Even Keel

The wind picked up, but not enough to clear the mist that had fenced us in since last evening. Down the hill , tiller under arm like bagpipes, No. 1 hefting the dagger board like a battle axe. I watched him rig the boat with skill and confidence and no more fuss than if he were filling a shopping trolley. In minutes , we were slicing the water, tacking and jibing.

Choppy though they were, the waters were a refuge of calm. Chatting and joking, we reached the serenity of Hackett's Creek and sat for a while in the stillness. The boat became a sanctuary , a place for shared confidences, for hard questions and honest answers.

And yet.......

The sense of impish fun was bubbling just beneath the surface and in a moment, I was upended. Bobbing in the bracing waters, his laughter ringing in my ears. Boat righted , I dragged myself aboard and watched as his Norman Rockwell grin appeared at the stern. Was that an accident? I asked. "Nooo!" he replied with glee.

Windless but not becalmed

Windless and dry, we held fast to the land today. Unsettled day in settled weather, providing little inspiration, and less inclination, for a blog. In times like these I find myself sheltering in a book. This evening, as a mist settled on the village, vainly attempting to hush the raucous boasting of bronze and pastel sailing folk, I turned the pages of John F. Deane's , The Instruments of Art, and settled on:


Report from a Far Place

Sometimes, in impossible places, it is the small
illimitable pieces of the earth that will seduce you
back into grace: yellow sorrel in the hidden fissures,
the wren, spunk-tailed and pirouetting on the wood-pile,

splinters in the hewn timber you will relish
as imperfections. An orchid grows through wild grasses
the way the poem swells and will say me! this
being the first day again of all the world. You will be

witness to what a life saves out of the assault,
to prayers the defeated have no breath left to speak,
you will know the old, uncomplicated words

lifting once more like light, like love, like hope-
and you will find, at last, how the world writes itself
differently from what you had expected.

Sipping Beauty

I met a walker once. Slow sipping coffee with a friend, he joined our chat. A sprightly man of seventy with the twinkling eye of a teenager. We talked about roads and running and he chided me for my speed. "You see nothing when you run. There are wonderful things to see if you only take the time to see them. You should walk more".

For a couple of weeks after we'd met, I slowed my pace a little finding small wonders on familiar paths but after a while the old habits of pace and goals blurred my vision once more.

I thought of the walker today as I drove under a canopy of green and realised that my speed had dropped to an easy glide. I drank in the air and felt the hairs on arm stir in the light breeze. Dazzled by dappled shadows, lichened rocks and lush green, I pulled into a gateway and climbed a gate, wandering for an hour through pathways and amongst the tumbled tombstones of an old burial ground until I reached the waters edge.

I stood and smiled as I realised that real beauty is something to be sipped. I still ran my run this evening, but tomorrow I think I'll take time for a walk too.

Master of the Boat

I'm sure every man who becomes a father, spends some time imagining sharing the things that were important to him as a child with his own children, particularly his sons. Its not that there is any distinction between his affection for a son or a daughter, but there is that underlying idea of reliving your own childhood through the lives of your children which focuses much of this imagined sharing on the boys.

Most of the important things about my childhood had to do with place, one in particular. Unfortunately it was not possible to share that place with my own children, other than for a very brief visit many years ago but other things were within easier reach. I've watched with pride as they have, boys and girl, enjoyed the outdoors as members of the Scouting movement. The vast buckets of Lego blocks that fill the house have been a delight of nostalgia as they build cities that remind me of my own childhood constructions and amazement as they build creatures and machines vastly beyond my own powers of imagination. Art and music, history and science, all subjects that fascinated me as a child seem to have a special interest for them.

Other things I would have wanted for them have not taken quite so well as the hoarded boxes of unmade Airfix models can attest and I sense the long tradition in my family of serving at the altar , ended in my generation. Perhaps for the best.

However one of the great joys of my experience of fatherhood has been the new things that my children have brought to my life. I was never good at sports , and yet have managed to nurture and support three children who have all found a place for sport in their lives and in some cases have demonstrated great talent and a commitment bordering on obsession. While I loved music , I never mastered an instrument and yet I delight in the sound of flute and guitar.

I am sensitive to the idea that reliving our childhood through our children's involves more than mere repetition of past glories but can also mean using their childhoods to fill the gaps in our own. What really delights me though, are the things that they have mastered , that I never even dreamt of doing as a child.

Today, I stepped into a small plastic dingy to go sailing with my thirteen year old son. From the moment we left the shore, the dynamic in our relationship was transformed. I was almost giddy with pride in the skill and confidence with which he handled the small boat. He whooped and cheered as we sliced through the water. He beamed with mischievous delight as he threatened to capsize us at any moment and you could sense his own pride grow as he issued instructions to the bulky novice, who he clearly believed was having a major impact on the performance of boat.

Placing our lives in the hands of our children can be one of the great traumas of aging, but today it was a real pleasure to accept my limitations and embrace the idea that my Son was, Master of the Boat!

