Author: Rae McKinlay

I am a comic artist/storyteller and Creative Practitioner. 2024 was a challenging year and so now I am taking time out by wintering in Achill Island. I write to try and make sense of things and that is what I am doing with this blog. .

Achill, Winter and Aging

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I stood a while looking over Black Sod Bay, a hum of grievance in between the gusts of wind and the angry waves. Lenny, an old Mayo pony, lingered happily in the wet jaws of soggy moss. There was no snow yet, not even a light dusting on the Nephin mountains.

November has morphed into December, the air is sharper, and life is lived in the shadows of the shortening day. Shadows are a labyrinth of beauty, where nothing is fully revealed and remains uncertain. I feel at home in the grey shades.

Clouds crept in from the Wild Atlantic, dimming the afternoon. Soon, the landscape would be cloaked in midwinter darkness. I have arrived at the bay, delighted to have escaped from loud, overstimulating grey concrete environments. I wasn’t totally convinced that I was at peace, but here I was waiting for this old year to slip away and bring forth 2026. This year, I won’t be making any New Year’s resolutions, as I have learned they are short-lived.

It’s at the bay that I forget all the inklings which take residence in my mind. I forget about all the complexities of life and surrender to the fury of the waves. It is then that I wonder what message, if any, the bay may be telling me. I turned my gaze back to the path from whence I came. My eyes glanced at the trees stripped bare, and I was gripped by impermanence. The cycle of life, with its constant shifts from the yellow of spring, the pink of summer, the copper of autumn, to the ice blue of winter. So why do I burden myself with silly concerns which, at their core, are inconsequential? A day will come when an exhalation won’t be followed by an inhalation. And in the stillness of the moment, I was grateful to take in the cold, clean air.

Isn’t winter symbolic of ageing? The latter part of the seasons and the elder years. Perhaps, it’s inevitable when one adds another year to life that thoughts move towards one’s own personal winter. The lines on my face have deepened, and my body has settled into manoeuvring at a slower pace. I have lived my Spring, Summer and Autumn; now I have landed in the cold, dark season of winter, and it is certainly chilly. In this vast universe, I have no idea when my winter will end—only God knows, but until that time, I aim to make everyday matter.

I am reminded that, despite the bleakness of the landscape which surrounds me, there is light. The soft glow of twinkling lights which adorn homes, shops and trees casts an enchanting atmosphere that always transports me to another world—a place where time slows down and every moment feels magical. The air is filled with the scent of mulled wine and cinnamon spice. I dislike December, but I equally love it.

I observed a solitary beech tree in the distance. It is not barren; it is holding on to its leaves despite it being December. Its fierce grasp on life gave me a moment of pause. I can relate to it. Isn’t it wonderful, I thought, how nature can speak its wisdom into one’s life if only we can free ourselves from the mad dash of living and surviving.

Since coming to Achill Island, I have stepped into a season of reflection in the hope for renewal. Maybe it’s part of the human condition, a time when old age is lived with a remembrance of life gone by, when days of old are more than days ahead. 2024 was a challenging year of loss, and I totally needed time out, somewhere unfamiliar. In essence, somewhere with a new canvas waiting for brush strokes to create a picture. The canvas remains blank.

The dankness seeped into my bones, and I took a few steps back towards Timmy. His coat is a patchwork of whites and greys and dishevelled by the early morning downpour. His round chestnut eyes fixed on me as if to say, What’s up? “Nothing,” I said in a weary voice and then added, “Why, with a large dry field and shelter, are you happy to stand in the sodden spot in the rain? Timmy, hardy and resilient to harsh environments said nothing, but I pondered that Timmy and I are not so unlike. Haven’t I landed in squelchy spots when I could have chosen more life-affirming areas?

So, what burdened me on that dreary skied afternoon? I had been looking into activities which I could participate in. A cheerful, white-haired woman told me about a walking group. Although I wasn’t particularly interested, before she moved on to mention another group, she added, “Oh, you have to use sticks for this walking group.”

My whole body tensed, and my mouth became tight. My initial reaction – irritation. There is no need for me to use sticks. As far as I am concerned, I am able in mind to make that decision for myself.

Seething inside, I bit my tongue, but it was her next comment which caused me to become rude-red. “I can’t be certain, but I think it’s an HSE mandate.”

Is it really? I mumbled beneath my breath then smiled, pushing my infuriation down into the pit of my stomach.

As I walked home, any resentment I was retaining was taken out on the stony path. Ah, the experts. Experts often claim authority and influence policy based on academic data, and before you know it becomes set in stone. On social media, government ministers seem to address their children—not citizens—about what’s best for us. So, is it best for me to walk with a stick despite being physically able, and I must add it is not as though any of the walks are undertaken on tough terrain. In the wisdom of a so-called expert, I am lumped into a homogenous mass of over-60s who are all physically unable to walk.

But here is the rub, any disagreement on my part opens the door to me being labelled as some deviant woman, in essence someone who just wants to rock the boat or worse, showing off. I have no issue with anyone, young or old, who uses a stick. Why would I? My point is I want to age in my way, and at present, I certainly have no need for sticks, and I am certain that I am not alone in my thinking. I am not fearful of ageing, but rather society’s expectations.

My annoyance softened when, from the corner of my eye, I spied a heron; the sight was like a soothing balm, and my breathing slowed. She demonstrated seamless integration with the river, exhibiting a composed and solitary presence that underscored her graceful isolation. “Oh, heron, I admire your patience.”

I am not suggesting that because I don’t need sticks that I am able to attempt some adventurous endeavour like climbing Mount Everest. Certainly not, I find this applause to someone who has years on them and does something considered out of the ordinary patronising. I am merely asking – stop and discern the person on their own ability.

There are times when I receive too much interest in my style. I am acquainted with a barbed comment or two, maybe three. A whispered hiss about my fingerless gloves, the way I wear my beret, even the shade of nail polish. There’s always the probing question to justify my reason. There is only ever one answer, and it is “because I want to.”

Let me give you an example: some years ago, on a blue-sky summer day, I put a temporary tattoo on my shoulder. I was feeling joyful. As it was Tuesday, I made my way to attend a women’s group. I was looking forward to a cup of tea and a chat. However, about ten minutes into the group, my tattoo was noticed, and it developed into a lengthy conversation. My shoulders became hunched, and slowly, minute by minute, I slid down, down, down into the chair. A tsunami of comments was launched towards me, their words merging into an undecipherable clatter. I am introverted, and I don’t like being the centre of attention. Please don’t suggest that I should slip into a t-shirt and jeans. I love colour, it’s part of my creative inner landscape. Besides, life is too short for explanations over clothes.

The clouds turned slate grey, and the soft pitter-patter turned into heavy darts. Waves crashed with deafening energy against the rocks, forcing plumes of white spray high into the air. “What does it matter?” I shout,” It’s not easy letting go.”

When one does not quite fit with the status quo, it can be lonely. I yearn for acceptance to be seen without the focus on my style and interests. But as I stood at the little quay, it came to me that maybe the season of winter is inevitably lonely.

But the rain, now thick and heavy on my head and shoulders, wakes me: December is Christmas. Thus, December is full of light. I revel in the anticipation and excitement, the Christmas trees, the carols, even the mince pies and hot scrumptious chocolate. It is indeed a time of celebration, and it is at Christmas that I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the birth of Jesus. And as I stood with fingers and toes chilled, I held onto the Christmas gift of hope.

