Transformation Complete !

Finally the outward transformation of our home is complete.

Internally there are though a few jobs to still to do.

As per the redecorating the front room & the addition

of a new computer desk as the present one now

looks decidedly tatty.

A slight set back has occurred in our planning, all due to

my carelessness concerning a ladder, that I postioned wrongly

when leaving the attic in a hurry. The consequence being that

like Humpty Dumpty & Jack (as in Jack & Jill) My head has been

repaired with string (four stitches) and glue but no brown paper!

Mrs Heron has barred me from entering the loft until the wounds

are fully healed; unfortunately I am not good at being a patient :)

There are though other jobs that I can do without a ladder,

a letter box needs to be put on the wall & perhaps the addition

of a door bell or chime, a brass bell would be nice except

that I fear that it might ring in the winds.

Sitting on the window cill is our black cat named Magic,

he was capable of opening the old transom

windows to let himself out and in.

Well let's see if he can manage these new ones!

This now untidy area is our Suntrap, it faces due south

and is the one place that Mrs H can be found enjoying the sun in

the early mornings drinking a coffee and smoking the first ciggy of

the day, whilst still in her dressing gown.

Smoky Visions

The centre of the home in Ireland is the hearth, where traditionally

food was cooked and it's heat was a comfort to all on cold wet days.

It was on the hobs on either side of the fire, that the story teller sat

to relate the tales of old history to eager ears.

This particular hearth is at the home of a friend, we took pictures

and only when we downloaded them saw that what appears to be spirits

in amongst the smoke and strange faces on the brickwork.

Because of what we saw. This gave me the idea of sharing with you.

So be my guest and stare at the photo below to see what may be seen

and share it with us in your comments, become the story teller.

I suggest you click on the photo to enlarge for greater clarity.

Progress report

The scaffolding has all been removed. Before it went my good

lady insisted on climbing it, with shaking knees, to paint the

cottage ( all to do with her being an artist !)

The tub on the left is our water saver for when we have a rare, dry summer.

Can you identify this gadget ?

I'll not keep you guessing it is part of the innards of a washing machine.

I am going to use it as a mechanism to raise the access hatch in the meditation space

without having to climb the ladder to do so. All will be revealed on a later blog.

This is the easy access to the upper loft , the floor is actually

a lower loft in our bedroom.

The meditation space cum sleeping area.

The varnished boards were given to me some years ago,

I like the effect that they give to the west window wall, for it looks old

rather than new.

The insulation material between the rafters is eco-wool and is

made from recycled plastic bottles. It does the same job as that

awful yellow fibreglass that is so damaging to the health.

The square hatch will eventually be capable of being raised from

the floor below. First though I have to complete the panelling.

Despite the working conditions, we frequently take our coffee up

into this room, as we enjoy the energy/atmosphere that it contains.

At last a New Roof !

A new roof of slate, sits neatly above a breathable membrane

that will drain moisuture into a seamless gutter. I shall not miss the old drip

above the front door !

Four young men did all of this work, they worked constantly

throughout the day at a tremendous pace, with cheerfulness

and no unofficial teabreaks.

This was for me a moment of sadness, as the ugliness of the unloosened tin

took on a new shape to bring an end of almost a century of this small home

having a tin roof.

Here she is this ancient home stripped bare, showing

her old bones : and the skills of an earlier age.

Note the old hay used as an insulation.

Eight sacks of old hay were removed and it's dust fell

through minute cracks of the wooden ceiling boards to the floor below.

Now here's Luck ! For the chimney stack was cracked both sides

and no fire escaped to ignite old hay. Old Irish homes were limited

in design by British Law to one chimney and to small windows. The

vernacular builders divided the chimney to serve two rooms. It is thought

that the chimney was cracked came when previous owner removed the

sub division to put liners in the chimney about 40yrs ago.

Note the end wall showing the extent of the old roof

and of how much higher the new one is.

