We huddled in Mary car, watching through rain streaming windows as the others alighted from their cars in the school car park. I was still shaky from a near-miss earlier – as a lone  driver coming out from the Caves, had  driven right across our path. Jill in the passenger seat would have been the most at risk, but recovered quickly. Mary reasoned that he was a tourist, a right hand driver but I had cut off, gripped again in the anticipated awful bang and sirens coming to cut us out. We drove on through wet slicked hills and I started to gather up the contents of the picnic basket, strewn over the back seat and floor.

Tony came over with a clip board, spoke of the importance of good farming practises in the area, to encourage and protect the wildflowers and wildlife, and our environmental footprint was cut to in half as he asked us to fill up each car and leave the others behind.

Vivienne from the Scottish Islands was our guide on this herb flower walk. Wonderfully knowledgeable, blooming, and full of energy which later in the tour she would tell us she attributed to the cup of nettle soup a day, she has been sipping since her, now well advanced, pregnancy. Even as I write – a steaming nettle brew is on hand.

Eyebright is out first exhibit. A particularly tall little clump (2”) – quite alone rather than running with the pack which is more usual. As its name suggests – it is good for anything concerning the eye – swelling – infections – and can be used both internally and externally,  as a poultice.  Nearby we surround a scattering of Red Clover just beginning to lose it rich purple colour. Of the legume family, it can be used for childhood exema, swollen glands and sore throats.The flowers only from the plant are used, rich in protein, they add colour and well-being to a salad, and as they are also rich in oestrogen they can be used as a fertility tonic. June July and August are the months the Red Clover is at its best.

An exhausted clump of St John’s Worth is next, leaning against the stone wall its pretty yellow flowers almost gone. A herb that can no longer be bought over the counter  – unlike the bottles of gin, whiskey, vodka, rum etc  that can be handed over  at the off-licences and super markets – no questions asked re ‘what medication are you on sir before I hand this package over to you as you may not be responsible for looking after yourself properly and get a bad turn and then I’d be held responsible. No, I’m sorry sir you have to get a prescription from your doctor first . But don’t worry as unlike the chemists we’re late night opening so come back to us with that little slip of paper and we’ll fix you up no problem’.  – you must now consult with your doctor first before you can  add this little feel good tincture to your health food shopping basket.  A good tonic for nourishing and supporting the nervous system, the leaves and flowers can both be used. It can taste quite bitter, anything bitter works on the liver so if, Vivienne stresses, you’re not on medication, it is a plant that is good for you. Externally it is good for limb pain where it can be rubbed into the joint, and oil from the plant is good for cuts and scars, and this may in fact be still available from the chemist or health food shops.

The small pocket of calm has now passed and a heavy mist and driving wind and rain has us moving forward in a tight sheltering group. That wonderful mountain looms close by – its sliding, flopped cake appearance beaming down at our ant like huddle with all its majesty and power. I smile in return and secretly give it the thumbs up, and send my prayers into the wind for that small group of people who battled Goliath for such a long time to keep this small pocket of earth safe for all creatures great and small who have inhabited this landscape for centuries and who came so close to being butchered bulldozed, covered in tar and cement and choked by the detritus of collective humanity when they gather in huge numbers in a place, where many have in truth, not the slightest interest in whatsoever. Vivien’s voice rising and falling in the now umbrella inverting winds mentions urinary tract, cystitis, and kidney stones as I catch a glimpse between the raincoats and walking boots of the delicate tall white lace head of the Wild Carrot flower and then we walk further on to the small lovely yellow petals, just four, of one of the Portentilla(turmental?) family good for diaoherra and irritable bowel. It can also be used in a gargle for throat infections. Vivienne mentions more than once that when she is discussing these herbal plants she is talking about the plant above the ground – the part that can be seen. We now walk briskly forward along the road, getting our circulation going again and I can feel my jacket soaking through into my back. Already two drenched travellers have returned to the warmth of the car. As I move along at the rear of the pack my eye catches one of my favourite flower – the small, rather plain in comparison to its more gaudy colleagues,  the wonderfully delicate Grass of Pernassus.  No herbal remedy here I’m presuming as Vivien has passed it by, but for me as I pause and rest my gaze on this little miracle,  well that’s a healing that really is of another dimension. The group are now up around a small Whitethorn growing just over the wall, associated with joy and happiness Vivien tells us. Next month its haws will be ready for picking to make a good healthy tea. It brings oxygen to the heart, so it’s good for the heart and high blood pressure, and also can help one sleep. In the Spring its leaves are very tender  and good to chew on. Later its blossoms can be picked, and with Red Clover makes a lovely tea.  A woman next to me tells me she likes to chew on the haws and then spit out the stones.