Dog Days

When I was a child, this picture hung in my grandparents home. I was reminded of it this evening as I sat , seeking inspiration on what to write about at the end of an odd day. My eldest boy had settled in front of the TV and was suddenly, but very quietly, blanketed in dog.

The Black Box of Love

Earlier this week David Warren, inventor of the "Black Box" flight data recorder passed away at the age of 85 in a Melbourne nursing home. While flight data recorders of various forms had existed from the earliest days of aviation, Mr. Warren's contribution was to develop a device to record both voice and instrument data. The recorder was contained in a robust, fire resistant box, designed to survive a crash and painted red or orange to make it easier to find at a crash site. Its impossible to say how many lives have been saved over the years by safety improvements resulting from the insights gleaned from recovered flight data recorders.

An article announcing his death and outlining his life's work described various improvements which had been made to the device over the years. Early devices recorded a handful of parameters such as height, speed, time and vertical acceleration. While this was important information regarding what had happened, it did little to explain why. Later devices recorded more detail about matters such as the position of various controls and actions taking in the lead up to a catastrophe. In other words, they provided an insight into why things had happened. Current developments involve the continuous transmission of data from an aircraft to a remote site on the ground, holding out the possibility that in the future, engineers could monitor a flight in real time, responding quickly to an event that might trigger an accident and perhaps anticipating and preventing potential problems.

For some reason I began to think about what our lives would be like if we had access to a device that recorded, in precise detail, the events and actions that lead up to accidents and catastrophe's can blight our relationships. Rather than having to rely on the shattered remains of our and other's hearts, piecing together our previous lives, through hurt prejudiced eyes, what if we were able to reread our own actions and those with whom our lives intertwine in precise, objective, detail? What insights would we glean from being able to follow the trail of our actions , moment by moment , but knowing the outcome of loves various accidents?

The wincing moments of recognition of acts and omissions whose future impacts we failed to appreciate would undoubtedly be a new source of pain for those dealing with a crisis in their lives. I'd like to imagine though, that knowledge, at least as to the facts, would leave less room for rancorous debates based on flawed recollections and the rewriting of history by the heart broken, the jealous and the guilty, and more time for reflection and maybe insight into the avoidance of future heartbreak.

While we have our letters and diaries, texts and emails and countless other traces of our lives, loves and interactions, they can be surprisingly limited in the insight they provide when read later , with different eyes and in different times to when they were created. Perhaps though the biggest challenge facing the would be inventor of the "Black Box of Love" would be our own reluctance to open the day glo bright casket in the heart of our fractured lives and face the truth within.

Making Amends

I remember years ago, at a retreat (an annual event at my school) a priest telling a story of two men seeking to make amends for their sins. In my memory of the story, they approached Jesus but I have found similar references to Muslim's approaching an Iman, Imam Ja’fer As-Sadiq Alaihis Salaam to be precise, with a similar request, seeking forgiveness and a means to make amends.

One of the men said that he had committed two big sins while the other admitted that his sins had been many, but small. The first man was told to fetch two large boulders, the heaviest he could carry while the other was told to gather up a pebble for every sin he had committed.

After a time, they both returned. The first man was then told to return the two boulders to where he had found them, which he did though with great difficulty as the boulders were heavy as his sins were great. The second man was then told to return each pebble to precisely where he had found it. An overwhelming task.

I've thought of this story often over the years, though perhaps not often enough. Like most people, I expect that were I one of those men, I would have been sent to fetch both boulders and pebbles!

Today though, I was reminded of another aspect of the story that has struck me over the years. In my childhood, I somehow imagined the pebbles as smooth, shiny beads, as if part of a rosary. Like the pebbles at the bottom of a chrystal stream from my childhood or mermaid's tears on a beach. I have no idea why that would even matter but there was some comfort in the thought. That once we recognised our wrongs, we would find some quiet solace on the road to forgiveness. Taking a picture very early this morning, of shadows playing across gravel, it struck me that my pebbles are not such pretty stones but edgy , sharp and bruising, the hurt they caused clearer in playback than at the moment they were dropped on the path , beneath bare feet.

Have a good weekend, and if you can, sweep your path of such stones.

Running in the Rain

As I stood on the pavement outside my hotel, waiting for my watch to find its bearings, a connection to the unseen satellite somewhere in the heavens above, the rain began to fall. The man in navy canvas overalls who had been diligently clearing the pavement outside the hotel gave me a quizzical look. The thin stretched fabric of my t-shirt offered little protection from the rain and I felt each drop like a tiny finger prodding me, as if underscoring the punch line of a joke.

I found a song as my watch found our place on the earth and I began to run. Turning right toward the park the rain swept my legs like a sheet falling away at the edge of a bed. I quickened my pace a little and for an instant considered turning back. Heart and heat, restrained by rain and wind. A sleepless night leaving me still in a waking dream, unsure of my place or course. I pressed on.