Nice clean new rafters forming a loft space over a rear flat roof.

An improvement in possible sleeping space for new travellers

over what was on offer years ago.

I have now plans in hand to utilize this extra space, for our joint hobbies.

Our small library will eventually make it's way up into the space where

there is full headroom and light.

Also by chance a telephone line passes through on it's way to the studio

and so gives the possibility of moving my corner office to the upper echelons.

Whatever - it will give space to create!

A Corrugated Roof

the bijou cottage

the sleeping shelf

a faery post

The doldrums is a nautical term for an area of the ocean where the air rises and there is no wind, the term was coined by the seafarers of sailing ships. Therefore to be in the doldrums is an expression of having no movement and that is where myself and Mrs Heron are today.

The builders are due soon, firstly to erect scaffolding and then to put a new roof on this bijou cottage, not a big job. We are also to have new windows and a draught proof front door. Which I will enjoy for the last few winters, when the winds were from the north east, I sat with a rug around my head and shoulders. Fortunately we only get the wind from that direction a few days of the year.

In the meantime we have been doing some research on how long this place has had an iron roof. We used the on-line Census for 1901, identified our place and how may people lived here plus their names of course. In those times it had a thatched roof above stone walls and then we visited the 1911 Census to discover that the thatch had been replaced with corrugated iron and a different family was installed.

Which means for approximately 100 years it has remained with the same type of roof covering.

There are two distinct features inside the front room, called here in Ireland the kitchen. One is the wooden post in the corner, through which a ley line passes. I was told this post was the remains of a faery tree that was built into the cottage rather run the risk of cutting it down and receiving bad luck. The other feature which can be found in traditionally built cottages (modernly described as 'vernacular architecture') is the sleeping shelf above the front door. Up there would have slept the passing stranger or traveller. The shelf is approximately 6 feet long x about 20 inches high x 30 inches wide, suitable for a rather slimly built person !

Today it is a hideaway for odds and ends. The jug-like container in the foreground is yet another product of the Tinker, just as was the copper scuttles in an earlier blog.

The original building had two rooms: a sleeping room for the parents and the kitchen, which was fitted with settle beds that closed up in the mornings to provide bench like seating. In this confined space, a family of 6 children and their parents lived. It was from one of the sons of the family that I bought this cottage. By then an extra room had been added at the rear and I added more. I also dowsed and found a source of water within a few feet of the rear wall, a bore hole was drilled and water was brought into the cottage from the well by an electric pump.

The previous owner came visiting as soon as all facilities were connected and to him I gave the honour of using every item in the bathroom. He sat with me when I lit the stove and kept touching the pipes from the back boiler to feel the gradual heat that was emanating from them, as hot water flowed into the copper cylinder situated in the hot press. The year was 1991 and eighty years on from when his parents first moved in.

It is very hard now to imagine the privations that the family went through during the course of their lives here, such as walking a quarter of mile down the road to the communal well in all winds and weathers frequently throughout the day and every day of the year.

This is a cosy warm home in the winter and a cool one on hot summer days. Strangely when it rains it is not as noisy as you might imagine and when it snows there comes a soft swishing noise. It can be though quite worrying in high winds, for there is always a fear of a sheet of iron breaking loose and letting the rain enter through our wooden ceilings. All of these things we will miss and that is sometimes the price of modernization, in that we cut ourselves off from the natural world.

Summer's work - Winter's fuel

From the middle of May to July or even later the cutting and saving of the turf starts. It is an annual ritual for a lot of families in rural Ireland today, even though other fuels are used such as oil, coal and electricity. It is turf that is still the main fuel in the countryside and the rural towns.

The turf bank in the background & Bog Cotton.

In the last century it was quite common for these flowers to be

collected and stuffed into pillows.

The freshly cut machine turf drying in the sun, each piece

has to be turned frequently by hand before it can be stacked.

There are many different styles of stacking the turf

from the large heaps (that remind me of ancient beehive huts)

to these small stacks that are called footings.

