Imagine

Home is an elusive concept at the moment. When we got back to the Piccadilly Line from the Village just over a week ago our new house was like a building site with a film of dust everywhere and in a completely uninhabitable state. Now, just over a week later we have one bedroom painted (rather tastefully) and the hope of the bathroom and toilet being finished and fully functional in the next day or two. When that happens we’ll be in a position to sleep there. We can see in friends’ eyes, immense relief that they are not in middle of what we are and thanking their lucky stars that their own house is perfectly fine. I must say, that while I am looking forward to the day when we don’t have to visit such places as Wickes and Homebase, situated as they in dismal enough locations near dual carriageways, cutting through outer urban wastelands, I realise we are more blessed than not. Despite our fleeting hardship it’s rewarding to see the creeping progress as one day gives way to the next. Each evening brings a new wonder – and sometimes horror. We are just holding on to the vision of 3-4 weeks hence and imagining where we’ll be then.

That was the summer that was.

So today, with the dust settled after the departure of one and all, there is no time to relax and little time to reflect. We have spent the day at the washing machine and packing.
The break kicked off with Leonard Cohen

and ended with a game of golf.

In between, we had Orla, Blue’s new BF,

my BF then Alex’s parents and her BF from London.

We braved the elements for a BBQ,

spent a rainy day traversing a lake in search of ancient monuments.
There was the annual dog show at the Village Festival and Hilary and Jeremy entered their Bojangles. And he won. As I congratulated her, Hilary said that Bojangles had not faired so well at the dog show in a neighbouring festival. Clearly a fix, she decided. Of course, I agreed, but did point out to her that had our Blue entered the dog show then her Bojangles would not have won his prize. Miaow. All good banter.

We have an early start in the morning as we drive across the country, sail over the Irish Sea and head down the M6 and back to the Piccadilly Line. Ouch. Back to earth with a bang.

Sorry seems to be the hardest word

Sorry, is, in many respects, a throwaway word, uttered countless times during the course of a day. You accidentally bump into someone, you sympathise with the bereaved, you hurt feelings unintentionally or you merely want to ask a question and utter the word in advance. Today, the word is so necessary. Tony Blair is giving the profits of his much talked of memoirs to injured veterans of Iraq. The reason for his generosity, it has been suggested, is to restore his tarnished reputation. While I do not wish to deny the vets this facility, I am disturbed that Tony Blair remains resolute about his cavalier decision to take the country to war. Restoring his reputation, in my eyes, would best be done by coming out now, or indeed at any time, putting his hands up and telling us he got it wrong about Iraq and that he’s sorry. As long as Tony fails to utter this word, then all the sports centres for wounded soldiers in the world, will do nothing to restore his reputation in my eyes. Sorry, Tony, but that’s the way it is.

Crossed Wires in the Village

Hilary has an accent that would cut glass. Even if I heard her speak anywhere near the Piccadilly Line I would find it so. But to hear it here in the Village is quite another matter. It’s as foreign here as the sands of Arabia would be. Hilary has dwelled in the Village for seven years, but now she’s desperate to return to England. She misses her culture and the English way of doing things. Hilary is hilarious and within five minutes I am in stitches listening to her stories about how very strange things are here in the Village. It was Blue, in fact, who brought Hilary into my life.

Hilary lives with her son, Jeremy, and Jeremy invited me and Blue to meet his mother and his dog, Bojangles, over the weekend. I promised I would call and it was only on Sunday evening that I remembered that promise. So I put Blue on the lead and walked the 100 or so paces to Hilary’s house on the estate. The two dogs disliked each other on sight and the loudest barking match ensued. I hastily withdrew much to Hilary’s relief but not before I had given her the loaf of brown bread that Alex said I should bring. We are trying to eat healthily and someone gave us the loaf which would not be eaten. It was either that or a box of out of date ginger thins. I opted for the unusual visiting present of a loaf of bread (fresh of course). And so this morning, Hilary appeared at our door with an M & S quiche as a return gift I guess, which she advised to put in the freezer. We came off best there I think – loaf versus quiche, hmmm no contest.