Until next time.

Westport

Recalling November’s Cross-Country

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There is something about November which seems to lull me to memory. When the days shorten and the sun courses low, I am permitted to pause.  Here on Achill Island, I am wrapped in the silence of the night closing in.  I am sitting at the window looking out at the darkness. In the distance, I can see a few flickering spotlights, but nothing else.  The night allows me to wander into the labyrinth of my olden days, and such memories have shaped who I am.

November was the month of the dreaded cross-country running.  Back in the days of secondary school, our P.E. teachers took great pleasure in forcing us girls to sprint on the open-air area known as The Moss. The Moss had a natural terrain of grass, mud, dirt, and in November, all things decaying underneath.  I was never a runner; my footsteps could only be described as sluggish, as I staggered over branches torn by the wind from the trees.

Upon reflection, winters seemed colder than today, but perhaps nostalgia has coloured my midwinter memories.  My bygone days are cosy and warm, hot velvet chocolate topped with silky cream, slippery sliding on thin ribbon-like sheets of ice that went on forever. The bumps and bruises are forgotten.

However, the memory of November cross-country running is fixed.  It’s cold and uninviting. The recollection of me, a mere fourteen-year-old, puffing and panting on heavy earth often covered with a thin mantle of frost, still disturbs me.   T-shirts and shorts in a sickly shade of brown designed for further embarrassment were the order of the day.  Cross-country running helped build character, a view espoused by the sergeant majors, oops, I mean to write our teachers, an obvious Freudian slip, and if they hold onto that belief, it surely must be true, but for an uninterested teenage girl, it was torture. Anything that could be likened to attributes of weakness was removed from us, and nothing better than cross-country to achieve it.

If truth be known, I didn’t care if I was labelled a cissy. Not one bit. By year 3, everyone knew I was hopeless at sport, and the only people who mocked me were the PE teachers.  I accepted without fuss that I would be one of the last chosen for team sports, but I felt embraced for my other abilities, like my unique sense of style. So, I was always the last girl to enter the gym block, and the first girl to exit, but on the other hand, I was the first girl to have my transistor radio ready for Alan Freeman and the Tuesday charts. Obviously, I had my priorities right.   

I dreaded all sports, but cross-country was my worst nightmare. I would saunter along the damp, dead leaves to the place of torment.  “Come on, Rae,” my schoolmate Mary would coax as she clipped ahead of me to the starting line.   Mary O’Hara, bright, breezy, with the agile physique of a gazelle.  Oh, how I hated her enthusiasm. She would never understand my agony of soggy socks and fractured nails.

Our P.E teachers were harsh and wise; they planned the route with such exactness that no one could cheat by taking a sneaky diversion.  They also conceived that the route included the steep upward gradient at the end of the course, and I must assert that because cross-country always fell on a double period, we had to run this course not once but twice.  The one question I always wanted to ask – why winter?  Surely, cross-country could be run during the summer, at least the nipping blast of winter wouldn’t ice us over, but upon reflection, I would still have hated it.

By the end of October, the thought of skipping P.E. always came to mind, but I couldn’t skip class for four weeks without bringing attention to my absence. So, for three weeks out of four, I had no option but to face ninety minutes of relentless suffering.  

There is one day that I shall never forget. It was a grey, showery type of morning. The Moss was one giant puddle. Even the bushes complained about the raw wind that stole one’s breath that morning. As usual, I was at the tail end.  Bit by bit, I chugged forward on the lumpy, sodden ground, pushing through the white mist. The course attacked my core and my resolve to continue.   My whole body was blue with the cold. I am not ashamed to admit that I wanted to cry.  With every step, my mood became increasingly sombre but after what seemed an age, I saw the finishing line ahead.   I spied a crowd of girls over the line, and they were waiting for me, the exhausted straggler. I could hear the bellowing tone of our head P.E teacher shouting, “Come on, girls, get a move on, we haven’t got till Christmas.”

I had an ally in a girl called June Fletcher, who was petite and blonde with Bambi-like eyes.  She, like me, despised P.E. and we became kindred spirits bonded by our mutual torment. Breathless and sore, we both came to a gully, which babbled and bubbled over granite rocks. It offered us the choice of running through it or jumping over it.  Neither choice thrilled us. We fixed our gaze upon each other and made the decision that we would jump; after all, we had both made it safely over in the first lap.  

Unfortunately for us, we both lost our footing, twisting and coiling, we curled awkwardly into balls and flopped headfirst into the ice-cold water. The gnarling thorns scratched the skin on my elbows and knees, and my newly feathered hair got tangled in the barbed briars.  June had sustained a deep gash on her knee from the rocks.  My shrieks split the icy air. Then realisation hit hard, I was covered in what I can only describe as a thick paste of slime.  

I was cold, weary, and angry. Breath by breath, half step by half step, I traipsed deeper into the winter wind back to school. I could see that June desperately required some medical intervention.  Her face, gaunt and phantom white.  No real words of concern were offered other than, “You’d best get along to the nurse.” Another girl and I assisted June by giving her our shoulders for support. There are times when silence speaks more than words, and this was indeed one of those times.  June’s moist eyes betrayed the smile on her face. Unlike me, she felt great shame that she, in her own words, ‘was hopeless at sport.” 

As we stepped through the gates, a mass of amused eyes fixed on us. We were two zombie-like figures who looked like we had risen straight from the deepest abyss. My body shuddered at the cold as ice-cold darts numbed me. I hoped that the showers would be warm rather than their usual tepid cold.   My wounds were overall superficial, but of course, I would still have to go to the nurse.   Later in the day, June hobbled into double maths; her knee required stitches. Double P.E and double maths on the same day, no wonder I require therapy.

In my view, cross-country is primarily intended to reinforce social conditioning and to shape individuals in ways deemed suitable for good character.  I think it totally missed the mark with me.  In my case, cross-country made me better at making excuses to avoid it. If cheating were possible, I would have certainly done it—there’s nothing admirable about that.  I fully understand that fitness is essential to well-being, but I would have to add that by no stretch of the imagination was I unfit. I was a willing pupil at my weekly dance classes, and I was rather cool on roller skates.

It’s so easy to have the ebbing and flowing of thoughts here in Achill; a thought flutters into my mind, and then another.  The moon is showing, and the rain is pounding the greying landscape. Living in a caravan at the foot of a marsh certainly has its challenges, especially in winter. 

If I want clean clothes, which I do, I must travel twice a week to Westport for my laundry, approximately fifty miles each way.  Now that’s a bit of a chore. The wind is knocking into my caravan. She’s loud, and one can’t help but notice her wails. Achill is different; the island captures imagination, and it’s easy to feel that one is inhabiting a time before time.  

Perhaps, without realising, dwindling along on The Moss actually did shape my character.  What I considered agony at the time lay the germinated roots for my character of today.  Perhaps my self-resilience and strategic thinking harken back to that brooding moor.

