Tag: memories

Strong hemming, seams, and buttonholes.

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I feel a rant coming on.

I could never be categorised as a model pupil at school. Still, I can remember my home economics teacher saying, ‘A high-quality garment will have strong hemming, seams, and buttonholes.’  In my four years at secondary school, there was so much learning I could have retained, but for whatever unknown reason, the details of strong hemming, seams, and buttonholes stuck in my memory.

This article isn’t about my time at school; it is about how one assertion, which in the first instance may seem inconsequential, holds significance and highlights how we as people have changed.  And all this came to me in a search for lace fingerless gloves, an innocuous endeavour.  

To source the gloves, I had to leave the island.  I visited Westport, Castlebar and Galway, but my search was fruitless.  I had no option but to go online. As usual, the magic of the professional photographer significantly enhanced the appearance of the gloves, which were marketed online. It was evident upon receipt that they are not highly durable.

There was a time when it was considered important to dedicate time, energy, and expertise to crafting good-quality clothing. Quality was linked to self-respect. I recall my grandmother saying to me, ‘People may have had little money, but they took pride in themselves by polishing their shoes.’   Probably said in response to me going out in my unpolished Doc Martens. Once common, this outlook is now outdated. Today, mass production means we have surrendered to buying large amounts of clothing, much of which sags and comes apart after just a couple of washes.

At first glance, the plight of inexpensive clothing might appear totally unrelated to slow lane living.  However, it is the author’s opinion that fast fashion is a bedfellow of life lived in urgency.  There is little time to spend pondering over what to wear, and little time for complexities. Thus, we get up, get dressed and go.  We are encouraged to buy, buy, buy, always in pursuit of the latest trend.  Fashion houses and advertisers employ strategic and innovative methods to cultivate consumer demand by stimulating continual dopamine release associated with acquiring new products for legal markets of mass addiction.  Exhausting.

Nowadays, functionalism is required rather than flair. Functionalism is valued for quick operation, making individuality less common. Additionally, it is more cost-effective to outsource our clothing industry to low paid nearly slaves, who tirelessly operate machines to the incessant speeding of fast-paced whirring.   As time is money, there is little desire to create garments with strong hemming, seams and buttonholes. Complexity slows us down. Therefore, creating something similar tends to yield better results for manufacturers.  And if you do wish strong hemming, seams and buttonholes, one must go upmarket, which will no doubt distress the piggy bank, but the whole process of purchasing will be done in the calming, slow beat of luxury.

Lampposts are no longer manufactured with beautiful, ornate designs, and cars are seldom seen in orange and yellow. We have lost colour and details that create prettiness.  Kitchen equipment is often metallic grey. It’s fit for purpose and easier to maintain, a priority in modern living, but give me the old-fashioned fridge which burrs in the evening.  I love the sound that it makes, it’s a reminder of the welcoming cheer of hearth, though perhaps I’m simply being nostalgic.  

My style is not unconventional, it is rather commonplace; jackets, tops, jeans and dresses are my mainstays. It’s a wardrobe built through time, slowly one piece at a time.   I do like to add fancy tights, lace fingerless gloves and hats – the accessory signature that marks me as ‘Rae’.   

My youth was lived in a landscape of trends. Of course, there were distinct styles that were commonly worn, like puffed sleeve blouses and platform shoes.  However, there was space for people who wanted to ‘rock their own style’, individuals who navigated the many cool offbeat subcultures. Unlike mass-market department stores of today, boutiques offered unique, one-of-a-kind, or limited-run items. Way back then, there were stores one could walk into and come out happy with something just a bit different.

I owned a pair of purple striped harem trousers when Oxford bags were in vogue.  Harem trousers were baggy, elasticated at the top and drawn in at the ankle with an outward ruffle. Think – a trousers version of Andy Pandy’s dungarees. I loved those trousers; they told the story of fun, and there was the extra bonus of being the only person in my town who had them. Yeah, someone did shout ‘poser’ at me in the city centre of Glasgow, but I kept on wearing them.  Why wouldn’t I?  I wasn’t going to be intimidated by words.  

