March 26. 07

We’re in Breandan’s beautifully private, wild and wonderful garden in Connemara. Here I have my first sighting of this years wood anemones – and as always they are spectacular. And there’s the glow from the celandines and primroses and wild garlic and I spot my first bluebells. And every corner offers some new delight like the huge and colourful Camellia tucked away amongst the trees. And the trees are magical, particularly the Wych elms with their hallowe’en hands and exotic shapes. There is a great love of trees in this garden with the Sweet Chestnut Leafed Oak and the Red Oak and the Pin Oak and the Water Oak. Here too are Elms of the non-wych kind and Limes, Laurels, Monkey puzzles and Eucalyptus.

We’re staying in a lovely house in the hills, with sea and mountains all around. No matter where you stand inside the walls, on a sunny day the heat of the sun will always touch you, and at night – when the moon is full – you could write your diary by its light. There’s a narrow green pathway leading down to the sea. It is peppered with daisies and dandelions. No matter what time of the day I’m on it, the Peacock butterfly – if I have identified him correctly – several in fact are already there, feeding exclusively on the dandelion. I’ve always had a soft spot for dandelions – that burst of yellow at the close of winter – its shape like the Host, and it nourishes the Peacock too.

March 18 07

It’s a real Patrick’s Day day. Roaring winds, sleet, snow and pelting rain. I’m just in, having walked the dogs – a short one – and fed the birds. I know I should be cutting down on their feed at this point but it was so cold yesterday and I was awakened by a blue tit tapping on the window looking for his breakfast. So I stocked up with more bird seed when I was in Ennis yesterday. I had to take Nancy to A&E. She damaged her wrist 10 days ago.
So while she was in Ennis Hospital for a 2 hr session, I went foraging for peanuts and seeds and came upon the last stages of the parade, a sort of Karate/Kung Fu group – not quite crouching tigers, hidden dragons, but they were putting great energy into their moves and deserved the applause.
And then back to the long wait in this miserable little waiting room, overpowered by 3 enormous food/drink machines offering chocolate and coffee and fizzy drinks to fuel your anxieties even further while you wait in your cramped little ball of space and worry. In the middle of the drinks and calorie laden chocolate bars, a lone banana reclined in the top left hand corner. I wonder what exotic balmy country that bright fruit came from, and the journey that led it to its clamping by 2 steel pinchers in such a space.
If you were feeling extra peckish, one machine could actually pop out a ‘toasted’ ham, cheese and onion sandwich. I had this image of a little man in a boiler suit trapped in the machine, taking orders and sweating heavily as he shovelled the bread into a hot furnace to toast, while his comrade chopped vegetables and sliced meat. I did smile when I read ‘sunflower seed spread’. Wonder which comrade had that task? Who thinks up these machines and how are they recycled when wires cross and doors rust and the little comrades drop dead from exhaustion? Where do these machines go to die? Not land fill I hope. Not China please, they’re taking enough junk as it is. Will they end up sharing the same wardrobe with our money gobbling electronic voting machines? Perhaps.
Nancy had in fact broken her wrist and I’m taking her to Limerick on Thursday for specialist treatment. She’s very cheery about it all, has a good attitude about such things although she’s without a car now.

March 10 07

It was a stressful day and a walk in the night hills brought a deep sense of calm and connection. Rejuvenated, I was descending the pathway when I heard the distressed cry of a mother sheep, and the quivering reply from her charges. I knew instantly what had happened, and climbing over crumbling walls and brambles, I shone the torch into the pit and onto the two little lambs huddled in one corner. My previous composure was rattled as the farmer’s number was replying with one of those robotic voices telling me that all was not in order with the number. I knew if I’d gone into the pit myself, I wouldn’t have had the strength to haul myself out of there after basket balling the lambs up onto the surface.
Hazel was away otherwise she would have sorted it with great composure. Trips to neighbours proved fruitless – the men all away at a match lit up by some new lighting system. So the village was deserted – a perfect time for the Goths and the Visi-Goths to attack the defenceless ramparts. I was half way up the field lugging an old rusty ladder, when this time the phone was picked up. He said he’d be over in 20 minutes and he was.
I was waiting with a torch as he negotiated his own botched barbed wire fencing and fallen stones onto the lane way and he jumps into the pit gets the two lambs out and he’s burly enough so I’m not sure how he exited himself as my light was on the lambs who ran around a bit hazed but eventually went into the next field following maternal bleating that was coming through the bushes.
I handed him a spade I’d brought with me and told him to fill it in but no, he’d have to bring the digger (no wonder so many farmers have heart problems these days) as the debris from the pit he said had gone too hard. Must have been dug up 5/6 years ago – and I’ve been checking it all that time to make sure nothing falls into it and rested a tree branch there last year so the scurrying creatures could get out, should they plunge in some night chased by a predator.
And he filled it in Tuesday, with his digger – not using the soil however but a pile of rocks that would have been perfect for blocking the gaps in my top wall that his cattle had toppled last year. Robin’s fencing, cutting off the top of my strip has been great. There’s 5 sheep and a horse feeing up there now but they’re confined and can’t get down around the house. So I’ll start my herb planting again soon.