Yet, my story still contains sadness.  My memory of The Moss is of a miserable landscape.  It was only at a later stage that I began to see the beauty that lay in The Moss.  Somewhere in the middle stands an old silver Beech tree, which often resembles an old woman in a shawl, her branch-like arms holding onto its dried copper-coloured leaves till Spring. And if I weren’t too weary, I would have heard her cheering me on as I passed.

Outside, despite the wind, all is quiet.  Now my thoughts are drowsy.  I will go to my bed and rid my mind of them and wait for sleep to take me. 

Until next time.

Names have been changed for confidentiality and privacy.

A Wind Unlike Any Other

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The road to Clew Bay

It was 6.30am in the morning and the landscape was blu-ing with cold. It was the third day of Samhain, and I was standing outside on the rugged ground looking out towards the mist dancing on Clew Bay.  The wind moaned; it was a cold Monday morning, the beginning of the first week of Samhain. Everything is entitled to moan on a cold November Monday.  The clash of fading Autumn leaves tumbling off the trees, falling onto a soggy path, made me pause – a moment of wonder I valued.  

The robins are awake and are transmitting little staccato notes of surprise before offering their first tentative trills to the greying sky. 

I turned my gaze around, and for a moment I was lost in the sight of my white lace curtains, window chimes, and hanging baskets.  It may only be a mobile home, but it is home, and I was happy. 

Much to my astonishment, I was approaching my eleventh month in Achill Island.  I just couldn’t quite believe that something which I thought would be temporary had extended into another winter.   

Despite a wind that never ceases to wail like a banshee with fury on her, and driving, darting rain, the weather brings life to my bones. There’s a wind on this island unlike any other in Ireland, and since I have lived in several places and travelled extensively, I can say that with a modicum of confidence.

My early morning routine includes 100 skips before breakfast, and as I skipped the rich, fragrant, dampness of the landscape, teased my nostrils.  I want to keep the memory of it somewhere safe in my mind for the day when I must move on. The thought caused my feet to become tangled in the rope, but I elbowed the thought away and carried on skipping. For now, I can’t bear to think about the future.  One day at a time, isn’t that what I tell myself? However, I am resigned that nothing lasts forever, and moving on is inevitable.

It was Monday, and Monday mornings are my Better Balance classes in Achill Sound. For someone who trained in dance, my balancing ability is almost non-existent. I made my way into my mobile home to prepare breakfast.   There’s something heartwarming about breakfast in a mobile home.  Perhaps it’s the wide panoramic windows that allow one to be privy to the ever-changing seasons and raw nature. There was the sound of tapping on the window, and it became a heavy pitter-patter. Its rhythm whispered,’all will be well.’ There’s no fast pace here in Achill. In the way we live, our pursuit of progress has disrupted the natural human pace, but with a thankful heart, I have withdrawn from all that.

I clasped two pears and a banana from my fruit bowl and blended them with some strawberry ‘Actimel’ and natural yogurt.  Breakfast is a large bowl of porridge with a substantial dash of salt.  To this day, I can’t get used to sweet porridge. It’s nothing but salt for me.  

As I sat watching the sheep cozying up to each other under a cluster of trees to shelter from the rain, my lips curled into a smile. The sheep always bring a special joy; the sight of their scattiness uplifts my heart. I have reconciled to the fact that when one has sheep for neighbours, flowers in planters outside my home is not an option. The flowers make a scrumptious breakfast for them.

I have arrived at nearly ‘slow’. It’s taken considerable time, but my destination to fully slow is getting closer by the day.

I have always been slow; it is a large part of who I am.  However, society pushes for a fast pace on us; for example, the skill of thinking on one’s feet is upheld as something worthy to have.  Unfortunately, I have never had that skill; my words always seem to come out strangled when I speak.  It is a different story when I write; then I can take time to ponder, and I can take as much time as is required.  A valued skill when one takes a written exam.  I don’t burn bright, I burn slow.

Society has conditioned many to believe that slow denotes limited intelligence, and one does not have a clue about what they are doing, and may require help. There have been several occasions when I must use the self-service machine in the bank in my nearest town, which is approximately fifty kilometres away.   I often get the impression when using the machine that, due to operating at a slow Achill speed, I must be having a problem with it. Ah! Such is life.

It is fair to say that someone with my type of personality trait needs time to mull over concepts, and that is why I am not good at asking questions directly after a presentation. It is not because I am shy and feel inhibited about asking questions. That is certainly not the case.  I need time to join the dots to create an overall picture.

It seems that there’s a part of a deeper instinct in modern life that requires everything to be explained and then labelled if necessary.  We talk in theories, systems, mechanisms, and motivations. There’s a standard that people ought to attain to be considered ‘normal.’ Oh, how the word normal grates? I suspect that somewhere in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, there may well be a listing that describes me. However, I do not accept labels, as our society is often too quick to impose definitions or conditions on individuals.   God has made so many different shades of people, just like He has made so many diverse colours in flowers.

I’m not a team outlier; I participate fully, but fast-paced discussions can overwhelm me. This used to cause me significant stress and, of course, affected my well-being. Putting yourself out there is tough for some of us, and not everyone is naturally outgoing. I would maintain that flaws are the currency of being human. Perfection is boring. How can one so slow survive in a world that is so fast without becoming drained?

The twelve months of 2024 were long and weary, so much so that my face became lined and my shoulders stooped low.  I can’t pinpoint when I lost the essence of the real me, but by the end of the year, I was ill, and when I ventured out, I wore a mask, but no longer.

As I write, I am looking out towards the winter sun sparkling on the rain-soaked leaves, a sight much better than fairy lights.   For the first time in what seems a considerable time, I have peace.  A canopy of raven black is covering the landscape, and rather than having to turn on the lights to keep working, I can now retire into the easy pace of the evening.  Perhaps I will have an early night, switch off my computer, and read a book. 

Until next time.

A wet Achill Sound

The Wheel Of The Year Is Turning

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Achill Sound

The wheel of the year is speeding towards Samhain, the season of remembrance. November is one of my favourite months, perhaps it’s because when the days shorten and the sun courses low, it allows for reflection and renewal. Memories; the place where my bygone days gather always gives me an invitation to visit at this time of year.

I have always preferred the scents of Spring and Autumn.   I must confess that I don’t like heatwaves at all. Yes, I admit, I am holding my hands up to admit that I am one of those annoying moaning persons when there is too much sun.  At this point I would have to say that it is my opinion that seasons have changed since I was a child. I did like summer as a child but they were less scorching.  I will expand on this in a later post but for now I am reminded of the annual end of October occurrence, the visit to the shoe shop.

October always prompts me to the memory of getting new winter boots. As a child I much preferred boots to shoes. My favourite boots were what I would describe as tufty boots, they were beige, fake fur line and tied up at the front.  Boots allowed better freedom for climbing and a favourite winter pastime – sliding. My tufty boots had the perfect soles for sliding. The latter two weeks in October pavements were more than often dusted with frost. It was also the time when the greengrocer had an abundance of fruit, and my grandmother would bake my favourite treacle scones. A batch of which would be sent over to us.  Oh! the memories of those long frozen slideways of November.  One by one, us children would line up, then tear down a long thin stretch of ice. Of course, there were scraped cheeks, limbs and unfortunately the occasional broken bone. I was fortunate, my only injuries were on my hands, I disliked gloves, but I was always padded up in a hat, coat and boots.  However, we were brave, and no scrape stopped us from having winter fun.  Until that is, some adult, would spoil our fun by destroying our slide by throwing salt on to melt the ice.   

