Tag: life

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. 

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.

Slow

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Noise, loud incessant unappealing to my ears choked the smile off my face. It did not soothe my soul. My weary body wretched by the stress of the frenzied beat of traffic, caused my face to tighten, deep wide lines surrounded my eyes.   Yet, I lived in a village, and one most definitely charming but one that has changed in recent years.  I lived in Main Street, the busy hub of everything and in this rather quaint village, there was little stillness to be found on this street.

I took my weary self away to a peninsula at the edge of the Wild Atlantic in Ireland.  I got the idea one day when I went for a cup of tea in one of the local pubs after I finished work.   As I sipped my tea, an idea bounced in my head.  “Why don’t I come here to spend some time to find out what I really want to do when I hit the big 66 of pension age.”

So here I am in The Sheep’s Head, miles from any village and after ten days I can honestly say that I love every minute of my new adventure hoping that this will become a true voyage of self-discovery.

 I am a slow person by nature.  Often the word slow falls out of my mouth. It is then I am met with a look which I am so familiar with.  No words need to be said but open lips lovingly insist that I don’t run myself down.  I can honestly say that when I use the word slow, I am not being overtly critical of myself.   

I have come into the realization that in our fast-paced hurried world we are not encouraged to be slow. We are socialized from birth into the belief that slowness is not a positive characteristic to have.   Everything is fast and instant. The dimensions of distance brought under control by air flight. We jump into a plane to arrive at a destination – fast; losing the thrill of the journey.  The joy of receiving a penned letter detailing the time and care of the author has been elbowed out by email.  We have fast food and fast fashion, and we make transactions without human connection.  

I like to walk slowly, meandering and pondering as I put one foot in front of the other.  I like to eat slowly, carry out actions slowly, in other words slow is part of my DNA and it does not mean that I am unintelligent, nor does it mean that I don’t know what I am doing.

An example, I recall being in a store, I picked up my basket and sauntered in. My eyes captured the beauty of the fruits and vegetables and then the variety of bread which teased my taste buds.  I was just placing my choice of bread in the basket when one of my favourite songs came on.    I stopped from what I was doing and melted into the music.  My movements slowed as I kept to the rhythm of the song.   I ambled over to the cheese and gazed upon the most wonderful display.  At this point my mind mulled over which cheese I should purchase.   It was here that a most affable lady came over and asked if I was ok and did, I require any assistance.  I smiled and said I was fine.   I could tell from her expression that she was genuinely concerned.  She spanned a huge beam on her face and said that she thought I was having difficulty because of my slowness.  

Here in The Sheep’s Head, I can be slow.  It is as I said in my make-up.  I have always been slow, and my day-dreaming mind was always lost in my re-imagined worlds of castles, dragons, elves and other mythical creatures.  Unfortunately. unappreciated traits especially in my younger years in the logical world of mathematics, physics, chemistry and the competitive physical world of P.E.   I coped by withdrawing to my special place, an old lone willow tree which stood by the river.  It was there I would escape from the barbed words of ‘stupid’ and ‘thick’, it  was there I would allow my mind to wander.  At this point I must add that I did not have a solitary life, and I was never bullied by schoolmates.  It would be wrong to suggest that I was.  I have fond memories of two close friends who I met at dance school, but they went to a different school, and I often wonder whether things would have turned out differently if I had gone to the same school as them.   However, one thing I can certainly say is that both friends were as introverted and bookish as me.

Here in The Sheep’s Head, I can lose myself in the vast dark night sky.  One evening I was lulled into sleep by just lying in bed admiring the beauty of the stars from my window.  As I take the twelve-minute walk to the bus stop I can say ‘hello’ to my neighbours, who just happen to be two adorable ponies.  I can stop and laugh at the antics of the wobbling geese and as I walk further down the road, shout ‘Good Morning’ to the cows.  

The wind is often mischievous by its attempt to keep you from moving forward and the rain can drive and cut into every pocket of skin.  But then there are days when I get up and the sun courses high and gives a beautiful smile over Dunmanas Bay.   The ever-changing vibration of waves, a soothing balm for my soul.  Each day different, each day offers newness to see and much to my appreciation the only night sound is the hoot of the owl.

Every commute to the bus stop is different, the sky, the hedgerows, the wind and the shadows.   I am always in awe at God’s beautiful handiwork, a gift that He has given us.  A gift that I can’t help but think grounds me and makes me aware as to what is important in life.  Do I want a life which I do nothing but live propelled by constant speed and continual noise with everything around me merging into invisibility as I race by?

So here I am in The Sheep’s Head wondering what may lie ahead. There is no utopia in this life, and I am sure I will meet challenges along the way. If I conspire to remain, I will surely sleepwalk into retirement.  I moved into this new phase with little possessions.   I donated many of my belongings to charity shops.  I said goodbye to my djembes, a huge pile of books, and clothing.  I embarked on this journey with two wheelies, art supplies and an old computer.   For such a time as this I need to live more simply and slower.

Until next time.