Tag: travel

A Wind Unlike Any Other

· Leave a comment ·
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

Wrestling with the Unfamiliar

· Leave a comment ·
Having a cup of hot chocolate in Galway

A scudding grey cloud hovered around me on the journey from Achill Island to Galway. For, the first time since I arrived in Ireland twenty two years ago and much to my astonishment I missed the city of Glasgow.  Thus, I was downhearted despite the promise of spending Christmas in Galway.

It has to be said that in recent years I became moderately untouched by my visits to Glasgow, becoming somewhat detached and if I am honest, sorrow often came upon me as the city was no longer familiar to me.  I often felt alone, a stranger walking in alien landscape.  There are  few recognizable faces, my family and friends having either moved on and as is the way in this life, some friends are no longer alive.   

As I travelled to Galway, there was a hollow in my heart and maybe I was trying to fill it with the re-creation of memories. My memories give comfort and assist me in making sense of my life. There were few passengers on the coach and as I moved with the movement of the wheels over the road, it afforded me the opportunity to reflect back.  Oh how, I desired to go to the local church, a church that was my home for several years.   I recalled the many enjoyable Christmas Eve Night Service, me with my croaking voice singing carols, a joy to me but perhaps not to those by me. Memories of a sanctuary dimmed, a lush green tree, with ribbons of fairy lights and dangling sparkling baubles.

Ah the warmth of a memory rekindled. Away back in my bygone days, maybe Christmas 1995, I recalled walking home from the Christmas Eve service. The night was surprisingly mild and the air especially restful.  My journey home was interrupted by Ian who bounded over to me and surprised me with a beautiful and unexpected gift. A gift which unlocked the door into a relationship.  Two years, shy of one month, our relationship had turned sour.  Nowadays, it seems another lifetime and I often wonder where he is now.

I was travelling to Galway to reconnect with my good friend Dave, someone who I have known for at least twenty years and I shall be in the familiar surrounds of Galway.  This will be a new recollection that I can place into my memory satchel.

As Dave and I watched TV, ate lunch and chatted together, I began to become aware that I wasn’t really missing Glasgow. Somewhere in the deep moments of  honest conversations, it became evident that I was yearning for familiarity – the old Christmas of the past.  Despite liking Achill Island I had nonetheless uprooted myself to a place where I knew no one, thus everything is unfamiliar.  Perhaps the human condition requires the comfort of some familiarity especially in older age.  Therefore, the curse of the restless spirit which allows no space for consolidating roots and with the passing of time, there is no anchor of familiarity.  

It isn’t just the absence of friends, it’s those precious moments of connection.  For example, it’s the friendly remarks to the bus driver who knows one’s name due to the fact that you have journeyed on his/her bus for at least twelve years. It is there in is the recognizable faces of the library staff who know you because one is a frequent library user and have facilitated workshops and joined various groups held in the library. It is just that sense of familiarity, of feet walking on well tread pavements, passing acquainted faces.

Christmas in Galway turned out to be wonderful and I enjoyed every moment.  Three wonderful days then:-

As soon as I arrived home, discovering that there was no electricity nearly brought me to tears.  I stumbled through the pitch blackness to locate candles, walking into the corner of the fridge freezer. The thump to the side of my head stunned me into silence.  The mobile was steely cold which caused my body to shiver and the dank air stuck on my hair and eyebrows.    Poor me! I lamented.  All I thought about was leaving this dark nightmare, packing up all my possessions and going back, but then I really didn’t want to go back. Deep within my heart I wanted to explore Achill further. I wanted to stay.   

With a sense of defeat I stumbled onto the sofa and cocooned myself with the duvet.   Oh why, I wailed, could I not come home and things be fine?  And the pity party carried on with – why can’t anything go right for me? And so, the night ahead lay long and endless. The wind in Achill is determined in its roaring, it is loud and incessant.  In my dejected mood, I became angered and desired to shout, ‘Be Quiet’ but of course that would be a fruitless endeavour.  In reality it wasn’t the storm blowing outside, it was the squall in my head that I truly desired to calm. 

As I lay in the shadows of the night, faces of significant people of my past appeared before my eyes.  My childhood friend, Megsey with her strawberry blonde feather cut and the whiff of gingham perfume caused a tear to prick my cheek.  Then in the quietness of the ‘what if’ night I wondered what would have been if I had kept in touch with her.  Ah, the ‘what if‘ night, a concept which I am rather familiar with.

Then my memories are ruthlessly broken by the bleakness of bemoaning – ‘why did I come to Achill in winter?   Perhaps, if truth be told I was running away, sprinting towards the attempt to discover something which doesn’t exist.  Perhaps, it’s a natural stage of approaching one’s elder years.  I came because strange as it may seem, that determined wind had my name in it. I desired time away to consider my future without the safety net of familiarity.

As the wood stove offered its gift of warmth and the flickering candle gave calm, I eased into the night.  My eyes gazed upwards to the wine gum blue sky, a breath-taking sight, I was never privy to in Ballydehob. It tugs my heart and I am reminded that I am truly blessed to be in Achill.  Time will pass and soon the island will become familiar.

As each minute ticked I began to experience that having no electricity blocked out the incessant chattering of the outside world. No television, no film networks, no Facebook. I was no longer party to the mind thumping words breathed by others.  I had freedom to think without interruption and found that without all the sound bytes which continually bombard us, my sense of authentic self kicked in.