Ah! back to the present, enough of wandering down memory lane. Wisdom would suggest that residing in a rural area necessitates timely preparation for the winter season.

So, with that in mind I went to Achill Sound earlier today, to buy some provisions to store.  Some of the items that I like to keep in storage include lentils, pasta, flour, suet, powdered milk, and although I don’t usually use instant potatoes, I’ve bought some to have on hand just in case. I also purchased tea bags to get through long, tough nights without power. With tea bags I can cope with the long nights at home. I also have books ready in case stormy weather knocks out my WiFi.

Achill Sound is a small town; smaller than many villages I’ve been to, but you can get most of what you need.  The nearest towns are Westport and the county capital Castlebar.   I do not miss living near a large town at all.   I have discovered keeping my shopping simple has allowed me to be far more creative in my cooking and I save money because I have learned to buy only what I need. Nowadays, I always have a pot of soup on my stove, and I love experimenting with different vegetables and ingredients.  My latest creation which is bubbling away on the stove is Cauliflower and Onion. It is so simple to make and very tasty, especially with a slice or two of garlic bread. 

I’ve noted that I will need to order more oil for heating. I certainly don’t want to be sitting with no heat bluing with cold. Brrr, No!   I have also just bought a hi viz vest for walking to the bus stop in the dark and have got easy access to items such as candles, a torch and matches. I have also treated myself to an electric blanket, ah the comforting thoughts of warm nights in bed, listening to the pitter patter of the rain on my windows – lovely.

As my life is simply ordinary there is nothing more but to write about the mundane things. However, I value my life style despite it may be classed as boring. I may be boring, but if so I don’t care. I enjoy my simple life. I have peace. Currently, I spend most of my time working on my comic.  Unfortunately, I have had to revisit my comic, so it is taken longer than I originally thought.  I will go into the reasons further in my next post.

Thus, it is just another day on Achill Island.

Until next time.

In the tea room in the Gift Shop

Clunky Boot Footsteps By The Luggie

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Photo by Charles Keay, Luggie Watch, Facebook.

My eyes gazed towards the broody sky; I sensed a storm coming.   I waited for my hot steamy bowl of cauliflower and spring onion soup with crisp earthy bread.  I am rather fond of soup for lunch, I suppose it yearns back to the reminiscences I have of my grandmother who always had a pot on the boil. Carrots, turnips, radish, onion and other vegetables fresh from the garden would tease my nostrils every time I visited her. Perhaps, the memory of soup is a constant, a sense of comfort in my otherwise uncertain world. 

It was the sound of a notification that drew my eyes to my phone and then in the blink of an eye I was transported away from the hustle and bustle of the restaurant to a liminal state. The place where my bygone days gather. 

A photo by Charles Keay posted on ‘Luggie Watch’ on Facebook, caused me to pause. It was a photo showing a path which aligns the River Luggie in Scotland.  A salty tear slips from my eye.  My footprints are etched on that path. It was the path that I sauntered to school with my clunky boots, duffle coat, my military style school satchel flapping in motion.  It was also the path that led me to ‘The Record Den’ where I would become penniless after spending money on the latest chart-topping single.  The Record Den was an Aladdin’s Cave filled with posters, magazines and badges. It was a community hub for young people. Oh! how I loved rummaging through the neatly stacked albums, choosing one and then going into a booth to listen to a track.  I am so grateful that I am of the vinyl generation, downloads don’t really have the same sense of amazement.  The mere beauty in an album cover and the anticipation of evenings listening to good songs.

For the first time in my life homesickness came upon me.  A sharp scorching burn hit my heart and a salty tear slid down my cheek.  I was unsure how to deal with this bizarre feeling; I had never experienced the deep sense of longing for home. I wanted to dissolve into the photo and be transported back to the path.

As is the way of things, life moves on and waits for no one. In my case time has sped by and has done so without being breathless.  And now it’s nearly fifty years since I, the girl with feathered hair, strolled along that path and amid the chatterings of the café. I felt that I was a relic of the past.

Oh what a blessing to have freedom with very little conditions.  I never ran feral, there were some as there should be for a minor. For example, I had to be home for a certain time, dependent on whether it was summer or winter, and I had to be in school for 9 am – sharp.   However, despite leaving with ample time to spare, there were occasions when I was late for school. I was a dreamy child, and I liked nothing better than slowly meandering on that path with my imagination lost in the world around me. I believe walking that simple path taught me independence and responsibility. And by the way, I soon learned that each action had a consequence, and dilly dallying was best not done on a school morning.

In the Autumn I marveled at the stunning golds and browns of leaves in their last moments of life, straddled on the ground. After an embarrassing slip I learned to be careful as much as I could hobbling on two-inch platforms. Beautiful as those leaves were, they were slippery when soggy.   

As I sipped my soup, I recalled the winter chill, the tip of my nose ice cold. It was time for scarves and gloves in bold shades, rather than the boring navy of regulation school uniform. More than often, in winter I took the bus with my friends.  However, despite the cold there was something enchanting about walking the path when it was dusted with frost and there were occasions when I decided to walk.  I loved my solitary strolls along the path my eyes observing the barren branches and frosted landscape. Oh! the freshness in the crisp cold air that settled in my nostrils, informing me of the approach of my favourite time of year Christmas. Then of course, a few months later, the heart-wrenching beauty in witnessing the arrival of the humble milk white snowdrop, the bringer of hope that Spring is nearing.  

It is said in sociological circles that our environment has a big impact on who we become, and I would certainly espouse that. I had an abundance of nature around me, and I had freedom to embrace and enjoy it and it has to be said that I was shaped by it.  There was so much experiential learning to be gained farther than the official channels of education especially for someone like me who faced academic challenges.

As I sat rekindling the memories in that photograph my mind jumped back to summer days in The Campsie Fells. Little by little a smile budded my face, a good memory burst into my mind. Strange how those memories are always played out in the sun. Away back in my childhood days like many children I hung around with a small group of neighbourhood kids. Catherine and myself took on the role of elders we earnestly took it upon ourselves to mind Margaret, the youngest of the group.

Easter was a special occasion for us. We would leave early morning for our annual picnic. An Easter Egg, a couple of sandwiches, a bottle of ‘ginger’ and a bundle of cheap penny sweets shared between us cemented the tribe into family. Buying those sweets were an exercise in itself. We pooled our mone y and then we had to make a choice. “I don’t like liquorice laces” “I want ginger tools” I want toffee” “I don’t like black jacks “but we always managed a good compromise without anyone having a huff.

I am saddened that freedom has been curtailed because our present day society has become less safe. As I write I wonder how safe the path is to walk now!   

I would be uncomfortable growing up in what I call ‘locked in’ culture.  It is my term for a life that is spent restricted, perhaps hours spent wired on one’s phone or computer with very little time spent in nature enjoying spontaneous activities.  A ten-year-old child would be in the care of the Social Work Department if they imitated what I did in my childhood.  

Major societal change has occurred since my childhood and it involves a measure of shifting where that which might once have been considered appropriate, gradually becomes unwise. Protective measures began to occur and then switches are pulled and soon a simple walk by the river becomes something one must think about.