Over coffee Hilary informed me that in England she had lived in a small close, not dissimilar from the estate where we are now. There, she said, they had fallen into the pleasant habit of having drinks and nibbles on Sunday at noon with the neighbours before lunch. It developed into an informal rota and was generally a good way to keep in touch and what have you. So when Hilary and Jeremy moved to the village she decided that this would be a good tradition to maintain. When they had settled in she sent out her invites to her nearest neighbours for Sunday nibbles before lunch. So far, so good, except, that all her guests were still there at 5 o’clock, more than worse for wear. Her guests were clearly in need of greater sustenance than nibbles as their sobriety had seriously waned. Poor Hilary had to resort to some pizzas in the freezer in order to redeem some semblance of order and the tradition of Sunday drinks was unceremoniously abandoned. So, here we have a case of crossed wires and cultural differences. To the rational English, drinks and nibbles before lunch mean precisely that. Lunch would be no later than two,(in your own house), presence would not exceed two hours and drinks drunk would be no greater than two. To the Irish, drinks and nibbles before lunch would have been quite different. All that they would have heard in the invitation would have been drinks and may have assumed that the invite actually included lunch. And it would have been rude to leave before all available drink had been consumed and that you had regaled your host with tall tales and shown what good craic you are. An occasion such as this is a test of English hospitality to see what they provide and the guests likely thought the nibbles very poor fayre indeed.

Hilary remained both undaunted and in the Village and did make many friends here and engaged as fully as she could in village life. But after seven years, enough is enough. She misses her country and their ways and she wants to go home. Safe home, Hilary. It was more than a pleasure to meet you. And yes, I would love to go back to your house, before you leave, without Blue this time, for that glass of wine and see your garden.

Cohen comes to Lissadell: a living poet comes to a dead poet's corner.

IN MEMORY OF EVA GORE-BOOTH AND CON MARKIEWICZ

The light of evening, Lissadell,
Great windows open to the south,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.
But a raving autumn shears
Blossom from the summer's wreath;
The older is condemned to death,
Pardoned, drags out lonely years
Conspiring among the ignorant.
I know not what the younger dreams -
Some vague Utopia - and she seems,
When withered old and skeleton-gaunt,
An image of such politics.
Many a time I think to seek
One or the other out and speak
Of that old Georgian mansion, mix
Pictures of the mind, recall
That table and the talk of youth,
Two girls in silk kimonos, both
Beautiful, one a gazelle.

Dear shadows, now you know it all,
All the folly of a fight
With a common wrong or right.
The innocent and the beautiful
Have no enemy but time;
Arise and bid me strike a match
And strike another till time catch;
Should the conflagration climb,
Run till all the sages know.
We the great gazebo built,
They convicted us of guilt;
Bid me strike a match and blow.

Alex and me bade adieu to the Piccadilly Line and the house project and repaired to the Village for a few weeks. The first event to attend to on arrival was the Leonard Cohen concert in Lissadell. BF and I had a long discussion about travel and parking arrangements. Lissadell has never been used as a concert venue before and practical advice is scant. To drive to the venue direct and hope for the best regarding parking or to hop on one of busses leaving from various points. I favour taking a chance on parking at the venue while BF leaned towards the bus option. In the end we both ended parking at the venue.

It promised to be a special event. The setting was awesome, to be sure. The stage was set against a canopy of hazel wood (I went down to the hazel wood and hooked a berry to a thread) and through the trees the odd boat passing by on Sligo Bay could be seen. To the left of the stage is Sligo’s own Table Mountain, Benbulben, at whose foot, Yeats is buried in the graveyard of the church at Drumcliff.

The man I heard on the radio summed up Leonard Cohen far better than I ever could when he said that his lyrics contain much meaning which resonates with life’s cards of love, longing, loss and lust. BF and I along with her daughter had seen Leonard in Dublin last year and it was the most spiritual event that I had not anticipated. We had not been prepared to cry as we did. Leonard Cohen arrested us on that occasion and made us stop and reflect on our lives through his words. His delivery and respect for his musicians and for us was so evident. It was moving beyond belief. It was also fun. He delivered comments gently and with a wryness born from a life fully lived. And a life fully lived, contains loss. Alex and some friends who came with BF were as moved as we had been in Dublin 2009 but BF & I did agree that, Cohen in Lissadell, while thoroughly enjoyable, did lack the intense intimacy of the performance in Dublin 2009.