Then Vivien says that the Whitethorn is well respected in Ireland. And I think of the destruction of all the three to four year old Whitethorns in my laneway last month – not a single one or two left standing and further up the hill much bigger trees were cut down,to facilitate a water pipe from the mountains where instead of tucking the pipe – a slender one – behind the protection of the trees, the quicker route, easier route was taken. The trees that we so often huddled beside with the dogs when driving rain accompanied us down the hill, all gone, all in the middle too of the nesting season. All around the area, Whitethorns are unmercifully bulldozed as new houses spring up and rather than keep the trees to hide the house from the ever increasing traffic on the roads, the hedgerow is wiped out with the Whitethorns. This practise is often entirely in the hands of the developer I’m convinced, rather than the buyers who eventually end up living in the house.

The Burnette Rose was used as a dye, wonderful pink and violet colours, but is not used in any tea preparation, that is left to the rose hips of the Dog Rose of which there is none in evidence in this area. The soft purples of the Heather spreading all over the rocks, is good for cystitis. We’re stopped now at the white Yarrow with its distinctive smell. Its leaves are best to use if one has a fever as the effect is to make one sweat. Also rubbing the leaves on your skin can work as an insect repellant. The flowers can also be used. Mixed with Elder – no trace of that tree here – Yarrow can be good for sinuses and congestion.  Nor is there a Nettle or Dandelion in sight. Vivien is high in her praise of the nettle – best in the Spring when the stems are green -  and indeed Eleanor made an amazing herb and nettle soup for my visitors earlier this summer. It is a plant high in iron like spinach, and contains calcium and magnesium. A very versatile plant I’ve found and great when used as a feed – mixed with the Comfrey leaf – for a good tasty tomatoe. The Dandelion is also rich in good things for the body, and like the nettle helps the liver and the kidneys. Here Vivien cautions us to be very careful about all our herbal plants and to be sure if we are picking them, that they are identified correctly. Particularly the dandelion as other flowers can look similar and have quite a nasty effect if ingested – like having you drop stone dead. Just when I might have felt it safe to reach down and take a nibble of a small yellow petal when I next found one in the garden!

Self-Heal next. A Tudor flower I always felt – that rich mixture of dark purple and maroon-velvet colours that swaddeled Kings and Queens for years. Good for cuts and wounds but of little use if one got stabbed in the back on a turret stairway or ingested poison from a silver chalice. It is best to use in early Summer before the flowers appear. The first time I ever got a lesson about Ragworth  was when walking with Agnes through the meadow. She reach out, and pulled up this large vibrant yellow plant and asked if I knew what it was. Its brilliant yellow flowers are to be seen all over the place right now. Vivien says if we think we have a problem here, it’s a lot worse in Scotland. We did have an eradication programme some years ago, I remember seeing big fine notices for farmers up in small Garda Stations all over the country. And last year over the road, a sight that is becoming increasingly rare in this country, several men were working along the hedgerows actually pulling the plant out, not with a machine but using their bare hands. It is lethal to cattle and horses who will avoid it when growing, but can’t distinguish it when it is mixed in their winter silage.  It would be good if all farmers came together at this time of year and took a day out  – a meithil – and cleared some of the larger denser areas where Ragworth has taken hold. Like a day in the bog cutting turf.
Apart from its lethal properties, Ragworth must not be used internally but can be used as a poultice for  rheumatic joints.