Nowadays, most children are dropped off at school, and extra-curricular activities are more than often planned rather than the spontaneous fun I had.  I certainly would not have been a happy bunny if any one of my parents dropped me off at my dance class. I would rather the ground open up and swallow me whole than die of a ‘riddy’ (embarrassment).

I fully understand the concern; I get it. I have a five-year-old grandson in California, and I share similar worries regarding his safety in school.  The gun safety drills must allow for some form of caution to seep into his mind. Yet another thing for someone to be alert to. Madness.

Modernity has certainly not gone on plan; I would actually state that it has been a huge failure.  We live in age of distrust. We are wary of our neighbours and that is if we at least know them.

Surely, a lived experience in the arena of scraped elbows and knees from endless trails in nature differs from that of someone who spends endless time at home on their computer. Of course, there are memories made in all generations, but I wonder about the new social cues that taken on by being corralled into an online pen. I suppose I was conditioned to accept that one could navigate life by walking alone it could be said that it shaped my emotional intelligence and how I relate to myself and others. A fall from a swing teaches that life has rough edges. It teaches one to think before embarking on a course of action. We can’t live life wrapped up in a fluffy blanket and as we are all aware online danger lurks.

My article is not intended to be a full lament of freedom lost, because there are some aspects of today I like. Perhaps, at risk of sounding like someone with a tin foil hat, maybe in the eyes of those in power restriction has always been the goal. It is easier to control when society is restricted. In other words a well thought out plan preparing us for a brave new tech world.

So sit back and enjoy Slade.

Until next time.

You! Ginger Rogers – Off

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I recall that the sun smiled upon the town away back in May 1970. The main street was awash of baskets and planters of yellows, whites and shades of light blue. My eyes glanced towards MacKenzie the Bakers where all sorts of delicious delights tempted one’s taste buds – apple and cream turnovers, cream cookies, raspberry pyramids, oh the choice.  Perhaps it’s nostalgia but it is my opinion that cakes were tastier back then.

A line of school age teenagers had assembled at the bus stop, and I was anticipating the arrival of my friends, marked by the sound of their approaching footsteps. I was seated at my customary spot, upstairs near the rear of the vehicle, commonly referred to as the “shougley bus,” bound for Twechar.

Soon my friends surrounded me, and as soon as they and I greeted one another it was the custom to jump into all things that were important to us girls in their first year of secondary school.   At this point I have to say that I was at a different school to my friends. I shall go into the reason why at a later stage.  Anyway, the top deck of the bus was full of teenagers in brown and blue uniform delighted that school for the day had finished. We were going home.

It was dance class that cemented my friendship with Megsey, we had been close since the beginning of primary school, and then her schoolmates became my friends.    I recall that Megsey was just about to bring out her copy of Jackie, the premier teenage magazine of the day when the words ‘There she stood in the street’ burst into the airwaves.

It was a WOW moment.  It was the first time that I heard the song ‘All Right Now’ by Free.  The song which propelled me into rock music.   Well, I kid you not, as soon as I heard it, I bounced up onto my feet.  I was mesmerized by the song and in a blink of an eye I was on the top deck of that bus, my arms in the air slip sliding and side stepping away. Well, much to my astonishment, by the mere act of dancing, this ignited the whole top deck into song. For a moment happiness was right there on the top deck.  

However, away back then every bus had a conductor onboard and putting it mildly he was not a happy bunny. I was commanded to get off, and there was no opportunity to plead my case.  It was a loud, ‘you, Ginger Rogers – off’.

So off I went wondering what had I really done wrong. I would have moved back to my seat. I was in no way going to argue my case, citing that it was rather unfair that my few moments of dance was viewed through a deviant lens.  Upon glancing towards his snarling facial gesture, the best option was to get off. However, I have to add, that the one positive aspect was that my friends, all in solidarity accompanied me off the bus.

Many of you will probably cite that my actions were nothing more than mere trouble making. In essence, it is not appropriate behaviour to dance on a bus and indeed you may well be correct. If you fall into this belief, may I take a moment to defend myself. 

I was the ‘Rockin Roll Baby’ highlighted in the song of the same name by The Stylistics.  Although instead of singing at the age of two I danced.   Dance was a means of expressing and telling stories. For me it’s a way of communicating deep feelings. In difficult times I often found a quiet place to dig deep into my emotional dilemmas and concerns. I believe it is innate in my personality.   I used to spend quite a bit of time enacting my own choreography, honing perfect steps such as step heel, step heel, dig tap, then maybe a brush.   Music always made me throw caution at the wind, compelling me to dance. Sadly, it wasn’t the first time I got myself into bother because music with its beats and rhythms seduced me to dance.

My friends and I giggled our way home and the whole experience was soon forgotten except in those moments when one is required to tell a funny story.  Strange as it may be, sometimes life is serendipitous and this proved to be the case in May 1970.  I had been asked by my dance teacher to source a song for my solo dance for the end of term Dancing Display.  Time was running out and I just couldn’t find a song to dance to. My dance teacher cautioned me that if I didn’t have a song by the coming weekend she would pick one for me.   Surely, I told myself, ‘All Right Now’ would be a perfect tune to dance to. 

Joy was upon me as I rushed into my Saturday afternoon dance class.  I handed the tape recording of my song to my dance teacher. No Spotify or YouTube accessible by phone back then. I had to play the single on a record player and record it onto a tape recorder. Unfortunately, the song did not give my dance teacher joy.  She turned towards me with over-arched eyebrows, shook her head, left and right and mouthed ‘no’. 

So, to bring this post to a conclusion, at the end of June I did my solo dance but as she warned, with a song of her choosing.  And no I don’t want to tell you what song it was. That shall remain a secret. However, I will give you a clue, it was rather sugary and saccharine. Not a good choice for someone who thought she was ‘ kool’. In hindsight I was really a girl without a clue.

Until next time. 

Moving On From Noisiness

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Before I arrived in Achill Island my impression of bogland would have been boring, dull and mundane.  In essence, nothing to see.  Much to my surprise I discovered that there was indeed attractiveness in the bog.  Umber brown, fuchsia pink, taupe, the colours were certainly a feast for my eyes.

The word bog comes from the Irish word soft like the saying ‘tóg go bog é’ – take it softly or easy.  A reminder to trust myself to soft self-care. 

I decided as my boots slapped on the pathway that I wanted to find out more about this strange landscape of water infilled with soft, soggy sphagnum mosses. So, by the end of the first week, I ventured out and explored the raw and untamed landscape around me. Despite the brightness in the day there was a chill in the air which nipped my nose. I felt alive.

The first thing my body noted was the quietness in the air which soothed my tight knotted bones. There was no head-pounding beat of loud music from an anti-social and selfish neighbour stressing me out.  I recalled long nights with little sleep as I lay in bed tortured by my neighbour’s self-centeredness.  A set of headphones would have made all the difference, but my neighbour carried on regardless without any concern of me. As I sauntered, I could sense my anger towards him in my clamped tight lips, forehead and chest.

I turned my gaze to the sky and whispered ‘Thank you God’ relieved that those days were firmly in the past. 