I spent five days with no electricity and I can’t believe that I am reporting that it was actually a positive experience, one which gained so much knowledge from. My electricity is back on and one thing I am certain of is that I am grateful for being able to switch on a light.

Until next time.

Dark Mountain – I Belong Here

· Leave a comment ·

The rain fell, heavy and determined and as my eyes scanned the wind scoured moor I became aware that it would be all too easy to trespass into legend.  After all, legends are made by the telling and retelling of tales over and over,  until they become stuck in time.  The whole landscape is laced with stories and I am especially intrigued by the character, the Hawk of Achill.  His presence in story is firmly located on Achill and I hope that the island would give me permission to place him in my story.

My boots slapped along the wind-scoured path to ‘Sliabh Dorcha’,(the dark mountain).  Each stone on the path had that look, as if it had come from the back of a rock dragon.   My eyes fixed on the mountain, chiseled by the cold, a beating pulse of the land.  I could taste the dampness in the air as the rain left the broody blue sky.   

I have to state at this point that there is a mountain which I can view from my mobile home but it is not named Sliabh Dorcha.  However, in my re-imagined world of story, fiction becomes reality.  The mountain inspired a setting that I was happy with and once I had that the next stage was to bring in a character or two.  As I dawdled I wondered how the Hawk of Achill would play out in my tale.   

Every step I took further unlocked the door of my imagination.  I began to envisage The Hawk, as though I was watching a fantasy film; old and grey, his wings unfurled, commanding the shale coloured sky. 

There is an old Irish tale where the old hawk has a conversation with Fintan MacBochra, a man who had the tongue of birds and according to myth the first man who settled in Ireland.  More to be told of that tale in a future blog post and this story has a Cork connection.

Despite, the air chilling my bones, happiness was upon me and my feet began to bop along the path. It has been a while since I felt this good.  In my latter days of living in West Cork I existed and lived life with a sullen and downcast body and a face that did not smile.  I had lost all joy and upon reflection there were times when I was accompanied by deep despair.

I became lonely without a story to warm my heart.  Fear came upon me as I began to become concerned that no story would ever tap me on my shoulder giving me permission to tell it.  Were my storytelling days to be resigned to the past? I began to withdraw in an unhealthy manner, and as I did so I began to feel totally abandoned.  

However, as soon as I stepped into Achill, the wind muttered, spoke and roared all kinds of stories. It was as though new life was breathed into my bones bringing me hope and joy.  I feel that I have a place here in Achill and there is a strong sense of belonging. I love the way the wind is always in dialogue with the moors and Clew Bay.  I am always in awe of the beauty which surrounds me.  The peat bogs and moors give out the vibe of aloofness, shadowy mists holding secrets and in the mid winter light I could almost believe that eyes pursue me as I walk by.  I am blessed to be living here.  

As I walked, a thought came bounding in my head.  A reflection I just could not shake off.   My steps slowed down, as It came to me how nature acts like a soothing balm to the mind, body and soul.   I became aware how essential untamed wild places are and I am of the opinion that they are gifted to the human race by God for our well-being.

In our fast paced frenzied world, the wild places are devoured and plundered to satisfy the insatiable appetite of those who perceive nature as nothing more than something to dominate for selfish gain.  A narrative has been created that nature is there to serve us and does so only on a profit basis rather than acknowledging that wild places need good custodianship for our well-being.  As I walked I wondered whether the destruction of wild places has a motive at its core in that it is designed to keep us stressed and disconnected.

I value wild places and as I stated earlier I view nature as a gift from God. If we lack good guardianship it can be likened to giving someone a gift,  but then finding out at a later stage that the person took no care of it whatsoever by allowing it to became soiled and torn.  The question I have to pose are we ripping up a beautiful gift from God? 

Sadness hovered around my heart as I went on to pose a personal question – am I happy with what I have or do I want to keep pedaling the consumerist bandwagon in the pursuit of acquiring goods that will only tarnish with time.

Despite residing in a mobile home it has to be said that I am happy.  I have very little possessions but I have all I need to live happily. I have a cosy space  where I can rest, shower, cook and create stories. I do not need the latest gadget with its false promise of offering contentment.

An ice wind brings a tear to my eye, I am reminded I have something which I consider invaluable – peace.  I no longer despair at the thought of going back home to face the incessant thump, thump, thump of loud music which tortured me every night through to the morning during the time when I lived in Ballydehob.  Nor do I have saliva, stuck in my throat and waves of apprehension washing over me, alert and waiting for yet another projectile to be thrown at my window or the loud mocking voices of neighbours who would bang my door, call me names and generally make my life a misery as was the case when I lived in Pollokshaws in Glasgow.  

Here in Achill, I can sleep. My body is no longer alert waiting on a threat and each night before I sleep I pray that I always have the blessing of living remote. 

One of my greatest joys at night, is when I ‘coorie’ down on the sofa, the log burner spitting out blue and orange tongues, making the room toasty warm.  My eyes wander to the vastness of the inky sky that stretches far over Clew Bay.  I am amazed at the swirlings of black, blue and purple and right there in that explosion of colour are the stars which illuminate the landscape.  It is so magnificently beautiful that it breaks my heart to see it and when I do it lulls me into dream. Perhaps when I am lost in dream time I can figure out the part the Hawk of Achill plays in my new story.

The story continues.