The wind carries off the properties of WoodSage, the ink from my pen blurring my notebook but I can just hear that the Blackberry leaves can be used for gargling away a sore throat and I’m now closer as we peer down onto another Plantine – not really a flower but more like a miniature, tapering seeded bulrush, its leaves good to place on a wasp sting or a bite as it contains a good antiseptic ingredient. Wild Thyme is good for the lungs and asthma, and the oils of the  Marjoram help bloatedness and trapped wind and the digestive system in general. That  lovely tall tapering, yellow plant seen in the hedgerows now is called Agrimony is also good for the digestive system. Finally we stop at this wonderful bush of the brightest, reddest berries -  the Gelder Rose. The berries are not poisonous and can be a very fast laxative. It is the bark that is usually used and again a whipping wind carries the words away so I am not entirely sure what in fact the bark is used for.

On our way back, Tom points out a rather rare Buckthorn Tree which I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. A tourist asks about the delicate soft blue Harebell which Tom explains in Gaelic is called Mearaca Puca – the Goblins Thimble – and if you tamper with it, they will not be at all pleased and you’ll rue the day you messed with them. Only proper too!

Back in the car after our wonderfully informarive 90minute outdoor class, a hot flask of coffee mixed with the scent of herbal tea – from Mary’s organic garden – filled the air. Home-made spelt bread, with goats cheese and organic lettuce and cucumber are eaten with the greatest pleasure and reverence – the rain pelting down outside. Then there’s miniature potatoe cakes, still warm gingerbread and wonderful fruit cake. No room left for Sean’s tasty apples which we’ll keep for later.

We were out early on the Green Walk our progress slow as we stop to marvel at the abundance of wild flowers along this narrow undisturbed pathway. What colours they present. The tall white and yellow of the oxe-eye daisy in great clumps. The yellow fluff of the ladies straw bed and the pale dirty yellow, at times biscuit shade, of that other tall fluffy feathery plant, which is everywhere right now and whose name I just don’t know. We come upon the rich pink purple of the bloody cranes bill, a great display, startling against the soft grey of the limestone wall. And all along our path the purple of the wild thyme and then the blue heads of the scabious leaning forward on their long stems as though transfixed on some activity in the centre of the pathway. And all over the wheaten droplets of the quaking grass, and then in a sheltered nook the heady scent of the purple fragrant orchid.

And there it is and I haven’t been expecting it and I’m enchanted: my first sighting of one of the loveliest of them all – the pale blue of the delicate hairbell. We’re stooping to look at a small clump of eyebright when Mary spots a movement in the grass: a cricket. I have never seen a cricket and would have thought it a grasshopper but for its leather brown colour. We leave it in peace and walk on.

The scent of the wild woodbine climbing over the walls has almost gone but just coming out to greet the Autumn are the pale green pods of the enchanting spindle berry which will in October be festooned in teenage pink berries.  In the sparcer areas we find the little yellow portintilla flowers, and nearby the dull flat whites of the wild carrot.

A couple approch and we all stiffly smile as we pass and the silence of several minutes further walking, is broken when my ‘Is that ….. ……?’   collides mid-air with Mary’s  ‘That’s  ………!”  Well now, all this beauty and all this freshness and a famous writer as well.

An hours stopping and peering and talking and discovering and now it’s time for our picnic. There are no large boulders to rest on here and we’re loath to climb a wall and upset an owner, to give us a view of the sea.

So we sit to the side of the green road careful not to crush the tall daisies and hairbells that reside in this spot and apart from three curious ants we remain undisturbed, boxed in by the high limestone walls, no view to distract us from the joy of eating in the great outdoors.

I unfold thick fresh slices of Griffins sliced pan, some fruit, an Almond Slice and Mary has some wonderful brown scones just out of the oven, Boiling water from my seldom used flask is poured onto tea bag and herbs and our repast is complete.

Mary – like Rio, bristling as she fixes on a movement over my shoulder – became awkward first and my silent quiery told me we had company. They were coming back. And I did feel a little foolish sitting there in the middle of nowhere, with no view, our little feast now reduced to a single crust of white loaf.