Inside the park , I veered from a familiar course onto a path that looked like a rotting carpet discarded in a field, grass undoing the weave, as if it were trying to pull its grey black fabric underground. I found myself in a meadow and in a few minutes by water, just yards from my usual track and yet in a completely different landscape. I tracked the water’s edge; a sudden dark slash of rain wrapping me.

The sky was spread with dark, raggy clouds and yet there was a brightness beyond them, a window hung in black lace. I crossed a stone bridge and turned again, quickening my pace , finding the sandy horse path and imagining a canter , then a gallop. I focussed on the air filling my lungs and pushed on until the rain on my face felt like surf, straining against my own bounds.

London in July

My first visit to London was during the long , hot summer of 1976. After a week's scouting at Gilwell Park in Epping Forrest, where the sun opened great , arm deep, cracks in the ground and flash fires swept across brittle fields with terrifying speed, we came "up London".

I smile at the innocence of it now but in the midst of a troubled period in the history of our two nations, a fresh faced bunch of twelve year old Irish boys (there being absolutely no suggestion at this time that girls would ever form part of our band of brothers) were let loose on London's streets in full uniform. Green shirts, navy trousers, polished shoes and belts, neckerchief, whistle and lanyards and the proudest possession of the Air Scout, the sky blue beret!

Sent forth in pairs, we were given strict instructions that under no circumstances were we to stray ..... beyond the Circle Line. That's right, not that the Circle Line was our only route, but that if we confined ourselves to within the territory defined by that line, stay in pairs and be sure to keep our uniforms neat, we would be safe from all harm. The funny thing is, we were.

My memories from those few days in London are of people's openness and the warmth of shopkeepers, newspaper vendors, policemen and passers by, and the recognition of our Irishness as a positive thing. The exception of course was when it came to money, and no amount of twelve year old economic erudition would persuade suspicious shop keepers that our "funny money" was worth the same as the Pound Sterling!

By accident this week, I found myself staying on the Cromwell Road, close to Baden Powell House. After decades of travel and thousands of nights spent in all manner of hotels, its difficult to capture the excitement we felt at staying in this grand establishment in the centre of London.

The absolute highlight was the chic sophistication of the bar, the Milk Bar, in the basement with a vending machine for ice cold milk and a jukebox which seemed to only play one song, Rhinestone Cowboy by Glen Campbell.

Different days.

Word Wrapping

I started my day in Zurich. Clown foot thumping, the underscore to my iPod's roller coaster of ballads, rock anthems and aching strings. Past Baur's early huddle of breakfasters, along familiar, shabby paths I've swept, and washed, before and toward the glass placid lake. In the summer, boats cram the moorings in uniform blue oilskins, impatient for evening's breezy dance of jibe and tack. Right, past the heady scents of the glass house and then a sudden left, and a pause by the monument. Its triumphant exuberance, familiar, comforting and unsettling all at once. Drawing deep breath's of lake cooled air, I turn for home.

Showered and suited, I decline the offer of an air conditioned taxi and opt for the tram. Caught off guard by summer's swelter, I practice stillness, letting tiny breezes crawl over me like spiders. At the crossing, I yield to a passing shoal of children, in singing, non matched, pairs. Bright and colourful, they remind me of the line of dark suited men at the airport yesterday and an uneasy anger begins to build somewhere deep inside.

For weeks now, trying to wrap a thought in words has been like trying to wrap a bicycle in wet newspaper. Lines torn in the breeze as soon as they form. By pure chance I opened Seamus Heaney's "Field Work" and found The Otter and now, in darkening Kensington, a pattern begins to form, that might yet enfold a thought.

In the meantime......

The Otter

When you plunged
The light of Tuscany wavered
And swung through the pool
From top to bottom.

I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,
Your fine swimmer's back and shoulders
Surfacing and surfacing again
This year and every year since.

I sat dry-throated on the warm stones.
You were beyond me.
The mellowed clarities, the grape-deep air
Thinned and disappointed.

Thank God for the slow loadening,
When I hold you now
We are close and deep
As the atmosphere on water.

My two hands are plumbed water.
You are my palpable, lithe
Otter of memory
In the pool of the moment,

Turning to swim on your back,
Each silent, thigh-shaking kick
Re-tilting the light,
Heaving the cool at your neck.

And suddenly you're out,
Back again, intent as ever,
Heavy and frisky in your freshened pelt,
Printing the stones

Birthdays

My childhood summers were spent in the country. In a place where time had not quite stood still but had certainly fallen behind to admire its surroundings and to dream a little in the sunshine. It was a place where hay in the small fields stood in golden ricks that served as look out posts and hiding places. In the “big field”, the baler left great blocks bound in diesel scented twine, from which we built our forts and towers. Boys measured their strength in the hefting of a bale and our skins pricked and itched from the scratching stubble.

Ancient kitchen gardens, bound in box and steaming in manure, netted against the marauding crows, grew strawberries, gooseberries, blackberries, blackcurrants, redcurrants, raspberries, loganberries and great marrows in quantities vastly beyond the dwindling needs of the pearled and permed residents of The Big House.

