to leave.

Yesterday we went to Morlaix to the hyper market, Leclerc, to buy the wine and goods to bring home. It was scary…not just negotiating the car park but the shop itself. It was huge, the size of two Rugby pitches. But with grim determination and courage, we advanced on each aisle at a time, ending at the wine. I found some Armagnac, and Champagne for Roisin and Jack’s engagement celebration on our return and fifteen bottles of wine. We will complete our purchases today in our local Casino, happily buying our favourite wine bottles, the right brand of gateau de riz and chocolate puds and I won’t be too embarrassed at the bottles clanking in the trolley and at the till because, well, because another fifteen bottles isn’t too much…is it? I think it will be a pleasurable experience, unlike Leclerc yesterday. After asking, the Lerclec Cashier refused to find us boxes for the wine, then with disaproval pointed to the sign that only 15 items were allowed at this till after she had processed 15 bottles, and then, when there was no label on the anchovies I had picked up, refused to continue until I returned to put them back where I found them. When I asked where in this mad house I had found them, she performed the perfect French shrug! It was quite a stand off…with the queue getting longer. The poor man behind us only had a baguette. Until then I hadn’t come across any of the usual French disdain for foreigners, so in a way, it was a relief to discover not everything has changed!

Yes, it is the end of our Brittany Days. I have loved our near month in Carantec. On Friday we get the overnight ferry back to Cork, stay overnight in Limerick with Joe, and next week, I will be in Dublin with my daughter and granddaughter who, in my absence has started to crawl. So, I have lots of silver linings…not to mention going to Greece to see my oldest friend, Mandy in mid October!!!

Tuesday 12 September.

We have made quite a few delightful discoveries during our Brittany days. Discovery of places which are quite simply ‘practically perfect’ and ‘happenings’ are ‘kindnesses’ that make a day special.

When Ellen and Lesley were with us, we went to market in Morlaix. The ‘clothes and clutter’ market stretches along the bottom of the gorge from which the town rises – very steeply may I add. I would not want to have to walk up too far. The food and veg market is in the handsome Allende Square which was built by the merchants of the 16^th century. Jerry and I went exploring there early in our Brittany Days. The four of us wandered around both markets, had a coffee in a café. The plan had been to walk Poppins in the woods on the way home and have a pizza lunch in the nice café in the pretty village of Loquenole but it was a hot day, and we decided to skip the walk in favour of lunch. It was the mention of Pizza that ruined Poppin’s walk in the wood. Unfortunately, the café was closed but the owner to whom Jerry and I had been chatting earlier in the week, came out, explained he had to shut today but offered to serve us drinks before he left. We explained we had come for lunch so he let us into the closed épicerie, let us buy the wherewithal for a picnic, and because he had no bread, gave us bread from his kitchen and let us eat and drink at his tables outside, asking us to stack the dishes and leave them outside the door. Such a kindness.

Also, in the village of Loquenole is a beautiful Oak Tree of which the village is very proud. They call it the Liberty Tree. It was planted at the time of the French Revolution to mark the event, along with a hundred others throughout the country, and it is the only one left alive. The village takes very good care of it. Of course, we had to pose in revolutionary stances…

This week, Jerry and I were exploring the adjoining peninsula with the main town of Plougasnou at its centre. We drove to the Pointe de Primel Tregastel and climbed the rock there. It was absolutely beautiful. Our discovery was that the peninsula is different to the Carantec one. It is greener, steeper and more mountainous. There are less sandy coves, more rocky ones and it feels less populated. The tiny villages are probably more touristy, but there are fewer of them. Again, a fabulous camp site. A walking holiday around these peninsulas would be wonderful.

We also went further South to the next ‘pointe’, Maison de la Pointe. This side is very flat, lots of agriculture, with miles of hot beach separated from a forest/green area by wonderful sand dunes (impossible to walk in, even with a brand new titanium hip). But, of course, the French have developed various walking paths through the green areas and woods where lovely houses sprout out of the trees. It reminded me of Jurmala, Latvia, except the paths were better and so well maintained.

By the way, Lesley showed me a brand new app called ‘outdooractive’ which identifies and/or tracks the paths you can take in whatever region/area you are in. It’s brilliant.