Strange as it may seem as I strolled along the path which curved the bog, I sensed I was not alone.  Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight, but my eyes took in long willowy shadowy figures. I have to say at this point that the attractiveness in the bog was more than aesthetic, there was beauty simply in its ancientness. There was something in the bog that warmed my heart, maybe knowing that people had harvested turf from the wet and stagnant landscape for centuries.  Perhaps, there was something quintessentially Irish that touched my heart and now I was part of its story rooted in place.  I can’t truly explain why the sight of Peatland gave me comfort; all I can say is that it did and it was at that point that I noted the heavy burden of anger which bore me down had vanished.

Each step brought me to the realization that I had made the right choice of Achill.  I also had the option of a cabin in Donegal, and for several weeks it was at the fore of my initial intention, but as time moved on  I began to favour Achill because it was an island, and I had never stepped foot in it.

I became intrigued by the plants that make their home in the bogs. I learned about Sundew, a small insect eating plant which has glistening sticky, red-tipped tentacles which insects mistake for a tempting droplet of nectar. Unfortunately, once the insect lands they are stuck and over the course of a few days the plants secrete digestive enzymes to consume its captive catch.  

It is indeed a blessing to be bordered by wild things.  As I write I am surrounded by bird song and the sky is speckled by swallows, goldfinches and blue tits. The clumps of moss at my doorstep reveal their perfectly geometric design when I stop and look.  My biorhythm is slowing, and I appreciate the value of pausing rather than the mad dash of modern life. The rhythm here lends itself to slowness and I for one appreciate that.

I discovered that bogs once were considered sacred places where water, earth and sky merged, and where the veil was thin.  The bog also signposted me to an old Irish tale which now I am working on.  Achill has inspired and introduced me to new stories. No longer weary from the pain of loudness and speed I have time to take in the stories the stories here.  And what is the story I hear you ask?   All I can say is that it is a tale of a King sacrificed into the watery bog.  Dear reader, I shall certainly spin the tale shortly when I figure out the details. 

It appears that my ‘wintering’ period has ended, but I have decided to remain for the summer.  I am uncertain what will happen when my lease terminates but that is a concern for another day.

Until Next Time.

No Other Voices

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Achill Sound

How did I cope with Storm Éowyn, my first night in my modular home?   Well, it’s an easy question to answer.    I slept right through it.   Tiredness had overtaken over my weary body and I have to say it was one of the best night’s sleeps of my life.  I felt snug in bed, and miles away from the cold outside world.   Every time I cross the Michael Davitt Bridge into Achill Sound I feel that I am stepping away from the outside world. It’s a wonderful feeling.  

I suppose I had been carrying a huge bundle of stress on my shoulders.  I loved living in the caravan that I had booked initially for three months.   However, due to electricity failings, I had to leave a month earlier than planned.  And there was huge concern about finding somewhere to rent. Ireland has a huge housing crisis. I did not want to face homelessness.  The thought of returning to West Cork filled me with a wearisome dread.  Despite loving West Cork, I was just too tired to travel, so  I made the decision to stay.   In addition, a lengthy period of being tormented by loud music in my previous residency and the constant screech of traffic had taken its toll on me.  In the comfort of my warm bed, I could release all the heaviness of noise and worry, which lulled me into dream time.

So here I am in magical Achill, well, for at least another six months.  I will concern myself with ‘what’s next’ when it comes nearer the time.  At the outset, there were a few challenges, one being that my location is remote.   I am at least ten kilometers from a shop, so lists have become a very important part of my day. Once I forgot tea bags, which, for a tea jenny, made the evening rather long and unenjoyable.   I am fortunate that there is a bus, but I am hoping to purchase a bike.  Achill has a greenway, which I desperately want to try out.

I have observed that there is an incessant hollering wind which never ceases, and as one resident told me, and which I attest to, it is the kind of wind which really gets under one’s skin.  I have never heard this type of wail, and one night it did actually sound like the wail of a banshee.   Not good news for someone whose surname starts with Mc.

However, as days morphed into weeks, I noticed the advantages of remote living.   I am surrounded by beautiful landscapes, wildlife, and there is very little modern noise pollution.   Slowness came into my life.  I had stepped off the conveyor belt of fast pace, fast pace, fast pace. It is a joy to have breakfast watching the birds pecking seeds from my bird feeder, and it has been most gratifying getting to know my two neighbouring ponies. I am beginning to learn to communicate with them without the need for words.  As I ambled along the mossy paths, I began to home in on the beauty found in the hedgerows despite it being winter. 

Solitude allowed my own thoughts to come to the fore.  No other voices were drowning them out. One evening, I finally came to the realization that crowds and noise affect me rather badly, and as I sat with this insight, tears began to slide down my face, which allowed me to say goodbye to that sense of inadequacy.    

In my thirties after I left the Isle of Arran for Glasgow there is a strong possibility I was misdiagnosed with agoraphobia.  Away back then I was shunted into a category with no real in-depth research into an accurate diagnosis.   I paid for private therapy but even then, it was assumed that I was agoraphobic. Perhaps being overwhelmed by loudness, disliking crowds and the inability to do anything with speed is not  a recognised disorder but whatever was ailing me then it caused misery as I had frequent anxiety attacks.  

Moreover in my youth the consequences of being ripped apart by contrasting noise and the effect of not keeping up caused great stress for me so much so that I totally gave up and left school early.   I shall go into this more at a later stage.   

Now there is a sense of relief as I have come to terms that it is just a part of my nature to require withdrawal space in quiet surroundings.  

In my early years I had a special tree by the river.  It was my haven, a place where I could escape the continual frenzy of modern noise pollution.   I would venture there at least once a week.   I loved watching the heron with the coal black eyes.   Perhaps that is the reason so many people like fishing.  Time by the river away from a world that is ever increasingly noisy.

At this point I have to say I was never physically or verbally bullied, but there was a message in the body language of my parents, teachers and perhaps some of my peers that there must be something wrong with me.  What is normal about wanting to spend time by the river or reading comics on one’s own especially after primary school level.  I had the blessing of two close friends with many fond memories of them.  So I was never thrust into total aloneness.

Nowadays, crowds and loud, contrasting noise are everywhere. It seems to me that we are being propelled to have large networks and thousands of followers.   I learned a few years ago that some publishing houses want to know Twitter handles, as X was known back then.  Large numbers of followers are viewed as a sign of success and can actually contribute to the acceptance of your work.  Influencers with millions of followers are held in high esteem, role models to be followed.  So where does that leave someone like me?    In one word – happy.

Sound bites reverberate everywhere, there are always messages declaring how to stay in vogue. The continual pursuit of something that we can never really attain because Vogue constantly changes its cloak.   

And as for social media, it is often a place of loud and angry words.  One cannot change the world by bawling.  Words written to make people feel less than, words to ridicule, words to blame and words to stroke one’s ego for a moment of puffed upness in the belief that one is totally right. Social media is a place of extremes culminating in a heap of documented evidence on you.  I am so very grateful that in my youth there was no such thing as a mobile phone.  Yes, I have cringe and embarrassing moments.  I was not a quiet, timid little girl.  Furthermore, respectful discourse seems to have walked out the door banging the door behind.  