I love daffodils; bright yellow, pretty, the sight of them is soothing balm for the soul.  Now, what if God created only daffodils, and there were no other flowers, no roses, no snowdrops, no lilies? I don’t think I need to expound on this other than to write that while we may admire the yellow blooms, we would miss out on the awe and wonder of carpets of flowers in various varieties and shades. Thus, if God created us unique, each of us with our own exclusive fingerprints, why do we diminish ourselves into relative sameness? Humans are his wondrous creations, and we ought to ‘rock our personality.’  After all, our years are precious, and even if we live to three score and ten, life is too short to hide in the shadows.

Our younger years shape us, and it is no different when it comes to the story of our clothes. This tale is set in my hometown and happened when I was approximately fourteen years old.  Oxfam opened as the first charity in the town, much to my delight. However, there was reluctance by many to enter the store, as assessed by the few people who used it.  Perhaps the ethos of second-hand didn’t tally with the upper social mobility codes espoused by the locals, or maybe many had similar feelings to those of my mother, who grew up wearing hand-me-downs. She wanted new, unworn and fresh off the rails.  Anyway, as a mere youngster who saw it through the lens of discovery, it was an Aladdin’s cave storing an eclectic mix of good-quality items. 

One rainy day after school, sifting through the rails, I came upon a red cape with large ornamental buttons in blue, green, red, and yellow.  In a wisp of a second, it came to me that the buttons would add character to an otherwise dull purple hessian bag I owned. I purchased the cape, cut off the buttons and sewed them on my bag.  I gave the cape to a friend who made a waistcoat out of it.  I was very fond of that bag, and time has elevated that bag as one of my favourites. Those buttons emphasised my daydreaming, whimsical nature and the purple hessian bag, my laid-back hippy vibe. I was granted the opportunity to discover who I might be in the world of garments.

Sadly, I would have to say that many modern-day charity shops have lost that exciting atmosphere of yesteryear.  A wave of sadness comes over me when I see ornaments with chips and scratchy scruffs in footwear. That was never the ethos of that old Oxfam. Moreover, most charity shops nowadays just don’t have what I like.  I don’t blame the charity shop for this, after all, they can only offer what people donate, and donations today will probably not have strong hemming, seams, and buttonholes, which means they may not have the staying power of yesteryear’s clothing, thus designed to be disposed of rather than passed on for donations.

I would be the first to admit that the past was not a rose-coloured utopia. I am aware that it is all too easy to romanticise the past.  However, my lived experience on this Earth has shown me that everyday style has become blander, and sameness abounds.  Strong hemming, seams and buttonholes suggest care and time, something classy, something to be valued.  Do I not deserve more than flimsy and throwaway?   If, like me, you prefer something a bit different from what the masses are wearing, one must go online, which upsets my ‘shop local’ heart. I would like to make it clear I’m not saying professions like the garda should ditch their uniforms, not all, that would be absurd.  My concern pertains specifically to everyday social attire. Uniforms, on the other hand, serve a functional purpose by clearly indicating an individual’s role or identity; their clothing immediately communicates this information without ambiguity.  

Oh, why so much conformity?  Perhaps it is safer not to curate oneself and bear the offence of standing out.  Maybe it shows wisdom by shielding oneself from barbed comments and the whispers of ‘who does she think she is.’  Maybe clothing today purely reflects our busy, busy, busy regime, and I should not expect anything else.  Like fast food, to be eaten on the go, clothing is designed for us to open the wardrobe and go, go, go.  