My grandparents own more modest plots, boxed neatly along the path from the laurel walk to the magical ruins of the sheds and the hen house, held scallions, cabbages, beetroot and fresh parsley, which was a special treat when dewy with fresh rain. Lines of sweet pea scented the air as well as glorious rows of carnation.

From the stillness of the morning to the scented golden evening, we listened for familiar sounds that marked the ritual rhythm of the day. We woke to “O’Donnell Abu” on the radio. The regular pulsing rasp of milking reminded the boys of the sound of peeing in a bucket, though we’d never dare to say such a thing aloud. The creaking of the garden gate that heralded Grandad’s arrival back from the yard reminded us of the story of our lost infant uncle’s excitement at that same sound before the smallpox vaccine stole him. “How old would Uncle Noel be now?” we would ask, innocent to the agonies those questions must have stirred in our Gran’s stoic heart.

July’s first weeks sharpened our ears for other sounds. The familiar Renault rattle of the post van as it turned from the road and scrabbled gravel on the avenue. We counted the gated pauses, our excitement squeaking like the gates. When the engine stopped, we counted the paces in our heads and waited for the post man to appear. We tried, competing cousins, to act as if we didn’t care how many envelopes he bore, but we did. We watched for imagined packages that were already waiting hidden in the “good room”.

On Sunday’s the warm familiar purring of a Morris Minor announced the arrival of parents and younger siblings and sometimes other cars flocked with cousins. The grown ups ruled the house, squinting at football matches on the television in a room made for a wake, blinds drawn to the sun. We ruled the lawn and the long garden, sallying out into the heat from our hay rick fort and an old wigwam, bought with Green Shield Stamps, that reeked from curious dogs' cocked legged visits.

After tea, and sad goodbyes, hiding unspoken relief at the departure of cousins and sisters too young to be appreciated, we chased the cars, waving until we could no longer see them and then, standing still, listened to the last fading rumble.

Yesterday, I watched three blond heads bob, scamper, and run, chasing my car and waving great Y shaped goodbyes . As they shrank in the mirror I wondered if they too knew my sound and listened until they could no longer hear my wake.

Music in a Word

Crazy busy Friday with little time to post, and less inspiration as to what to write. Just as I sat down to lunch, something caught my eye, bobbing and glistening in the soft rain. I squinted through the window and in an instant there was a word in my head , and music in my ears. The word was Montbretia. I can't convey the symphony that it conjures for me. As for what it means literally, it is the name of a wild flower, endemic in parts of West Cork but also found further afield. If you follow the link, you can enjoy some pictures of this special bloom. Unfortunately as I drew closer to the flower that had caught my eye I realised, sadly, that it wasn't actually an early montbretia bloom at all, but I've included a picture nonetheless.

On the subject of evocative words, last night, out running in the park, I was wracking my brains to remember the word for the smell which follows rain in a dry spell. Oddly enough, as montbretia played in my head, I remembered the word. So to provide at least some intellectual reward to those who visit these pages, I offer you the following:


petrichor (PET-ri-kuhr) noun

The pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a dry spell.

[From petro- (rock), from Greek petros (stone) + ichor (the fluid that is supposed to flow in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology). Coined by researchers I.J. Bear and R.G. Thomas.]

"Petrichor, the name for the smell of rain on dry ground, is from oils given off by vegetation, absorbed onto neighboring surfaces, and released into the air after a first rain." Matthew Bettelheim; Nature's Laboratory; Shasta Parent (Mt Shasta, California); Jan 2002.

"But, even in the other pieces, her prose breaks into passages of lyrical beauty that come as a sorely needed revivifying petrichor amid the pitiless glare of callousness and cruelty." Pradip Bhattacharya; Forest Interludes; Indianest.com; Jul 29, 2001.

And finally maybe this will help fuel your imagination in anticipation of the weekend.

Rituals

Like the line between snooze and sleep, the line between ritual and obsession is much debated. I have a few rituals and as for obsessions, well lets leave that for others to debate. One of my cherished rituals is , on those rare enough days when I work from Dublin, an early morning walk from the office to my favourite coffee shop. It's a short distance, past the not yet open bank and the immaculate window of the menswear shop that harks from another era, the Swedish food shop I have been threatening to visit for years (a threat which still hangs over them), past the bookies and the hospital and the steamy warmth of the dry cleaners. I thread a path through the scattering of joggers and commuters and women whose tailored suits and chunky running shoes suggest an odd hybrid of both.

Sometimes the walk is a chance to clear my head and order the day's to do list, many times it has been enlivened by sparkling conversations on the "phone that will not die" and sometimes it can just be a little space of quite nothingness. Solace.

At Baggot Street Bridge , I launch myself from the centuries burnished granite kerb , past the free sheet vendor towards the corner of Mespil Road. Given how much of my life involves queuing of one sort or other, I'm always surprised at how the queue out the door is a thing I welcome. Its slow steady progress, a chance to exchange nods and smiles with unknown but familiar regulars, a word exchanged with the known, a moment to savour the piles of fresh scones, observing the steady rhythm of the black shirted staff, a group so clearly at ease with each other. I am happy to be part of a line of expectancy whose growth is a measure of their well earned success. Amidst the gloom of the "Current Economic Climate" they are a little flickering lantern of achievement based on hard work and happy customers.