I was in a better position as I had my back to them but Mary’s discomfort increased on their approach. How precious these small spaces we create for ourselves, how intrusive when they are trampeled upon unwittingly by others. The approaching footsteps almost upon us, I turned and said that if I’d known they were coming back I’d have saved a cuppa but now there wasn’t a thing left. And we all laughed and the tension vanished and the great man turned back a few steps further on and said that it looked as if the weather will hold off too and smiling they disappeared into the thicket of the soft green tunnell ahead. ‘And you know, he’s human too,’  Mary laughed as we scramble to our feet and I gave the final thimble of Griffins lovely bread to the 3 ants who joined us for a moment on this lovely morning.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing on Pat Kenny today. And no doubt I’m
not the only one.

James, a farmer from Co Meath noticed that something awful has
happened to his hedgerows. He’s in Reps so part of his payment is that
he doesn’t use any insecticides on his land. He knows the importance
of hedgerows as nature corridors, and the longer a hedgerow is in
existence the more important it is to biodiversity. This scheme is
worth a lot to him. He is paid he reiterates, to look after his hedges
and his environment and what he sees when he and another farmer walk
the 15 kilometres along the road must have horrified them both. Both
sides of the road have been sprayed (they later discover) with a
chemical called 24dp. This chemical – surely poison is a more apt term
- contains dioxins that last a long time, eats through the leaves and
down into the root system, according to Jack, from An Taisce, and
will then makes its way into the water system. And – wait for it -
some of its ingredients were used in Vietnam, as a defoliant! And Jack
talks about the hedgerows being so important to biodiversity and
what’s been done was like using a hammer to crack an egg! And guess
what? This is biodiversity week.

Can you believe that.? As a frequent traveller to County Meath, I have
always been struck by the rich, verdant fields and tall hedgerows, the
magnificent trees, the lushness of the countryside. What on earth were
the Meath County Council doing? Did no one shout ‘STOP’. Who signed
the form that gave the go-ahead to this act of desecration to one of
nature’s great providers, arrayed in all their splendour at this time
of year, RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NESTING SEASON!

My disbelief continues when I learn that as part of the National Road
Authority’s budget, Meath Co Council had been given € 81,000 (yes
that’s eighty one thousand euros) to eradicate certain weeds, from
along the roadside, and I reach for my smelling salts when In realize
that every County Council in the entire country received a similar
payment for a similar hedgerow blitz.

A senior official comes out to inspect the damage but he admits that
he is totally ignorant of these matters.

Then Bill is on – a spokesperson from the Meath County Council. Please
let him be environmentally aware, please let him be a lover of nature
and say – ‘Oh my God, what have we done?’ But he doesn’t. He says an
‘aggressive chemical’ was the directive from the NRA to be used this
time of year. Didn’t Bill ever listen to Mooney goes Wild – the
hedgerows are not to be tampered with between 1st March to the 31 of
August. Every kid in the playground knows that at this stage. But Bill
is on a roll.
An experienced contractor was used, he tells us. How experienced a
contractor could that be, if as the others are saying, the spray, bad
at any level, was in evidence 15 feet up into the hedges. Was this
contractor part of the Parks and Wildlife Service? Surely not? So what
sort of experience is Bill talking about with regards to this
contractor – that he thought it was ok to use a spray with such toxic
ingredients, and to spray it so high up into the whitethorns and
alders.

Then Bill says that at this point 400 kilometres have been sprayed and
I’m stepping outside for some spray-free air to compose myself, as he
adds the fact that 90% of the work has been already done and that the
intention is to complete it. Even after all that he has just heard? Is
my hearing all right?

And finally there a slight turning of the corner. If, Bill is saying,
if the actions of the Meath County Council have brought about
unintended consequences, well – wait for it – Bill will take
responsibility. If the evidence is that this has had an negative
effect we’ll take full responsibility.

I’m speechless at his lack of awareness. I wonder if Bill went to the
doctor one day to have a small pimple removed from his chin and the
doctor handed over as small spray can and said there you are now,
that’ll do the trick. And when Bill goes home later, he gets a shock
when he looks in the mirror. His hair has turned grey, his eyes and
nose running. His face in fact is melting like a wax candle as he
rushes back to the doctor. ‘If, if’ the doctor repeats looking at the
ruined face, ‘if the spray that I gave you has had unintended
consequences, well I will take full responsibility for what’s
happened, if of course there is scientific evidence’.