So this app and the coastal walks, peninsula paths, and the forest chemins are a wonderful discovery in Brittany and it is these I think that will bring me back (aside from the wine and cheese). They are all along each peninsula, little dotted lines that curve around the cliff tops, through the pine trees, along the beaches. Yesterday, I left Jerry to read in the shade of the pines while I went with Poppins for a walk. Across the bay, I could see the long beach that Ellen, myself and Lesley had walked along last Friday at the start of our coastal walk on the Carantec peninsula.

We also visited the Cairn de Barnenez…a gigantic megalithic tomb on a number of levels. It’s pitched at the top of hill and when it was built it was on top a plain…not the sea. I think, once you seen one megalithic tomb, you’ve seen them all…but this one was rather splendid.

Another discovery are the steeples on the churches hereabout. They are distinctive in that they are structures as opposed to solid points. We were wondering about that. Jerry thought that they were Moorish looking…and he was right. We discovered yesterday that the Moors invaded this coast line sometime between 15^th and 17^th century…I can’t remember when exactly. Anyway, these steeples are much more interesting that the squat Norman ones or pointy Catholic ones. 

Two other discoveries…the starry nights when the sky is clear are fantastic. The other night the night sky blossomed with stars. It was as if they were falling out of the darkness. The plough was so close, I felt I could reach out and touch it. I haven’t seen a sky like that since we lived in Drumbriste in rural Cavan. There was also a party going on in the port. At 1.30am they were playing loud music and dancing under the starry night. I really felt like I was missing out.

And finally, so far, the military jets! The noise they make as the roar around the bay. They look like black angry mosquitos…flat, sharp and full of angles. They do their military manoeuvres in the late afternoon, often while I’m on the beach. It’s odd to be floating on the waves or snoozing on the sand when suddenly a slow rumble starts and grows and two, always two, black aircraft zoom across, round and round…as if little God boys were playing in the sky.

I’ll let you know when we make new discoveries…until then, I think I’m happy indulging in the old ones: it’s lunch in Kelenn today after a walk, reading my book which I haven’t done much of and then an early evening swim followed by a lovely aperitif. Salut!

Still having pic issues…

Monday 11 of September

Gosh…that is a date that changed our lives. It seems quite innocent when you write it like that. But on my watch, it is written 9/11, and looks and sounds ferocious. Let’s hope today is more benign. The earthquake in Morocco is sad enough.

Our second lot of friends, Ellen and Lesley (another Lesley) left yesterday. We had a lovely weekend of coastal walks, drink, markets, drinks, beaches, drinks and a delicious fish and drinks at the other port restaurant at the bottom of our road. We met Sasha, Ian and Lucette over drinks in our favourite café on Beach Kelenn after a lovely hike and Ellen had extensive Rugby discussions with wine ‘advisor’ in the local Casino supermarket. (I was very pleased about the Irish/Romania match 82/8!) Sasha is the manager of the restaurant at the bottom of our road who  squeezed us in last minute on Saturday night for more lovely fish and drinks. Sadly, after our chat with Ian and Lucette at the next table, (they met thirty years ago when Ian came from England to Paris to do a French speaking course, and now have three shiatzus) went back home to Paris. I hope it wasn’t having to listen to Ellen’s appalling French that made them leave. Anyhow, we had a great weekend full of craic, lots of laughs and we even danced the night away on Friday.

Yesterday, after dropping them off at the Ferry, I watched them sail away from the beach at the tip of the Periharidi point while eating a breakfast slice of the delicious home-made apricot, apple and pecan loaf that Lesley had brought with her. Because it was so early, we let Poppins go mad in the sand dunes chasing whatever creatures she dreams up in her head, and we gazed into the distance…the low tide was far far away and it seemed so still, so blue, so quiet, so peaceful. Then a lone fisherman arrived and a man with three dogs, then a couple came walking, and Sunday in France began. We went in search of a boulangerie for our daily bread and took our picnic to Santec beach where we ate and watched at least 600 people doing a sponsored walk/run for the catholic church. Santec beach is a long wide plage and behind is a lovely small forest, so Poppins and I meandered around, ending up in a beautiful campsite…if anyone enjoys camping…do go here. We ended the day on our own beach back in Carantec, swimming and watching the locals at play and finishing the pot au fer that I had cooked specially for the women which I have to say was absolutely delicious…never mind that Ellen won’t eat anything with carrots or meat. I had thought it was  Poppins and Tomatoes she didn’t like but apparently, she loves them and goats cheese and cider and our fridge is now full of both. I’m not keen on either!

