Tropical Tango

Glorious sunshiney day. When I wandered along by the harbour this morning, there was a fishing boat in: two seals were slinking their way across to have a nose around for scraps.

I'm working on a story I've wanted to write ever since I saw this picture:



It's George Bernard Shaw, learning to tango in the gardens of Reid's Palace Hotel, Madeira. It was 1925: the year he would be awarded the Nobel Prize.

On arrival in Madeira, Shaw received news that his closest friend William Archer had died of cancer. A couple of weeks earlier, Archer had written to Shaw of his forthcoming operation:

"I go into a nursing home tomorrow. I feel as fit as a fiddle so I suppose my chances are pretty good. Still, accidents will happen. Though I may sometimes have played the part of all too candid mentor, I have never wavered in my admiration for you, or ceased to feel that the Fates had treated me kindly in
making me your contemporary and friend.
I thank you from the heart for 40 years of good comradeship.
Ever yours, W.A."

Shaw was devastated, and threw himself into writing during his six-week stay at Reid's Palace. But at some point, he decided to take a lesson in tango. And his partner's name was Hope. Miss Hope du Barri.

On leaving, Shaw gave his dance instructor a signed photo, inscribed: 'To the only man who ever taught me anything. GBS'.

The drawback

So, the disadvantage of living in a scrummy, welcoming place is that a quick lunchtime coffee becomes an altogether longer, more alcoholic affair.

Time to establish a routine, and boundaries; perhaps even set a morning alarm...

Baltimore Walking Festival

Baltimore had its Walking Festival over the weekend. Fantastic couple of days:

Saturday afternoon we headed out to Inis Beg, the most northerly of the Carbery Hundred Isles. Weather was a bit 'watery', but cute animal life and adorable view spots (like Pumpkin's Puddle!) made up for that. Definitely a place to revisit.


Sunday was a heritage walk, which was a treat. Got to hear all about the Sack of Baltimore (1631), when 108 villagers were abducted by Algierian pirates (quotes from The Princess Bride ran through my head: "Murdered by pirates is good!"). Amazing tale, and glorious weather.


And after much walking and conversation, we finished up with a good scattering of pints, as my brother would say. Lovely.

All together now

Yesterday was All-Ireland Poetry Day, celebrated with readings in every county in Ireland. Cork's session was hosted by the ever-gracious Clonakilty library (housed in a renovated corn mill), with poets Tom McCarthy, Catherine Phil MacCarthy and Ian Wilde.

Poetry and the Internet share a similar obstacle: at times, it's like sifting for gold; you have to trawl through a lot of rubbish to get to the good stuff (or to continue the corn-grainey theme, there's a whole lotta chaff to separate). Last night was like stumbling upon the perfect internet portal site, maintained by users a bit cleverer, sharper, a bit more visionary than you yourself.

The poems, styles, themes, deliveries were all pleasingly diverse, and while there was talk of writers and writing and writers-on-writing, there was plenty about other media; words that had been inspired by a Rodin sculpture, or a painting, or a friend's turn of phrase. It reminded me of a quote from sculptor Antony Gormley: "I want to start where language ends". And so he sculpts, and perhaps his work inspires a poem, which inspires a painting, which inspires a quirky remark, which a poet overhears and it resonates with them, and on and on.

It was a treat.

Lough Hyne

I love little reconnaissance trips, nipping out just to get a taste of the all-shiny-and-new environment. No pressure to see 'everything', because you can always come back; the idea is to tag some worthy-of-further-exploration places.

Lough Ine (which can never be spelled the same way twice - say NO to standardised spelling)* is such a place. The lake is tidal, with an asymmetric cycle: water rises for 4 hours, and falls for more than 8, until the Atlantic gathers enough height & momentum to push up through the narrow Rapids. Wacky.

And Lough Hyne hill is super-cool. Now, after Madeira, anything that doesn't require climbing gear is pretty much okay, but Lough Oighin (though steep) is a doddle - it's got little steps and reinforced paths and signs and even some railings. It starts out as a foresty stroll, with glimpses of fabulous views as you wind your way up. Rowan trees in autumn plumage; blackberries ripening; eat as you go. The crest of the hill is a carpet of heathers and gorse, with phenomenal panoramic views...


And if you recklessly decide to off-road, and climb down through steep spikey gorsey territory (yes, afterwards I looked like I'd been wearing Crown of Thorn legwarmers), you 'come' (read: plummet) through dark woods filled with all kinds o'mushrooms. Which were duly tagged as worthy of further exploration...