I don’t have many connections, and by today’s standards I am certainly not popular.   I wouldn’t know how to do popular.   My nature makes me easily side-lined and I don’t expect special treatment to make people jump through hoops.  I wouldn’t like that anyway.  I am more comfortable observing, creating new stories.  So, I am happy to be navigating social situations in my way.  I excel in one to one conversations, well so I am told.   It must be said that I don’t really like those team building exercises whatsoever.  I leave exhausted.  Large amounts of money go into workplace psychology for companies to maximize their workforce for profit.   Narratives are created to assist the flow of capitalist endeavour so wouldn’t it be safe to say that large networks benefit organizations?  In the past, the categorization of people into racial groups allowed for slavery to be acceptable, so much so that it became woven into society, and very often those who opposed were deemed mad.   We must be aware of the part narratives play in our lives.  

Likely, there is now some scientific and/or medical term for individuals like me, and if so I think that this leaves a lot to be desired. This suggests that there are defined personality traits, and I would say surely there are a lot of complexities with regard to human nature. There is nothing disorderly about my personality.

In essence, living in Achill has allowed me to be my wonderfully ‘weird’ self.  I write that with a smile on my face, knowing my type of weird is good.  I have no ill-intentioned bone in my body wanting to cause harm.    

I have found a small pub where I can sip my tea and allow my eyes to wander outside without the background noise of a big screen, and despite loving music, it is lovely just to listen to the natural soundscape of pub life.   May I take a moment to add that once upon a time in the era of Fionn and his mighty warriors, hospitality was so important that there is a story of how a poet cursed a king because he failed to show warmth and kindness to him.  Well, back then, it was also considered a hospitality ‘no, no’ to have an alehouse without a storyteller.  Yes, I would be fine with that.

To be continued.

What’s Wrong With Day-Dreaming

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I was the girl who sat behind the desk, my eyes lost in the grand designs of clouds.  The wisps of white fluffy bewitched me. Landscapes of endless forests, dragons and white wolves seduced me to enter re-imagined worlds.  The clatter of a tossed duster would interrupt my wandering thoughts and brought me back to the moment.  There was to be no day-dreaming in class.

My days of mind wandering are not confined to childhood. I still day-dream.   At this stage in my life I have come to accept that is a part of my natural personality.  I am adamant that it is a personality mode and despite what people including some psychologists maintain, it is not merely a bad habit to modify nor an escape mechanism.

It is a need like eating and sleeping.   Yes, on many occasions I tried to refrain from entering my world of fantasy but it always ended up in failure.   

I believe day-dreaming offers an opportunity to disengage for a short period of time. I am unable to cope with the continual relay of words after words.  

From an early age I loved nothing more than to let my eyes wander through beautiful illustrations in books.  I was awe struck by the colour, the characters and the imagined world.  I preferred comic books to books although I did read quite a few of the classics.   I would sit for several hours reading one comic. 

Away back then I don’t think there was much awareness of the introvert personality.  If there were, well it certainly cruised over my teachers and parent’s heads.   Despite not being a quiet person, I felt pushed to participate in anything that would ‘get me out my shell’.  And don’t mention being a team player.

I often sensed deep concern for me in that it was unnatural to want to find a quiet place and be content in one’s own company.   I saw the relief in my mother when I enrolled at a local dance school.  She wasn’t aware that dance also fulfilled my love of re-imagined worlds.  Dance allowed me to tell stories through movement.  I liked nothing better than to feel and then express the emotions in the music.  

There seems to be this common narrative that a well adjusted person has to have a good network of people, enjoy socializing, and be gregarious.  In this capitalist world, we need to turn ourselves into a brand and then be productive in selling oneself to advance the career ladder.  I truly find this difficult and the thought of doing so totally phases me out.  

Moreover, I have to ask – How often, is the solitary person depicted as psychologically or socially inadequate and this can be seen in films and literary works. The question I ask – why has this narrative has taken hold in society what purpose does it serve.  From my viewpoint this completely clashes with the contrasting narrative of you are enough so it is important to be yourself and own your self-confidence.   If the latter is the case then it would appear I was confidently being myself in my younger years.

My younger self was never ever in a shell.  I admit I liked time alone but I had friends.   OK, I only had two very close friends who I met through our mutual love of dance but I had great conversation with different people in each class at school.   I just didn’t have the time to give what it takes to be a decent friend to more than two people.   The fact is that lengthy times in group settings drains me.  The noise is overwhelming and words get lost in each other resulting in nothing other than a hollow sounding din.

So let me take you back to 1970.  Imagine, if you can a sky slate grey and blasts of icy cold shards banging against the window.  The upper deck of the bus was dank and the smoke stuck in hair and eyebrows.  Now, imagine, the most wonderful thing; someone at the front with a radio and out comes a song. It captivates my whole being.  It lures me onto my feet the rhythm bewitches me. I am dancing. The song was All Right Now by Free.

There was no ill intention on my part whatsoever, I was happy despite the ‘dreich’ day lost in the song but the bus conductor grabbed me by the shoulder and tossed me off the bus as if I had committed some heinous act.   Dancing on the upper deck of a bus is not the action of someone who is in a shell.  

I could further enquire why dancing in public is frowned upon.  Why should we only boogie in a club or dance hall.   However, that’s a topic for another day if I feel so inclined.  Oh and for the record, I wasn’t causing a nuisance by leaping down the aisle, I remained in the back row.  

Unfortunately, due to being conditioned into  extroversion I foolishly tried to be the life and soul of the party. 

Of course, I failed miserably.  In doing so I ended up living a chaotic lifestyle for quite an extensive time.  Foolishly, I trapped myself in the clutches of people that sucked the life from me and maintaining such a persona gave mixed messages and I became ill.   In fact I ended up agoraphobic.

Moreover, the body language I  presented was rather hostile as I acted in a contrived manner.   I believe I lost a lot in the process.  I would have fared better if I allowed my natural personality to come through.   In my defence, I would have to say that even if the weird was implicated rather than said, it still played a negative factor upon my life. 

Now after a long rocky road I have eventually come into my own and I have chosen to live a quiet and simple life.  I still day-dream.  There are times when I feel somewhat saddened by the years I wasted. 

The narrative my parents, teachers and community placed over me was detrimental to my well-being. It seeped into my mind and in an attempt to resist I ended up all tangled up in ropes of wrong decisions.  Rather than encouraging me to go to art college, I was corralled into subjects that would get me a proper job.  Of course, I failed miserable and this consolidated me as being labeled  thick.   It was only in recent years that I managed to rip that label off.  

To be continued.

Thank You For Your Advice – But.

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Despite having arrived at my senior years of life, it has to be said that I still have people who feel the need to give me advice.  It is well-intentioned, they are concerned, and it’s for my benefit. of course.

However, I have become weary with their assumptions that my actions are not well thought out.  Perhaps my action triggers something deep within because from my viewpoint their advice is often cocooned with fear.  At this point, I would like to say that although my decisions may seem unwise, on every occasion I probe and strategize every aspect as much as it is feasible to do so.    

Often, it seems that the advice givers overlook that I am a grandmother, mother, four  time university graduate, with life experience.   I’ve courted divorce, relationship break-ups, self-employment, homelessness, abuse, violence, ill health and agoraphobia.   I unquestionably don’t want to cause further injury nor distress to myself so I am careful to consider good self-care strategies in everything.  I am not a silly little girl who blindly takes risks.  Perhaps I don’t want to surrender to age by quietly slipping into my cocoa but I am undeniably careful in the risk factors.  Nowadays, I have learned not to announce my intentions beforehand,  I believe it is the wisest thing to do.   It is certainly the path of the least stress.