Still having pic issues!

Thursday 31 Aug

We’re acquiring habits! I walk Poppins every morning, usually along the beach and then up to the coastal path which meanders across beaches, over the cliffs, and at the foot of the gardens of some immense ‘maisons’ built into the rock, similar in scale to Bono’s in Killiney. Usually, I will divert off to the boulangerie in Carantec to pick up our baguettes for breakfast on which to spread our fine local rhubarb and cherry jams from the market for breakfast when I get home. Breakfast is a treat well deserved.

Today, however, I meandered around the port, taking the tiny passages and paths that lie in wait, hiding beside hedges and shuttered houses that look like they might lead me to some splendid secret cove or short cut home but instead weave and dive and leave me elsewhere altogether. So, I look around, scratch my head, and set off again, whistling to Poppins to come. It’s like walking in a beautifully constructed maze, where instead of hedges you have houses, except I always seem to get further away from home. However, I think Poppins is less impressed as she called back from rooting under bushes, and sniffing at gates where she is sure heaven lingers in the form of cats. I’m never really lost as I know I just have to head down and there the port will be.

It’s called the port, and indeed rows of pretty boats are tied up to buoys far off in the distance, but the true sport of the port is, when the tide is out, people scouring the rocks and seaweed for clams, crabs, oysters, shrimps, mussels and lobster. Poppins enjoys the scamper around and I like to study the pools for the mysteries that lie within but the crabs, lobsters and shrimps are invisible to me, and I never see those monsters that restaurants have swimming around in their aquariums.

To Poppins chagrin, today, we weren’t out too long as we had to go to our local market. It was more homely that that of St Pol de Lyon and I picked up carrots, leeks, lamb gigot chops, parsley, all the wherewithal for a pot of Irish Stew which I can cook on the one hot plate I can get to work on the infamous induction stove. I let it simmer away while in the afternoon we walked across to the Ile de Callot at low tide. There is something so exciting and romantic about walking across to an island, and having to get back before you are left stranded. The beaches are beautiful half moons of white sand and the colours of the flowers and shrubs are vibrant. About seventeen families still live on the island so it is well looked after and there is a church (Notre Dame) at the far end where I lit a candle to both our mums…though Margaret will more likely appreciate that than my mum who was never one for religion.

On our return we stopped at the foot of our lane at the café for an melange of Strawberry and Vanilla Italian ice cream before returning home to the gorgeous smell of Irish stew. After a little read (it seems I have brought library books I have already read ), I togged out and went swimming, sitting on the beach afterwards to listen and try to assemble the story of the English/French family in front of me. Grandpa’s wife was a stylish older French local woman (white trousers, pale blue blouse – on a beach!). She lay head resting on his tummy or jumped up to ‘present’ him to passing older walking women. Grandpa’s Daughter, who wore and swam in leggings and a flowery top, seemed to take up a lot of space, playing ball on the beach, swimming in the sea. Everywhere she went, she talked in loud English to her two toddler children. She then left her tiny daughter alone in the shallows after trying to get her to show grandpa her swimming skills which were non existent; the child kept sinking. Then the Daughter went off into the sea with her her three year old son on her shoulders and shrugged him off so he would swim. He also sank. We were swimming in Croatia, she said, by way of explanation. Grandpa stayed close to hand, saying nothing, but trying to get the little girl out of the water and warm with a towel. Dad, why aren’t you swimming, exclaimed the woman Daughter. The classily dressed French wife said nothing. I think everyone spoke French, even the children, but Daughter insisted on speaking English. It was a very strange family dynamic.

The beach is the perfect place for story development because I just know that the French woman is the third wife of ‘dad’ who doesn’t speak English and cannot bear her husband’s Daughter because she is so demanding and spoilt and as for the grandchildren…well, she wants little to do with them. I believe Daughter has married a rich English man who doesn’t like his in laws or France where they live, and so she has come to visit for two days alone to show off her children and pretends everything is ok.

The irish stew was delicious and there is loads left for Poppins.