Words I have no doubt that would be such a consolation to his patient.

And where is the NRA in all this? They have a budget of 3 million to
carry out the removing of certain weeds along our roadways, and their
imagination can stretch no further than poisons and chemicals to carry
out such work.

It is truly outrageous.

The road is narrow, the walls high and I see the black flutter of
wings as I pass. I park further on in the nearest gateway and wait for
a lull in the traffic before walking back. I’m not sure which of us is
the more anxious: he’s a baby rook but he’s huge and he’s terrified. I
have my jacket and as he flaps along the grassy verge to get away from
me, I cover him with it, grasp him firmly as a truck roars by, inches
from us both. Stretching up onto the high wall I unfold my bundle. He
caukes, eyeing me fiercely, hops along the ivy cover and then onto a
branch the safe side of the wall.

Two things I hate about this time of year: birds falling from the
safety of the nest and weed killer.

My dental appointment is at 8.30 so I’m in the city before the traffic
has built up with an hour to spare. I pull up by the river and Sheila
comes out, asking me to look over some posters she’s done. A4 and
laminated, they are going up on the surrounding trees, asking people
not to feed the swans to the left of the house where there is a lone,
nesting swan. She has built her nest at the other end of the bank,
separated by the rowing club, and it is in this area Swan Watch are
asking people not to feed.

This is her third year trying to breed and now with six eggs, she’s
getting a really hard time and her mate has been run off. This has
been her territory but in the last number of years others have been
trying to take over this much desired spot.

Swans are very territorial, and can be vicious. Over the years,
perhaps due to their breeding grounds being encroached upon;
protective foliage and cover being removed from the banks or perhaps
because so many people are coming down every day now to throw bread to
them, great numbers of swans are gathering in the one area and tempers
are frayed, aggression rife, attacks frequent. Recently a dead swan
was taken from the water. Even as we’re putting up the posters the
nesting mother is continuously under siege by two circling swans,
wings billowing as they torpedo towards her, hissing and then retreat
as we shout and clap and haka from the nearby bank.

When my dentist asks me how I am, I tell him about the swan and he
tells me a similar tale about monkeys in Africa, and nervously I grip
the chair and enter a world of numbed gums, buzzing drills and tense
muscles.

A book shop is a good place to go after the dentist and I’m absorbed
when Sheila rings and tells me the situation has worsened but she’s
had to leave for work. She says the swan is now under continuous
attack and that it’s important she stays close to the nest as if the
others get in, they will try to smash the eggs. I rush back in time to
see two swans on the nest head to head. The intruder is finally
dislodged but this time the chase goes all the way up to the pillars,
across open waters, the eggs left unprotected and open to attack.

The next 20 minutes are a nightmare. Then she returns and climbing up
she sits back down on her eggs. I remain at my post till Ger arrives
with a long green mesh, cordoning off a wide circle around the nest.
Half an hour later the intruder is back, moves towards it but doesn’t
succeed in breaking through. He makes two more attempts and then he is
gone.

I’m happy now to keep my luncheon date and an hour later return to the
car. The picture that greets me is shocking. The swan is sitting
protectively on her eggs, looking almost passive as if she feels the
end is near. The intruder is towering above her, his beak clamped
around her neck which he is trying to force down into the water. I run
and roar simultaneously. Rush through the gate, climb the barrier and
with a long stick prod him till he releases her. It takes some time
till he concedes defeat, splashes back into the water, but he’s
trapped now inside the sagging green mesh. Ger reappears then, gets
into the water, raises the mesh and the swan scurries away and doesn’t
return.

I wait there on Swan Watch till the others get off work. I talk to
several bread throwing people along the bank and explain just how many
people are doing, exactly what they are doing, all day long and the
problems that this is causing. And I explain that, although swans
will eat bread it is not at all good for them.

I’m unprepared for the positive feedback I get from the people I talk
to. ‘So what will I do with all this bread now?’ a little kid asks.
And his mother gives the perfect reply.