I only told a couple of close friends that I was going to spend three months on Achill Island in Co. Mayo.  Achill Island lies on the north-west coast of Ireland. I did not mention to anyone but them that I was going to a place where I knew no-one and I was going to stay in a caravan by a blanket bog.  Furthermore I was going to do this in winter.  I fully understood the reactions that would blast my already tumultuous mind if I hadn’t restricted who I told.  

‘Are you mad’, ‘It’s not safe’,  ‘You can’t run away from problems.’  

All the familiar and negative clichés would come my way and would further weigh me down.  I already felt wretched.  I didn’t need further anguish.

When I made the decision to spend time in Achill Island, I was totally exhausted.  As an extreme introvert, an essential aspect of my well-being is peace and quiet.  Unfortunately, my neighbour who lived downstairs did not have the same view.  He liked to play his music until 5am and he liked to play it loud.  I was privy to this noise for over two years.   Day by day, I became more and more pitiful as my body ached for quiet moments just so I could function.   I became somewhat withdrawn, irritable and I eventually slumped into ill health.   No matter what action, my neighbour  continued to play his music.   It got to a stage where I put my hands up into the air and shouted.

‘That’s it.  I am gone.’

In many ways my initial decision to leave was like a bandage in the primary stage of injury designed only to stop the flow of blood.  There is a housing crisis here in Ireland, and it turned out that I could only find temporary accommodation for eight weeks.   Yes, drastic it would seem but the temporary accommodation had the one thing I craved – quietness.  But it posed the question where will I go after the eight weeks had come to closure.

So there I was in The Sheep’s Head, in West Cork, a place where I found solace from the thumping thuds of unwanted music.  As I journeyed the twelve minute walk to the bus stop each morning, the landscape whispered to my heart.  I felt free and it was then that I made the decision to spend some time away from the chattering sound-bytes of a society that won’t stop shouting. 

‘You should do this.’  ‘If I were you, I would …   …   …’

I desired space to spend time with my own thoughts.  It is such a shame that silence is in short supply in our fast pace modern age.   Indeed, I have heard that some people fear it and some people can’t sit by themselves in stillness.  Please note I am not making judgment here, but would like to express that society bombards us with so many types of competing noise and in our socialization  it has seeped into our psyche resulting in discomfort when one is faced without it.  

I am of the opinion that one needs silence and one needs boredom, it is there that ideas and creativity peculate.  This spell of silence and boredom is comparable to the season of winter.  The landscape may seem barren but underneath the soil, life is working to come into fruition.  It is like that with silence and boredom an idea starts to form, like shapes emerging in a landscape when the fog starts to fade.

Of course, as soon as I made my first cup of tea in my new winter abode, possibly rather rashly I made an announcement.   I proclaimed on Facebook that I was in Achill Island and I was living in a caravan.    My core group of Facebook friends were more than positive and encouraging.  However, I did receive a couple of messages from a few individuals who stated that they were concerned.  Then a week later, I made a short podcast of myself walking in the bog.   The podcast was inadvertently deceiving; in that it appeared that I was in situ in the middle of nowhere.  Yes my mobile home of that time was remote but there were a few houses further up the road.  I was alerted by the same people who had messaged earlier that they were afraid on my behalf.  In fact someone actually accused me of being totally mad.  

I have since moved to the edge of a village. I chose to stay in Achill and found a place that is so me. I am far enough away for peace and quiet.  

I am happy to say that  I survived my experience. Unfortunately, I had to cut my stay short because there were problems with the electrics but that only adds to the experience.

I have to say that it was certainly an invaluable experience, one which I certainly benefitted from.   It was physical and it was emotional; and it gave me the opportunity to untangle the knots which bound me and then reappraise.  I discovered that my identity was so wrapped up with productivity.  I’m not advocating laziness here, but simply that I lost sight of the fact that I am enough in myself and worthy without any endeavour.  In addition, I deceived myself by distraction in order to cloak past wounds that had festered in my heart.  In that tiny caravan I had the time and space to heal.  I can assure you that when one casts their eyes on the vastness of the night sky with its scattering of stars, a lonely bog nearby everything and I mean everything becomes insignificant. I was reminded of my immortality and it was in that mindset I decided that I was not going to waste valuable time holding on to the hurts of my past nor spend another moment concerned with what other people think.     

My confidence grew as each day passed.  I had no option but to rely on God.  There was no-one I could turn to but Him to assist with any challenge.  My tired body was reinforced by the silence bringing strength to my bones,  and my mind slowed down attuned to the natural rhythm of landscape.  

It was certainly the wisest action not to announce my plans to spend three months in a wilderness setting.   I can guarantee you that my head would be nipped by people telling me, that my plans were unwise.   Perhaps, I would have listened and I may have been swayed to stay in West Cork.

I am grateful that I made the decision to come to Achill Island.  I have a lovely cosy place in which it is a joy to be.   I have spent the time since I moved in resting, reading and watching some podcasts.   After all three moves since September 28 with storms and trying to navigate life without electricity spent a lot of my energy.  In addition to the tiredness gained by working through emotions which arise like swirling mist, in the process of  letting go the past hurts and betrayal. There is also the relief now removed from my fearful mind, in that I have actually found a shelter and sanctuary.

It is not the first time that I have had a tsunami of advice declaring that I am making the wrong decision and I don’t suppose it shall be the last.   I can  certainly say through the passing of  time that they were wrong and it would have definitely been a mistake to listen and change my plans.    

Twenty five years ago, I was advised not to move into Govanhill, an area of Glasgow because in their minds they considered it rough and run down.  I am so grateful that I ignored the naysayers because if I hadn’t I would not have had a fantastic three years living there which included being party to The Pool Occupation which culminated in me being commissioned to create a graphic story for a comic.  In addition to being part of The Irish Heritage Group and The Little Donegal Project.  I shall write more about this in a future blog post. 

Ten years ago, I was also advised by a couple of very vocal individuals that my Digital Arts in the Humanities Masters was ‘just  too much for me’ and I should drop out.  They believed my health would suffer if I continued.    I am also glad that I ignored their advice.   Yes, I admit, I struggled but in that struggle I achieved  a 2.1 grade in my masters.  It may not be the desired ‘First’ but I am rather proud of my achievement as it was my venture into topics that were akin to virgin territory.  I am more than happy that I learned to use Illustrator and this achievement alone sweetened my struggle.   And here is the rub if I had quit it would have been somewhat unlikely that I would be creating comics today.  

As I write I am sitting in my warm bed, cosy with my electric blanket and cup of tea beside me glancing through my window at the rain.  It’s rather comforting and there are moments when tears want to tumble down from my eyes.  Those tears are of joy and there’s  a deep gratitude in them that I no longer have to listen to noise, the belching shrieks of frenzied traffic and revelers leaving the pub in the wee small hours.   The landscape holds mystery and cradles stories and excitement is upon me because I wish to explore every nook and crannie of the wonders in this very interesting island that lies on the Wild Atlantic.  

Until next time.