Wed 6 August

The last few days have been passed in a haze of sun, sea, beach, rock pools, walks, and chatter with my old friend, Lesley who arrived on the boat last Sunday. Oh, and did I mention food…lots of melon, bread, cheese, tomatoes, crepes and sea food. Yesterday we went to market at St Pol again and my haul was truly engaging…a fab, open toed pair of sandals (its been lovely and hot), the perfect little blue back pack to carry water, phone, book if out meandering the coast, and a nice blue down striped knee length sun dress. Not to mention the peppers, courgettes, sweet potato (douce potato here), aubergine for the roast vegs last night with lentils. Tout va bien!

As well as walking and eating, we explored Roscoff. First, we did a petit tour outside as I wanted to give Poppins a proper walk. We turned off by the red bus (truly – the 106 to Streatham High St), and found ourselves  foraging (in the car) along tiny little lanes through fields of artichokes and cabbage. Lovely, but we decided to go to the end of the peninsula instead as, according to the map, there seemed to be a green area there before three or four beaches. It was beautiful. The hidden beaches were white and deserted. The sea lapped gently at the shore. There was a long strand which stretched achingly into the far distance or charming half moon coves, with rocks for shelter and tall pine trees touching the pale blue sky. There were dusty paths to follow every which way. There was also a huge, low build cancer rehabilitation hospital spreading across the peninsula which somehow added to the sense of awe. It was beautiful. We meandered around and soon felt in need of coffee so decided to go into Roscoff itself. The old town is charming, old grey stone houses, narrow streets, lots of pretty hotels. The shops sold stripy Brittany jumpers, wind sheeters, gilets, though I didn’t see many of those Brittany bowls with the blue edging and the names. We managed to find a café table in the shade and had a delicious cream cheese and seaweed sandwich. Highly recommended.

On her last night Lesley took us out to eat in Cabestan, our local restaurant. It’s on the port front, overlooking the sea and is a cheap and cheerful looking sort of fish and chip place…however, the fish in Jerry’s fish and chips was delicious, not battered but served with a gorgeous creamy sauce. Lesley’s moules frites were black, huge, and shining and inside were the plumpest golden mussels I have ever seen. I had cod with langoustine (big prawns) served beautifully in a circle with two roasted potatoes, six round fleshy mushrooms, and three sprigs of broccoli. Superb. I started with a very good fish soup too. I needed the amble around the port afterwards. At 9 o’clock, people were finishing their evening picnics on the beach, or their last dip in the gentle lapping sea. There was a buzz of French chatter on the softest of Brittany (sorry, Bermuda) breezes. Another perfect day.

By the way, the weather has been so good…this could be Bermuda. And I’m still having photo issues…so no photos except on Insta and Facebook.

So, on our first night in Brittany, I coped with an induction stove, and pans that don’t work on induction stoves. We were shown around by the host’s father who obviously looks after the flat and doesn’t know much about cooking on induction stoves (that is not a criticism, nor do I!)The flat was smaller than we envisaged but this evening (the third), I have discovered (due to the sun coming out) that our living room window faces west, over the sea and islands, and I have the beauty of a setting sun taking place at this very minute. We have settled in very nicely and made it home. The apartment is near the port, and there are fabulous coastal walks, views and beaches. Tonight, the tide is in, so the water is in its full glory as opposed to its marshy, seaweeded, rocky surface which allows me and Poppins in the mornings to explore the shore-line. This evening, I have enjoyed a glass or two of wine bought from our local Casino and the reblochon, and the Tomme cheeses bought from the St Pol de Leon Market yesterday for our dinner.

After the first night of frustrated stove use when it kept flashing F at me when I put the pan of fresh tuna on the ring to cook, I have kept supper to salads or used the confusion to go out to eat. Last night we ate in Ty Pol (a restaurant) in the village. I had raw sea bream and then the best filet de boeuf I have ever eaten. Tomorrow, having now discovered the reason for the flashing F thanks to google, I will try the stove again and I’m sure I will keep you abreast of the cooking developments. I must remember to tell the host not to supply pans that do not work with an induction stove.

Back to where we are. The Baie de Morlaix  where Carantec is situated is beautiful in a very French way. The coves, beaches, the accessible islands, rocky, beautiful, and the well maintained coastal walks with gorgeous views are wonderful to wander through. The architecture of Carantec is fascinating. Classic French, three storey, ‘maisons’ with pretty shutters, stand next to tall, magnificent houses with ‘fairy tale’ towers, and modern glass structures of all shapes and angles. All the gardens are ship shape, full of flowering bushes (lovely pink fuchsia and a rather startling scarlet hydrangea) and well cut lawns. Even the weeds on the street are lovely daisies or Allyssum. Every house has a gate and a neat parking space. The picture windows have magnificent views of the bay.