Maybe a year ago, someone put a little kink in their otherwise streamlined production process to ensure that my metal mug had a few moments standing filled with boiling water before it was filled with coffee. I never asked them to but I appreciated the gesture and thanked them. Since then I've smiled as this little ritual has been passed on to each new member of their crew , even though weeks might have passed since my last visit. Its a small gesture but one of the things that keeps me coming back, along with the truly excellent coffee, the porridge with any number of toppings and amazing scones, raspberry being a personal favourite.

There's no time for more than a smile and a greeting, but those little interactions, moments of recognition and gratitude, are a habit of happiness. An essential part of my Dublin days.

Occasionally, a colleague joins me and, as he is a smoker, we sometimes take a longer route back to the office, solving problems in the sun light and the open, but not necessarily fresh, air. Like benediction in October, they adorn the other wise simple ritual of buying a canal bank coffee from some of the nicest people I know.

Gardens of Decayed Vanity

Someone once used the idea of a Japanese garden to explain to me how tiny changes in perspective can mean a profound change in how you see the world. What you see depends entirely on where you are standing, and two people, who may actually be standing quite close to each other, can nevertheless see quite a different landscape, and draw a different meaning, from the same garden. In the case of the Japanese garden, this is something the designer is trying to achieve, making them wonderful places for reflection and contemplation.

I was reminded of that conversation, again, on Saturday afternoon during a visit to the Imperial Burial Vault of the Hapsburg dynasty, the Kaisergruft, in Vienna. Since childhood, I've been fascinated by these places. I'll happily while away the hours reading the inscriptions on tombs and wall plaques in churches, making connections, remembering what I know about the history of the times in which the honoured dead lived out their lives and speculating about what those lives must have been like.

I entered the Kaisergruft with my usual sense of curiosity and wonder, down stone steps to the air conditioned , sacred silence. The first thing you see are a number of identical , polished wooden coffins set in niches and slowly you eye is drawn to the increasingly ornate metal caskets of Emperors , Empresses and Arch Dukes. The grandeur of the caskets builds slowly but steadily as you move deeper into the vaults, like a grand overture. Curiosity is fed by recognition as you connect names with the history of Europe going back to the beginning of the seventeenth century and remember famous deeds, great battles won, bewigged and sashed Josephs, Goya's Maximillian , arms outstretched before a Mexican volley.

And then, something changes. Perhaps the chill of the air conditioner, perhaps a hollow sound on the modern tiles, or maybe the simple , ordered regularity of these sealed tins of decay, lined up behind alarmed railings.

Suddenly my perspective changes. Hushed reverence gives away to a vision of a warehouse of death. "Rottenness and dead men's bones" encased not in whited sepulchers but in polished bronze, copper and gold. Moving deeper and deeper into the vault, the increasing grandeur of the coffins, the grandest being the immense bulk of the baroque monument to Empress Maria Theresa and her husband Franz Stephen, does little to change the perception that this is no more than a storage space for decayed pride and vanity. A handful of smaller coffins, and the beautiful sadness of a child's effigy, causes a moment of pause but does not change my now established perception of this cold shed. Indeed, the strongest emotion they evoke is a sense that they do not belong here , that ironically, they most of all should lie in living earth under grass and blossoms.

The plaque to murdered Franz Ferdinand and his beloved Sophie, who's vein's want of thinning blue blood robbed her of the right to rot in grander company, only serves the underline the futile vanity of this place. Finally, Franz Joseph's stone box flanked by a murdered wife and the shattered remnants of Mayerling's tragedy quicken my step to the stair , the stifling heat of a Vienna afternoon welcome relief from the air conditioned emptiness.

A small change in perspective. A profound change in view.

Vienna

On Saturday I had a leisurely stroll through the Naschmarkt in Vienna. I say leisurely in the sense that I had no particular objective in mind, and time on my hands. However the market itself was an intense hive of activity. At one end, exposed to the blazing sun, huckster stalls sold everything from antique glass to plastic toys, Bakelite records to brass fittings, daggers to ancient sets of surgical instruments, football jerseys to lederhosen and any manner of useful and uselessly lovely junk. Wiley old traders who would not have been out of place in a biblical epic, a Star Wars movie or a Monty Python sketch were perched between other kinds of crafty folk. Young men with slicked hair and mobile phones looked impatient with their trading heritage while gray haired hippies in waist coats, trapped in time, seemed more interested in simply being there, discussing their collected wares than in any thought of commercial gain.