But let’s not forget that choice is rather limited and we are at the mercy of what the shops stock.  I understand, it’s about supply and demand; thus, if there’s demand, supply follows. However, it could be argued that the systems in place to purchase clothing from suppliers necessitate that department stores must buy in large amounts, and items guaranteed to sell, so it is not viable to purchase smaller numbers, especially when ordering from overseas. This results in clothing which is similar in stores, so one must buy from what is available. This contrasts with the boutique, which can purchase smaller numbers of select items. The boutique can order fewer items, in an economy where many don’t have the income to purchase higher-end clothing, the owner is at the mercy of the department stores.

My rant is rather long, so I shall pause, look at the grey, soggy sky, grateful I do have enough clothes to wear, and I don’t need to be on the conveyor belt of fast fashion.   I can navigate life slowly away from worldly systems that propel me to live life with speed,

Ah, my rant concludes.

In memoriam

Bus Stop, Franx’s, Gear, Lady Jane, Isobel and the boutique in Inverness whose name I forget.

Greta

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The Pavilion Theatre, Glasgow.

It is another cold and rainy day here in Achill Island, but my heart bursts warmly. It has come to my attention that my journey through life has been one where I have had the pleasure of meeting so many people who have shaped me.

Many of these meetings happened before we lived life wired to the world. Back then, people looked at each other and chatted to each other in cafés and talked on buses. We planned and chatted about community actions, and we danced in clubs and festivals, and it was easy to listen to people’s stories. Listening to people’s stories was an interest of mine. I much preferred to listen rather than chat, and I was always intrigued by the individual who danced through life to a different drumbeat. I desired to find out more about them. Greta was one of those people who had an alternative worldview. She was a wonderful woman who had a huge impact on me.

This personal biographical story takes place in the bustling city of Glasgow back in the nineties, which now seems a very long time ago indeed.

Greta exuded sophistication, packing elegance into her petite 5’1″ frame. Her hair, chic platinum silver, always looked as though she had stepped straight out from the hairdresser. She had a keen eye for colour, and every piece of clothing was carefully chosen.  She knew the precise scarf for her outfit, and she wore it well.  I believe I discovered the concept of a capsule wardrobe from Greta long before it ever became vogue.  

I first met Greta at church sometime around 1995. Although she was in her seventies and I was in my thirties, we struck up a friendship. Greta was a lively jolt of energy despite her elderly years.  

It was a wishy-washy day, the type of weather that the Glaswegian word ‘dreich’ describes so accurately.  Greta was wearing a midnight blue coat, which I later discovered was Jaeger, and she looked comfortable sitting on her own.  Her confident composure contrasted with the lack within me. I have to admit that when I observed her, I desired a portion of that confidence.  She used her slim fingers to slice a portion of the fruit loaf, then she placed a small nibble in her mouth   

Greta loved the theatre. In her younger days, she had ‘tread the boards ‘mainly in musical theatre at The Pavilion.  She had performed with Scottish stalwarts like Edith MacArthur, Harry Lauder and Jimmy Logan.  I listened in amazement as she recounted stories of Glasgow theatre life.  She loved Glasgow with a passion and told me that she was happy to be in the chorus line of a Scottish theatre rather than secure a bigger role in the West End of London.  

            “I’m blessed with my own house. For me, that’s success”

Greta’s house, modest by today’s standards, had an Art Deco vibe.  She lived in a room and kitchen with a bathroom in a Super Wally Close. A Super Wally Close is an upmarket tenement with ornate ceramic tiles and stained-glass windows, often in the style of Charles Rennie Mackintosh.  She said living in a tenement made her feel safe rather than living alone in a bungalow up in posh Bearsden.

On my first visit to her home, my eyes widened at the number of collectables she had. She curated a collection of Royal Doulton figurines, each carefully displayed on shelves along one of her walls.  Additionally, there was a mahogany display cabinet with various porcelain teapots, jugs, cups and saucers.

From the moment I stepped in, its cosiness gave me a warm welcome.  She invited me to sit down at her table, where she placed a beautifully embroidered tablecloth over it. Then she set the table for tea.