The local sandy beaches fill up with local people at 5pm and everyone chatters, swims or walks up and down in the sea (I think this promenading in the shallows is a new fashion), and digs complicated chateaux with their children. Families swim out to the diving board and show off their jumping and diving skills. So, likewise, these last two evening, I walked up to the beach in togs with a box of strawberries, crisps, and my book which I don’t read. I plonk myself down in the grainy yellow sand and gaze into the horizon, listening to beach life. I swim in a gentile manner in the cold, gently shifting green sea out to the diving board and swim back without performing any dazzling somersaults, thinking as I swim, how I would have loved to try such a dive back in the day, and remembering the excitement and fear. By the time I clamber out of the sea, I haven’t decided whether the relief of being 64 (which means I don’t have to try a sky dive into the ocean) compensates for the sadness and disappointment that I didn’t.

There was no disappointment though in the market in St Pol de Jean yesterday. It weaved its way around the beautifully appointed, ancient and spotless streets of the old town. You would swear that they were swept every hour. Eggs, aubergine, tomatoes, beans, artichokes spilt out into the cobblestones alongside breads, jams, cheeses, bongo drums, napkins, raincoats, Brittany bowls and whatever else you might possibly want to buy. English, French and German voices ordered ricard, beers, verres du vin and expresso in strategically placed cafes and everyone looked content with baskets stuffed full of produce leaning at precarious angles around their seats. We will check out the Carantac market tomorrow, and Morlaix on Saturday. Does such perfection exist for every market? IndeedIs there a name for the deliberate pursuit of French markets, I wonder. Maybe I can start a new trend.

Finally, to finish this first blog, I can’t believe that all this ‘Frenchness’ is so close to home…a boat ride away from Cork. In fact, a very civilised boat ride with comfy berths that I was allowed to share with Poppins, comfy deck chairs, good food, a swimming pool, a bar with a white piano being played as we had a drink before bed. I tell you, I’m never going landbridge again…sorry England, this might be a fond farewell.

I have just returned from a wonderful saunter down memory lane, wedged with hedgerows of fiery orange montbretia, purple loosestrife, globe thistle, fuchsia, Marguerite daisies and the most amazing windswept reeds in Cleggan, Connemara. I was staying with a friend who has a lovely cottage that stands surveying the rocky island bays of Inishbofin, and Omey. The stretches of white grainy sand are rugged, the rocks clamber across salty pools, and jostle in the wind and rain, and all was swept into place by Storm Betty. We ventured out in the bright patches and took refuge in our books and electric blankets when exhausted by the glory of it all.

A perfect visit.

Thirty years ago, we used to go to Cleggan Farm every year at either Christmas or Summer when the children were small. It stood on Cleggan Head, surveying the wild Atlantic Ocean. We would put the children on our backs and explore the 12 bens, take them to Dogs Bay Beach, have mussels in Letterfrack, run back from Omey Island with the tide lapping at our ankles, explore Inishbofin in sun, rain and fog.

It has barely changed at all. There is more carparking in Cleggan (a good thing; I remember always peering out between cars crammed up in the hedges or right in front of people’s doors in order to cross the road), and Ballynahinch Castle has a beautiful new walled garden full of gorgeous herbaceous borders, and strutting little inquisitive stone hares. There is a beautiful brand new greenway which is a spur from the Clifden Galway Greenway. We didn’t go on it…but I hear it calling me.

My friend drove me all around my old haunts. We visited Renvyle, toured around Tully mountain, the Inagh Valley, Ross Harbour (which is now all beautifully renovated homes) and lunched on excellent mussels and chowder in Letterfrack. Oliver’s in Cleggan where we ate in the evening hasn’t changed either and I had a beautiful fish platter for my dinner between Betty’s power cuts. Fortunately, they didn’t remember the incident during the English Soccer World Cup when we were watching the match there. Ireland were playing England and when the English scored I leapt up and cheered…in deafening silence. I have learned my lesson since.