In the food market, the scent of olives, spices, herbs, fish, coffee and countless other delights assailed the senses. All weekend I've searched for words that would capture the sheer abundance of the wares on display. Fruit ripe and bright. Meats, fish, vegetables. Nuts, berries and seeds. Any manner of bread. Great pallets containing spices, peppers and countless varieties of salt in hues of white, pink and orange. Even the word display seemed inadequate. Passive. Moving though the narrow aisles it was as if the goods themselves were animated, calling out in myriad languages to be picked, tasted, squeezed and chosen. I regretted that I wasn't on my way home to cook! Along the way paused for a coffee. A very special coffee that had me thinking that I must acquire one of those little coffee pots and learn the art of making real Turkish coffee. However I suspect that there's some sort of special licensing requirement for handling such potent substances!

After that it was off to the Leopold Museum. I went along originally to have a look at their small Klimt collection and the works of the sadly short lived Egon Schiele. As it happened they were running an exhibition about the Art Nouveau architect and designer Joseph Maria Olbrich. All I have time to say about that is if this is your kinda thing, you have until the 27th September to see a pretty amazing exhibition!

The Swimmer

Tom has no interest in soccer: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. You will therefore permit me to paraphrase Charles Dickens to repeat, emphatically, that Tom Rourke has no interest in soccer. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.

Because there was something wonderful to walk home in the heat of a Viennese summer's evening, following the closing stages of Ghana's clash with Uruguay, like Kirk Douglas in "The Swimmer", from bar to bar, past open window's, street side cafe's, garages, huddled security guards and car park attendants, all united in their shared excitement. Even Bacchus's lovers huddled closer and vuvu thrilled to a small screen nestled in vintage shelves and wreathed in the smoke of fine cigars.

Earlier, in a flash of inspiration, I'd scribbled this on a napkin and had a moment of panic when I thought it had joined the cleared plates and empty glasses.

Fuchsias (working title!)

Popping dew damp buds of fuchsia
over scented box.

Pop, the deep pink plumpness.
Another. Please?
My Mother held me up and indulged
my joyful crime.

Pink lanterns with wounded hearts
My ruthless little fingers
Giving premature birth to purple within.

Enough now
As she set me down
on soft crunching gravel.

My hand ripple surfed
The splash topped box
and I toddled to the magical, squeaking, gate
and the mystery of the Laurel Walk.

Words and Music

Its late so I'll be brief, though those who know me, know that being brief is not a natural gift of mine and less so when its late.

After a long day in Stockholm, I began a long journey South to Vienna, where sleep eludes me as its nearly midnight and still 23C.

I changed planes in Heathrow, where chaos reigned, blamed variously on computer failures, missing planes and a broken baggage system. As we sat and sweltered, a girl began to sing, very quietly, almost as if she were chanting. Soft , sweet and low, she continued without seeming to draw breath and very slowly, a little circle of calm radiated out from her. I couldn't see her properly but caught something like a reflection in discrete smiles, and quiet rhythmic nods.

Later, on the plane, the lady sitting next to me opened a folder of sheet music and read, closing her eyes every few minutes and moved in a soft rhythm , lost in music that only she could hear.

I opened the little book of poems I had happened on earlier in the day and lost myself in different songs. I read and reread John Clare's , I Am, and then, perhaps in search of something more uplifting, I found myself reading John Donne's The Sun Rising aloud. Transported to a garden by the sea, rehearsing words to other music.

Tis late.

I Am

I AM! yet what I am none cares or knows,

My friends forsake me like a memory lost;

I am the self-consumer of my woes,

They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,

Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;

And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,

Into the living sea of waking dreams,

Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,

But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--

Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;

A place where woman never smil'd or wept;

There to abide with my creator, God,

And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:

Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;

The grass below--above the vaulted sky.

The Sun Rising

BUSY old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us ?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run ?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school-boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices ;
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think ?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both th' Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."

She's all states, and all princes I ;
Nothing else is ;
Princes do but play us ; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus ;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere ;
This bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

Tyres

You must have hit something pretty hard
And deep.

He eyed the swelling, felt the heat of it.
The other too, you can see the damage.

Later, he'd invited me to feel the scar.
An open wound that tore through what seemed indestructible.

Can you feel it? You were right to be worried.

You must have hit something pretty hard.
And deep.

Later , as I felt the rumble of barely covered pot holes,
where the road climbs out of Rosscarbery through Knocknageehy,
I felt the shock
that left pieces on the road.

Tracks

Yesterday's foray into the sunny byroads of Co. Westmeath , was partly motivated by a search for a lost relic of the Royal Canal. A few years ago, I caught a fleeting glimpse of something that I found surreal and somehow sad. Stranded in the middle of a grassy field was the unmistakable black and white form of an old canal lock gate. Not discarded , but in place, leveling now not the green waters of the canal , but the soil and rock of a midlands meadow.

The image of that lock gate has fascinated me for years. Whatever accident of geography or failed navigation that had taken me past it was neither recorded nor repeated. Still I remembered its proud stillness. Marveled at how its identity of stone and oak, of leaded paint had withstood the indignity of its abandonment, the filling in of a siding no longer relevant, needed or loved.