Mother swan isn’t looking too good, her head down and lolling but by
the time Sheila returns, she has raised it again. We talk of possible
solutions – possible relocations. And when Carol and Frieda appear, I
get in the car and drive home.

You know some times, the best, most relaxing moments of your day, can
well be when you’re sitting in the dentist’s chair.

Tom and Mary deliver the tomatoe plants into my lovely new glasshouse.
Ken has crossed the ceiling with small beams and Tom demonstrates how
the plants must be trained towards the roof for best results. I have
great hopes this year, for even with just windowsills last year, I did
surprisingly well.

Always plant with a ‘R’ in the month they used to say. And I make a
big effort today to move out many of my little miniature plants – the
tiny leaves of the lupin, so exquisite – from the trays into smaller
pots. 3 oak trees that I planted from acorns some years ago are also
moved into much larger containers and fingers crossed that the
transfers wont have caused too much stress.

Small clusters of flowers appear in the driveway. A vibrant blue spray
of forget-me-nots just inside the gate is eye-catching, the blue of
its flower turning even deeper as the light fades. There is a healthy
growth of mint, and my first small bumble bees cling to the flamenco
skirts of the blue comfrey flowers and then move on to the dandelions.
A single pink tulip appears near the parsley and a little further
over, several black tulips begin pushing through the green haze of the
fennel. Dandelions and daisies spot the fields beyond in a colourful
cloth but the trees are still bare. Just beside the gable a huge clump
of rape seed has appeared suddenly and small striped bees or perhaps
wasps sup on the yellow flowers. Under the rose bush Mrs Naughten’s
bluebells have appeared.

Eleanor has come to ’sort’ my garden. In truth I don’t have a garden,
I have a natural, low maintenance, wildlife scantuary. However a few
years ago, I took back a small section for myself, consisting of a
lovely herb and vegetable patch outside my kitchen window, and two
long strips for a flower garden running along the driveway.

I am not a gardener, Eleanor is, quite a magnificent one and soon
after her arrival work begins on the driveway which even in a short
few weeks has become cluttered and overgrown.

Work in progress was quickly disrupted as Eleanor and I have quite
different ideas about gardening. I’m not too happy about certain weeds
being pulled, and while I can understand her logic that the place will
be over-run by certain ‘weeds’ to her, ‘wild flowers’ to me, I still
find it difficult pulling any little plants out of their snug beds and
tossing them into the barrow. So we compromise, some ‘weeds’ are left,
others discarded and slowly the strip takes shape and elegance, as
last years flowers are given room to expand and breathe in their newly
made beds of rich uncluttered clay.

Eleanor has brought me lots of plants from her own beautiful garden
and while I’m conscious of her generosity I’m wondering if there’ll be
any room left for my own zillions of tiny plants which have taken over
every inch of my glasshouse, my window sills, and every available
chair and bench in the lean-too and in the last few weeks occupied my
every waking moment. I should have taken heed of Kieran’s warning.

Like all good gardeners, Eleanor is a no- nonsense one. I am aghast at
the speed and casualness that she upturns potted plants and
unceremoniously plonks them into the clay: all done and dusted in
seconds whereas I would spend a good 20 minutes on each plant,
handling, smoothing, composting and watering with the greatest care
and consideration. When she decides to relocate some of mine, we
argue. ‘But will they grow?’ I whine, tension now hovering in the
driveway delighted with the possibility of a good punch-up, ‘Of course
they will’, she says her exasperation clear, and orders me off to get
more rocks for the border, more bamboo sticks for the sprouting sweet
pea and the barrow to gather the weeds.

Eleanor wants me to be at hand, to learn. And I do. I watch carefully,
discovering which ‘weeds’ can be put in the compost box and which ones
discarded. I learn the difference between regular grass and scotch
grass, and the importance of pulling up the entire root of the latter
and how this is achieved. I learn which ‘weeds’ will take over the
house and which can be left but need monitoring, and the plants that
will need thinning and separating, and those that will bloom and
blossom for just one cycle.