My visit was just a day and a half. It was a four hour drive, but it was well worth it. Mrs Google guided me to Connemara through the back roads of Cavan, Leitrim, Mayo and then down the N59 through the lakes and shoreline of Killary Harbour. We live in the most beautiful country ever so it will be a joy to return next Spring.

However, before that…next week, we go to France for three weeks so you may look forward to the Brittany Chronicles! A Bientot!

Thrones and Games of a Different Kind in Antrim.

When I first moved to Cavan 23 years ago, I used to enjoy driving into Northern Ireland because the road infrastructure, the houses, and the high streets reminded me of home. Driving across the North this week to and from the Glens of Antrim made me realise how Irish I’ve become. Until I reached the glory of the Glens (and it is truly glorious), I found the Northern countryside flat and uglier than I remembered. In the South, there are hedgerows and green fields, and a lingering sense of ‘beyond’. There, I felt trapped in the here and now of the Northern Irish industry of road structure. Driving yesterday, I was happy to get back to Aughnacloy and cross the border into Monaghan. However, I was not happy to leave the Glens of Antrim which is a truly gorgeous part of the island.

I had picked Cushendall, County Antrim for a short break because it is, moreorless, the one area in Ireland I haven’t visited. As a result, I didn’t have particular expectations when setting out, except that when I mentioned to people we were going, they nodded and said, ‘yeah, it’s nice up there.’ Nice? It’s truly gorgeous. I loved it.

Cushendall is a busy, small town, by the sea and at the foot of the glens. During our stay, we slept under either side of the glorious Mount Lurig, and enjoyed two very different, but very friendly guest houses. By chance our visit coincided with the annual Glens Festival held in August when there are food fests, markets, masked balls, a run up Mount Lurig, sports competitions, plus much more. Local people were out and about, very friendly and welcoming, open to conversation whether you met walking on the cliff tops, in the shops, or were sat at the next pub table.

The first evening we strolled into town from our first guest house and got our bearings. We wandered down to the beach and while Jerry ambled around the prom and playing fields, I went up the cliff walk which was stunning and well maintained. I was lucky, the sun came out, and the sea turned blue. The clouds turned into fluffy cottonwool and the butterflies fluttered about (I haven’t seen many butterflies this year). The views were amazing and my heart soared. At the top I came across the old ruins of Layd Church, chief burial place of the MacDonnells. It was nestled very prettily among the lovely houses and small fields of sheep scattered among the bushes and trees of the Glens. I wended my way back to the town, passing and examining the architecture of the beautiful homes on the way down. I bumped into Jerry at the bottom at Cottage Wood which we decided to explore the next day as now it was time for an aperitif at Harry’s Fish Bar where I concluded my evening with the best seafood tagliatelle I had eaten for ages.

After a month and a half of rain this summer, I woke up the next morning to sunshine. I leapt out of bed, showered (the guest house had my favourite dead sea face wash) and headed out. I wandered along the beach and the front, meandering through the caravan park, the marina/boat house, and the camp site. At the end, I came across a family of five, all standing on two benches outside a pod, staring into the rising sun of the ocean, hands shading their eyes.

‘You all look a picture’, I said.

‘We’re watching a shoal of Dolphins’.

‘Oooh, can I join you?’

They made room and we all stared with awe at the dolphins, spinning about the bay, jumping, putting on a real performance, leaping out of the water, zig zagging together in rows. It is truly magical seeing nature in its glory. It made me a feel a part of something bigger and very special. I went back to the guest house, and celebrated with a hard boiled egg, cheese and a yoghurt for breakfast in our room, sitting under Lurig Mountain.

After a little walk in Cottage Wood, we decided to explore the area, driving across the cliff roads on the different peninsulas. First, we went to Cushendun, just up the road. It’s a tiny place with the strangest architecture, much of which was designed by the Welsh architect Clough Williams Ellis who designed Port Merion in Wales, home to the film set of The Prisoner. He was employed by Lord Cushendun and the houses with their Mansard roofs were designed to look like fishing cottages from Cornwall which was where Lord Cushendun’s wife was from. Anyway, what really made this village famous were the caves which were used by The Games of Thrones series in their filming. Would you believe, we forgot to visit them as we got distracted by me having a dip in the coldest but clearest sea water I have ever seen, followed by a pint of bitter shandy in the infamous Mary McBride’s pub. It is full of nooks and crannies and has the GoT oak carved doors.