In an odd way, the lock's land locking seemed to convey a greater sense of movement than one rushing with water. Or should I say, its sturdy limbs seemed to convey a sense of strength and potential like a runner trapped in sand. It was as if its trapped form longed to push its way through the field. Thirsty for green waters and , to quote Kavanagh once more, leafy-love-banks.

I drove and wove my way through country lanes but sadly did not find my lock gate. So perhaps it had finally surrendered to the plough, or found its timbers rendered and shaped to other purposes. Or maybe, in its quiet patient pushing had finally reached the rushing release of green waters.

I did however, find another abandoned relic of the Royal Canal , whose prison shadowed banks Behan sang of. I stood a little while and thought of those who laid this path, so certain of their course.

Canal Bank Walk
Patrick Kavanagh

Leafy-with-love banks and the green waters of the canal Pouring redemption for me, that I do The will of God, wallow in the habitual, the banal, Grow with nature again as before I grew. The bright stick trapped, the breeze adding a third Party to the couple kissing on an old seat, And a bird gathering materials for the nest for the Word Eloquently new and abandoned to its delirious beat. O unworn world enrapture me, encapture me in a web Of fabulous grass and eternal voices by a beech, Feed the gaping need of my senses, give me ad lib To pray unselfconsciously with overflowing speech For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.

Iliad

I was reminded today of Patrick Kavanagh's poem, Epic, and the line "that was the year of the Munich bother". Today , while millions remained indoors to watch the "epic" clash of Germany and England in the world cup (and I have only the word of others to go on, soccer never having been my game) the good people of the parish of Killucan, Raharney and Rathwire, gathered in glorious sunshine to honour their dead.

Other epic contests meant more here and the priest promised to be brief to allow a hasty exit for those scrambling to Dublin to watch Westmeath take on Louth in the Senior Football Championship (real football this time).

Packed between the monuments, high granite crosses in the old part, polished marble in the new, the community and its returning diaspora, prayed, greeted, counted the lost and measured each other's girth ("you're looking well on it" a compliment to assumed prosperity and a sure signal that you'd gained a few pounds since last year).

With a handful of exceptions, I've taken this pilgrimage ever year for over forty years , migrating from the sacred plot where the history of my Mother's people is carved and my earliest childhood memories are interred, to the rapidly filling new plots and the polished granite and exuberant blooms of my Mother's own space. The village now surrounds the graveyard and the faces and voices have changed beyond recognition. Some things however remain the same: the tremulous choir over the loudspeakers; the pride and care each family takes of its plot, and those of long forgotten neighbours; and the ants. Even amidst the polished granite and fresh graveled paths, the ants march and weave between our feet in the sunshine.

Afterwards, I took some time to explore the paths and byroads of the surrounding countryside, something I've been promising myself for years but never quite found the time. Down roads that still brushed the underside of your car with grass growing in the centre, through villages whose hearts seemed unchanged but were now stranded in the midst of housing developments, some filled with Dublin registered cars, some finished but empty, others hoarded fields of broken promises.

Almost by accident, I finally came upon a hill top ruin and a cemetery even older than the one I had known since childhood. I parked and wandered across a lush green meadow to the silence of the overgrown ruins. I looked out over the river and an ancient landscape unmarked by tiger tracks. Somewhere here, beneath my feet, lie the remains of countless Allen's and Fitzgeralds.

This summer they plan to clear it. I plan to help.

So back to Kavanagh, and his Epic of 1938:

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided : who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.

I heard the Duffys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel -
"Here is the march along these iron stones."

That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was most important ? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said : I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.

A sense of place

I never went to school or earned a living here. I never kissed a girl, danced, won or lost a love here. I never played for or coached a local team, or even followed its fortunes (though once , when very young, I remember an inter club hurling match on a bright , hot, late summer evening that seemed to have all the drama, excitement, fear and blood of the Colosseum).

Yet this place has held me in its thrall for as long as can I remember. Turning off the road just past Kinnegad, my heart rises in my chest and a sense of belonging takes hold of me, or rather steps out of the verges to travel the road beside me. Guiding me.

Its not alone. Its companion, steps from the shadows too and walks the road, a pace behind. A sense of sadness, and loss. For while the roads and hump backed bridges are welcoming and familiar, beyond the trees, an ancient house sits hidden. Ever present in my memories , my dreams, in the deepest loves of my heart, and yet utterly absent from the daily reality of my life.

Outside the village, though no longer separate, the graveyard is my childhood's harbour. Its heat reminds me of grown up's hissed warnings against the burning sun, though my Mother always felt a chill, swore the temperature dropped at the gate. Names of men who died ancient, are as reassuring as the polished stones and mossed crosses that bear them. Full lives, lived fully in a simple place.

Other names catch my eye, unfamiliar, new. Not from the web lines that link the plots and generations, weaving and interweaving through the history of this place. Plastic toys, guitar shaped wreaths, heart signed messages and head stones necklaced with rosaries tell of shorter, sadder stories. The rapid grief filling of the graveyard, a meter of the villages new life.