Eleanor’s motto is that one should never move round the garden without
having something in both hands. I can see the value of that but find
it impossible. I’m a sauntering-down-to-the-gate-hands-free type of
person, so as work progresses throughout the day and she draws my
attention continually to my empty left or right hand, I move off away
with my bundle of weeds to the compost, a sulky schoolgirl hoping to
get a quick quiet smoke in the shed on the way. But I’m recalled after
a short absence. ‘What’s keeping you? she calls, my guilt as obvious
as the smell of nicotine on the schoolgirls uniform, as I stand beside
her again, ‘You’ve been replanting some of those weeds haven’t you
over by the compost? Now its her turn to look aghast. Only those
lovely clods of daisies and a few knapweed plants, I explain not
meeting her eye.

We work on in silence as I watch her scoop out the rich clay to plant
some of those big oxeyed daisies. ‘Stop’ I gasp. And she did. There,
resting in a small circle on the unturned soil, are an entire family
of black beetles, probably having a bit of a siesta after their tea.
And not until they are all safely placed at another table across he
driveway, do we get the daisies snugly planted in their new, usurped
territory.

We’re sitting at the window seat just finished eating when I bespy a
startling trapped inside the net curtains in the house across the
road.

I dash across, bang on the door and getting no answer, rush down the
street to someone I’m sure will know where I can locate the owner. But
no help there, I return again to the cafe and alert Eva who’s sitting
at the next table and another woman whom I don’t know, to see if
either can tell me who owns the house. They both come back out with
me, the woman, who stresses that she doesn’t want to be involved, goes
off thinking she may in fact know someone who has a telephone number.
The house she tells me, has been empty for years.

I climb over the gates hoping perhaps that a rusty window at the back
of the house might yield access but no such luck, blasted double
glazing. The poor bird is frantic inside and I’m back outside when one
of the local lads comes walking up the street. He’s so cool looking -
just like Johnny Deppe and my frantic instinct is to hand him a 20
and tell him to go get a crowbar and break the door down. But sanity
kicks in and asks me if I really want to be visiting this young man in
Mountjoy for the next 3 years, loading my car every week with cheese
scones, ginger bread and muesli biscuits to help get him through a
difficult time for which I was entirely responsible.

Then the woman who doesn’t want to be involved come back – with a
number. She rings it and tells the tale. He’ll be there when he’s
ready he says – hours – that he has lots to do and when I suggest she
ring again and explain the bird doesn’t have hours, she says she
doesn’t want to be involved, and hands the phone to Eva. Eva rings
and tells the man, that she’d be willing to go over and help him out
so he could get over sooner to release the bird. He hangs up.

I ponder aloud if I should call down to the police station. The woman
who doesn’t want to be involved dismisses it, saying the cops wont be
there and even if they were, they couldn’t do anything. A few other
people stop and sympathize and even that is a small mercy and now the
bird thank god has extricated himself from the net curtain and is bacK
in the room. The woman who doesn’t want to be involved, disappears but
is back ten minutes later. Fair play. She did in fact walk down to the
cop station but no one was there. Then a man in a tractor pulls up and
hears the tale. God where are the men, who’d whack the door down and
release the damsel in distress. Don’t they exist anymore? The woman
now says she has to go. She stresses again she doesn’t want to be
involved. ‘But you are involved whether you want to be or not’, I
say, ‘and I’m so glad you got involved for at least now we know
someone does have a key and someone will eventually turn up and
eventually, hopefully that bird will get out.’.

And she walks away not feeling too badly, I’d say.

Eva and I wait around for a bit. No one turns up. I want to put a big
sign with a big black marker on the door saying: THIS HOUSE IS EMPTY.
THERE’S A BIRD TRAPPED INSIDE. GO IN AND GET HIM OUT. AND HAVE A SMOKE
AND A CUPPA AS YOU’RE AT IT. YOU DESERVE IT.

Why don’t we have a Minister for Trapped Birds in Empty Houses.

I’m fuming at not being able to do anything. There should be a swift,
simple solution. My next Course will be a lock picking one. No door
too strong, No lock too hard.

And then I drove back with Eleanor to start on my garden and to light
a candle to St Francis for the distressed starling.