Tea was poured from a teapot into a cup and saucer.  It appeared to me that Greta possessed considerable expertise in bone china, and her joy was sparked by Royal Albert, Old Country Roses, porcelain tableware.  She certainly would not be impressed with tea in a plastic throwaway cup. 

For Greta, tea was a ritual.  Tea led to unhurried moments, conversation, and human connection.  It was easy to converse with Greta, and I was amazed by her extensive knowledge of music, literature and art.   Greta opened a door into the art world, and with faltering baby steps, I entered.     

One of my favourite memories is when Greta and I went to the theatre. I can remember the evening as though it were yesterday. It was an evening when the city streets were dusted with frost, and we had booked no expense spared seats to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat in the Glasgow Pavilion. It had been years since I had been to a live theatre performance.  During my time in secondary school, I went to see The Sash and The Cheviot, the Stag and the Black, Black Oil.  As I write, I realise I must have had some interest in theatre, otherwise I would not have gone to the Citizens Theatre to see the plays. I would have stayed at home, but for some reason, I chose to close the door, and all I can say is ‘More Fool Me’

It was a wonderful evening, a memory that I love to revisit. I made an effort to dress in a style more suitable for an evening at the theatre. I even discarded my flats for a pair of heels.  Greta had said nothing about dress, but I knew Greta would appreciate my making the effort.  I was aware that in Greta’s world, dressing for an evening at the theatre was mandatory. 

The evening was a joy. As soon as we hit the city centre, we went for a meal. It was scrumptious Italian pasta at the popular Dino’s in Sauchiehall Street, which is sadly long gone, and then the joy of walking into the theatre for a couple of hours, being transported into a colourful world.    It was certainly a significant night.   

After the performance, the days passed slowly, and my mood became sombre.  Without any nagging words, Greta had modelled a way of life that I wanted to move towards.

At that time, I lived a life which was very much toxic.  I was loud and coarse, and it must be said I had little self-respect. My choice of relationships was dire, each one causing bone-shattering grief, and ultimately, peace was a stranger to me. Greta modelled the quiet decorum of self-care and self-respect. I was fed up to the back teeth with chaos.

I also became aware of the barbed comments towards Greta, which irritated me.  She was labelled by many as a pretentious snob. However,  I knew the behind-the-scenes Greta.  She certainly wasn’t stuck up at all. She had an old-fashioned elegance, the codes of which were labelled as snobbery in a landscape where being hard was viewed as cool. I became incensed at the foolishness of judging by appearance only.  The city would have been a better place if there were more Gretas. Now with lived experience, I would advocate for a return to some of the old-fashioned codes of behaviour. They made the navigation of life much sweeter. The revelation hit hard, and so began the shattering of the curse of idolising the hard man and hard woman, and tribal monoculture that elbows out softness.

Of course, like everyone else, Greta had her quirks, and that became evident one day when there was a knock at the door.   She moved towards the door, unlocked the security chain, only to be met by a man in a bright purple and clashing green shell suit, which was fashionable at the time. Greta gave an Oscar-winning act of politeness, but beneath the performance mask, I knew she was rather horrified.    

“If that’s fashion, she mouthed, I fear for the future”

It’s been just over thirty years since my friendship with Greta, and it must be said that it was through knowing her that I made the decision to leave. I had been toying with the idea for some time.

I am very fond of Glasgow, and it isn’t out of the realms of possibility that one day I may return. However, way back then, there was a small group of people who I can only recount as toxic and a bad influence.  Moreover, I wanted to walk away from the old way of me, and despite trying to relate as a better person, I found it rather challenging because people still interacted with me through the lens of a chaotic person. Unfortunately, labels stick.

It became evident to me that I had to move away.  I needed a new, fresh canvas to draw a new picture.   And on 1st April, I left Glasgow to practice a different way of doing life.

Until next time.

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

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.