I watch my Father tend her garden, my Brother moving amongst the pots, watering, each with care, as if he were feeding chickens, as her grandchildren play amongst the headstones and tumble in the shrinking patch of green, that waits.

That sense of belonging waves me off at Mr's Quinn's. Sometimes she looks like Kathy Allen: blue shop coat; hair net; clipping scissors jutting from her pocket. Or maybe Johnny, in his wellingtons and tweed. Cap raised above his brow to shield his eyes from the sun. Or white haired Aunt Mamie turning back at the gate and walking slowly toward the house offering an arm to Kathy, as if they needed it. "She must think I'm old" she'd say in gentle rebuke, confident of her companion's deafness.

The sense of loss is younger and stays the road.

Remembrance

Its hard now to recall the sense of stepping out of time that last week
involved. The urgencies of life suspended. Meetings, conference calls,
presentations and fear of failure replaced by greetings, shuddered hugs,
prayers and deeper, purer fears.

Death's shadow gave life a rhythm and the day's dawn and dusk became
visible, meaningful.

Invisible was the director that brought new players
onto our stage to play their part as seamlessly as if we had been
rehearsing all our lives.

In the years since, it is not the day or date that disturbs me but the
lengthening of the day and the evening light of early summer.

As the days lengthen and the years pass, the space for grief seemed to shrink but
somehow fresh hurts and remembrance of a mourning trinity in the slanted spring light
brings to mind a poem that brought tears to her eyes and gave me just a glimpse
of something in her soul I had never imagined.


Sacrament

You, pictured for ever, before me;
I stand in black and wear a white
carnation; you, holding an array
of golden roses, maidenhair, smile up
at me and you are beautiful; your body
washed for me and gently scented;
you, set apart in white, a mystery,
all sacred;
we are holding hands for ever,
dedicated; such the signs of a deep
abiding grace.

Another image
graven on my mind; you lie, again
in white; on your breast a silken
picture of the Virgin; they have washed
your body, closed your eyes, you hold
no flowers; vein-blue traces
of suffering on your skin, your fingers
locked together, away from me.

But it is I who loved you, known
the deepest secrets of your grace; I take
the golden ring from your finger; I kiss
the bride,

and they close the heavy doors
against me, of that silent, vast cathedral.


John F. Deane (from Winter in Meath, Dedalus Press, 1985)

Packing It In

I hate packing the night before I travel. I move from procrastination to frustration, deferring until its too late to do anything about the missing items, the shirts not ironed, or worse , buried at the bottom of the wash basket. Then there is the choice of which bag to pack. One night, easy, small, mini everything, no need to bring a spare suit. A week, easy, trusty Mandarina Duck, suiter, running gear, dare I say it, drinking clothes and, at Christmas, room for a few pressies on the return trip. But in between.......

The added complication these days is our friendly neighbourhood volcano. So far I've been lucky and have managed to be grounded on home turf. But each trip feels like a roll of the dice these days and so the packing decision becomes more complicated. Bigger bag, just in case? Extra this and extra that? Another book? A bigger book? But if you're going to have to change your plans, hop from airport to airport, changing flights on the fly (excuse the pun) who needs the extra weight?

As I said , I hate packing the night before I travel, procrastinating.....

Family Days

Its only taken me a year and a half to finally getting around to posting to this blog, but a start at least!

Yesterday became a day of gentle surprises. My niece celebrated her first communion. It being May , forces were divided as more than one celebration was being marked. My traveling companion (No. 1 Son) was in soulful mood and DJ for the day. By the time we reached the outskirts of Athlone, my pride in the wisdom of his age had turned to near awe.

Once religious matters were concluded, my Sister entertained family and friends in her usual understated but thoughtful style. Mountains of lovely food available, but never forced, throughout the day, a constant flow of tea, coffee and wine and the ebb and flow of friendly conversation as family, friends and neighbours joined the gathering. The surprise arrival of the Ice Cream Van from "town" lit little faces with sunshine that was quickly clouded by melted whiteness and caused adults to recalculate their exercise plans for the week and maybe regret that they'd already exceeded a month's sugar quota with the cheese cake, banoffi and piles of other home baked goodies.

Embarrassed to say I am without a camera at the moment, a digital one at any rate, so there are no pictures to share but I'm not sure that I could ever have captured the highlight of the evening. Once the "Daddies vs Kids" match had concluded (featuring a truly vicious tackle by the four year old nephew taking out and tumbling his dad in spectacular fashion) pressure mounted for a "Moms vs Kids" game.

And what a game! I'm not sure my sisters ever played football when we were kids. In fact I'm pretty sure they didn't, but watching them play, supplemented with local friends and in-laws, had me traveling through time again. Aside from the unexpected skill, and the commitment by some players to "never playing the ball when you can play the man instead", there was something magical about the joy and energy of the thing as they whooped, cheered, skipped and kicked in flashing colour and clacking pearls. You simply couldn't watch them being kids and not feel like one yourself, in a very heart warming, life affirming way.