After a pint we went on our merry way across the cliff tops, taking in the stunning views of the Mull of Kintyre. It looked so close, it was unreal. I began to see why Borris wanted to build a bridge. I really did feel I could put out my hand and grab a Scottish boulder. It’s mad, isn’t it? To feel so excited about being able to see the land of another country from where you stand. I felt similar when I could see the white cliffs of Dover from Wimereux, France, last year. I just wanted to reach out and touch.

Instead, we reached out and touched Ballycastle where we had a delicious ice cream and watched the red sea (yes, the waves were blood coloured) splash onto the rocks. I assume the red colour was a result of the iron pier, rather than murdered bodies cast into the ocean! After our ice cream and watching family holiday scenes on the gently spinning cups and saucers, it was time to return to check into Guest House number two on the other side of Mount Lurig, and take a short walk along the boardwalk, along the beach from Waterfoot to Cushendall for the food fest. At the Food Fest, I ate lamb mince and God knows what poured over chips and Jerry had two beef burgers while we wandered and watched the girls, the boys, the families meander up and down the high street, lingering, chatting, queuing, tasting, dancing, drinking at all the food trucks. I slept well that night.

Glengarrif Forest and the waterfalls was our objective for the next day, then to visit the Dark Trees (from the GoT). We saw the first fine waterfall together as it was only two minutes from the car park. We then studied a very confusing map of trails to examine how to get to the next. We knew it was halfway up the glen. The plan was for Jerry to return to the car after seeing the waterfall and then drive up to collect me at the top as I wanted to walk. We disagreed on which trail was the easiest to the waterfall, so we set off, amiably, I hasten to add, in different directions. Jesus, after ten minutes, I was hoping that Jerry’s path was easier. Mine was steep, beautiful, meandering but steep. And, as my pace slowed to a crawl, I didn’t come across any waterfall. As time went on, I came across other trails, and other people, all looking for the second larger waterfall. None of us had any reception so we couldn’t google maps it. We walked together, got to the top and discovered that the waterfall was down a different slope altogether. Unsurprisingly, it was another steep descent and I knew I had to climb back up to meet Jerry who would have driven to the top, as agreed. Jeez, I thought, surely once you had seen one waterfall, you’d seen them all!!! So, I turned around and trekked back up. Jerry and I shared tales of our adventures over a cup of tea and a scone and set off for the Dark Trees which, of course, are not Dark but certainly beautiful, mad and glorious.

After having joined the flood of people visiting the Dark Trees (I was amazed), we decided we should really take this GoT tour more seriously and go back to see the Caves. So, we headed back, cross Glens, to Cushendun to explore the Caves and have a pint (taking the opportunity to taste the chowder at Mary McBride’s at the same time). The caves…well, they were nice, like caves…nothing special, mind you, but I tell you, by the time we got back to the guest house, I was ready for my nap…and then me dinner back at the Lodge at Glengarrif Forest in the evening. This GoT touring stuff is exhausting business…particularly when you didn’t even watch a lot of it.

I woke up at 5am on our final morning, and leaving Jerry sleeping, drove five minutes up the road, back to Glengarrif Forest. I was determined to see that waterfall. It was definitely worth it. It was so high, so forceful, so noisy in such a silent place. I climbed further up and also walked the Rainbow Trail which was full of spiders webs weaving amazing colours in the rising sun. I wondered if that is why it was called Rainbow Trail.

At breakfast later, Rose, our landlady said that on our way home we should go on a jaunt to the Hidden Village, another GoT place, as it was on our way to Ballymena where we were going to Sainsbury’s (to pick up a few Goosebury Fools – nothing, I should add, to do with GoT). It had become a gloomy, misty morning…the perfect atmosphere to climb an outcrop of rocks over a grey foggy sea in search of a Hidden Village. We didn’t even know the story behind the Hidden Village, and Jerry didn’t remember it in the series. Never mind…by this time we were loyal GoT sight seers, so up we traipsed. At one point, out of the gloom three people emerged…locals who told us that before we left the area, we should visit St Killian’s school around the next glen which was built by the grandmother of Winston Churchill. It was nothing to do with GoT but when we saw it, we wondered why not.

Finally, we got to Sainsburys  and I got my fools. Then we negotiated a long drive home through never ending Northern road network until we eventually descended into the valleys, hedges and fields of Monaghan, Cavan, and home.