* Although according to the people who validate Irish place names, it should be 'Hyne' in English.

Golden October

So, I'm getting all into hearty autumnal fare. It's the time of nutmeg and cinnamon, sweet potato and pumpkin; soon it should be chilly enough to try out those mulled wine spices already materialising on supermarket shelves.

It's been a popcorn-free day (shocking, I know). The place is filled with the aroma of roasted butternut squash soup, and a little mound of pizza dough is proving in a sunshiney spot. I guess technically, pizza is not particularly harvesty, but it's looking warm and golden, and fits in very nicely.

And if all that treatiness wasn't enough, the summer flowers are still going strong.

Snuggles in the bluster

Brrr... a blustery day here.

With broadband up and running and great mobile reception in my home (praise!), I've been gradually catching up with friends, enjoying leisurely conversations about the ups and downs of life/love/change/work.

They got me thinking me of Boethius, who ponders many of the same themes in The Consolation of Philosophy, which he wrote while in prison awaiting execution. He's a great writer - clear, thoughtful and poignant, and he sums up the whole love-and-sorrow-as-flip-sides-of-the-same-coin thing beautifully:

'For truly in adverse fortune, the worst sting of misery is to have been happy.'

Love that guy.


Photo: sheep snuggling on a blustery day by the Old Copper Mine, Sheep's Head Peninsula, West Cork.

Baggage

My belongings are out of long-term storage. Friday, they bid farewell to Madeira and set sail for me! I dare to dream that I'll be unpacked by Christmas.

Obviously, my popcorn maker isn't in Madeira. Who would be bat-crazy enough to leave such a treasure behind? No, that stayed by my side throughout (and indeed, expired, and was promptly reincarnated).

Apart from organising Madeiran things, today has been all about writing: screenplay work, where words are punchy and concise and waffle-free. Not at all usual for me.

Okay yes, there was a sauna, but that was during an approved break time. And it was for medicinal purposes (cough cough).

Anyhoo, while we're on the subject of stuff, these people buy unclaimed cargo & baggage by the truckload to sell on. Interesting to see what kind of things have been left behind over the years - engagement ring, guidance system for an F16 jet, 40-carat emerald, shrunken head...

No mention of a popcorn maker.

Saturday Heaven

I've settled in Baltimore, which is about as pretty a place as you could be. Especially at sunset.


Idyllic day: leisurely breakfast & writing; then a walk around the cliffs by the Beacon (yes, it does exactly what it says on the tin; see below) - also known as Lot's Wife. The afternoon found me idling over the crosaire with a sunshiney pint.

All very treaty.

Plumbing, Rats and Great Design

Back in the land of broadband - praise!! Several moons have waxed and waned, but at last I've settled and unpacked. More about interim life in time, but first...

So, this morning, two plumbers arrived to investigate a sluggish drain condition I'd inherited. The drain covers in the back garden were opened up, and pipey tools of various lengths appeared. Now, 90% of plumbing problems seem to be caused by those plastic hang-off-the-side-of-the-loo fresheners, so I was expecting one of those.

Instead, they brought up an entire landslide: piles of rock, sand, earth. It became clear why my petite tub of drain unblocker had been unsuccessful. The Head Plumber said that when the houses were built, some pipe hadn't been sealed up; the underground landslide was a situation years in the making.

As he hefted out another pile of gravelly slush, Head Plumber started back: at first he thought he'd got an electric shock, but there were two little cuts in his finger. Two little incisor-type cuts. And then it made sense how all the gunk got into the drains in the first place.

Rats, burrowing.

Tetanus. Leptospirosis. Bubonic plague. Differential diagnoses from House M.D. filled the air...

I remembered seeing a first aid kit when I moved in; it probably wouldn't have anything for rabies, but I fetched it anyway. It contained two safety pins and a single latex glove. Not the most rigorously maintained of emergency supplies...

We resorted to Elizabeth Arden's Eight Hour Cream. Wearing the remaining latex glove, Head Plumber finished clearing and assessed the unsealed pipe. "You wouldn't have an empty whiskey bottle in the house?" I brought out my recycling: we tried out a passata bottle, and some wine bottles, but they were all too skinny. You needed something broader, something chunkier...

Something Absolut.

I went to the freezer, got my trusty bottle of Absolut Citron, decanted it with a twang of regret.

Blessed thing fit like a glove.