March 4 07

We were in Pontoon. For the eclipse yesterday, I went outside into the night. Across the road, over a wooden stile in the wall, was a pathway leading down to the lake but the land became soggy quickly and I had to retreat. The view of the moon darkening was spoiled by the illuminations of the hotel itself and the loud television perched on the wall just outside the bar, beaming its wisdom into the little wooden structure erected for smokers. ‘Isn’t it fantastic’ one punter shrieked to another under the smokey canopy, not about the eclipse but the fact that she could smoke and not miss a beat of the antics on the screen. Though in truth no one was looking at it. Barking, forced laughs were coming from the TV, a sign that the invited guests are pretty dreary and the presenter is doing his best to pretend it’s all just great. A guest appearance of the moon onto the screen no doubt rose the ratings somewhat. Fifteen minutes later, I’m chilled to the bone, my feet beginning to freeze. I back up to the wall for some shelter, where many moons ago someone had planted a wide box hedge which had overrun the wall. I leant against it and it instantly takes on the shape of my back like a comfortable armchair and a warmth surrounds me and I soon forget the the chill, the light, the background chatter as I become hooked by the splendour of the heavens. When the eclipse is in place, the moon itself seemed to become detached from the sky, the sphere almost touchable as though it were packaged is some strange wrapping about to be whisked away forever. What I didn’t remember was how long, once covered, it took the light to re-emerge, at which point the stars had disappeared and I had moved indoors to the comfort and warmth of my cosy room overlooking the lake.

We took a spin up into the surrounding hills next day. It’s where all the Shell pipes are criss-crossing the terrain, great swathes gouged out of the landscape. We talked to a farmer who was very worried but he said he felt there was little that could be done to prevent what was going on. He was particularly sad at the changes brought to his home and heritage over the years. You’d think so remote, so lovely and so wildlife friendly a spot would be especially protected and cherished by those in power. ‘No you wouldn’t’, the voice in my head said.

March 8 07

Had this really strange dream last night. I was sitting with Jackson from ‘Stargate’ on this really high wall very close to, and looking down on the entrance to the White House. All was very peaceful pleasant and beautifully calm, till suddenly there was this great flurry of movement and this poor Kangaroo and her little baby ran across the tarmacked square and up onto the green lawn, chased by several secret service men. The two terrified creatures were brought down by flying bolas – and I could see the horror and confusion in their eyes. The mother managed to struggle over by the wall where I was perched and this secret service guy, all dressed in combats, stooped by the fallen creature and stuck a gun at her temple and roared at her not to move. At this point the president came out the front door and walked over to inspect. Looking very serious he said something to one of his aides and returned to the House. Somehow the information was conveyed to me, that the creatures were not to be destroyed, but to be returned to the zoo from whence they fled. At this point Jackson, dressed in a business like grey suit, helped me down off the wall. He too disappeared through the doors of the House and I lugged this huge rucksack onto my back and walked into a foggy haze that had enveloped the whole scene.

I can often source my dreams and in a paper recently there was this awful description of a an annual event that takes place in Taiji in Japan: the mass slaughter of dolphins. According to environmentalists, there’s been 40,000 dolphins killed over the last 20 years. They mostly end up as dog food due to the high level of mercury in their system.