In a wet summer the heap will dry qicker than the footings

because of the way in which it is built , it allows the rain to run off.

Constructed in similar style to the beeehive huts that are built

out of dry stone which is angled upwards, preventing the ingress

of rain into the chamber which remains dry.

When the Turf is brought home it is stored in a shed or built as a

large freestanding heap called a clamp in the backyard.

Life and ....

Several years ago an incident occurred at my home whilst I was three counties away on a sunny afternoon enjoying myself in the company of friends. Immediately on returning home I realized that all was not as I had left it.

For the back door was wide open, because robbers had forced their way into my home and every room had been disturbed, the bedroom was in complete and utter disarray.

I was numb with shock not really knowing what to do next, my first action was a 999 call to the Garda (Police) I then slowly took stock of the situation to see what was missing and what had been damaged.

The greatest loss/hurt was not monetary. It was the bald fact that my home and inner sanctum had been invaded by strangers, my privacy taken from me. My emotions were in turmoil as I went from anger to disappointment, to anger combined with sadness, to outrage. Finally I came through the storm to recover the status quo.

The experience enriched my senses for it gave me a small measure of what it must be like on a larger scale to have your home - country in a state of oppression and invaded by a foreign power.

Thus I have been feeling rather distraught and angry this week, after reading about the unnecessary deaths and injured activists that were on the Humanitarian Aid ship Mavi Marmara 130 miles off the coast Israel, in international waters.

This was an act of piracy and willful murder by Israel. The Somali fishermen are also conducting acts of piracy. To whit an international force is patrolling those waters in order to protect shipping. As I write this blog another humanitarian aid ship the Rachel Corrie is steaming towards Gaza with supplies - will it's activists too become victims ?

[Rachel Corrie you may recall was a 23 yr old American activist who was murdered by an Israeli Army bulldozer in 2003]

This madness, this sick disregard for human lives, the propaganda machine and aggressive military machinations of Israel have been continuously funded by the USA for dozens of years, costing them trillions of dollars.

All it takes is for one brave phone call from the President of the USA to put a Stop to this insanity!

Red Bull Footstick

Barrow beach & ford

Footstick

Pinkeens at play

The road of the disappearing hare

This sunny Sunday I decided to go on a solitary walk, away from the tarmac and on to the old roads used these days by the farmers and their cattle. Walking speed is reduced to an amble once you leave the council road. It suited my purpose, giving time to listen and enjoy the surroundings; as well as to think.

I noticed cows with calves in one field taking shelter from the hot sun and a large bull looking benign, standing quietly in his paddock on the opposite side of the road. I raised my camera and asked him to look at me 'I want to see the whole of your face please ?' and he turned his great head remaining in pose until I said 'Thank you'.

My route led me to one of this land's three sister rivers The River Barrow, the other two are the Nore and the Suir which rise within a few miles of each other, to meander through familiar named places and join as one great river that flows into the sea at Waterford. The Barrow, perhaps named after the goddess Berba, runs a few hundred metres to the rear of our home, to a place where it is both narrow and shallow, providing a ford for sturdy tractors. The banks are about 3 metres above the rivers' summer level and a footstick leaps the gap.

Here at the ford I stopped. It is truly our nearest sandy beach, one that on quiet summer afternoons when I lived alone, I would visit with a book, my pipe, a bottle of wine to while away time in peace and in perfect harmony with nature. Today I sat for a while and listened to the babbling Barrow as it flowed over stones. The sound isn't constant, it has a rhythmic sequence. It was to rivers such as these that

the bardic-filidh came to compose their poetry and to travel in a shamanic way.

As I looked at the shallows there was a shoal of pinkeens, or you might call them tiddlers or fry, they were darting in and out of the shallows, I was very conscious that it was the vibration from my movement on the bank that made them quite so active and so I stood still as possible to get the best photo of them.

From across the other side of the river, there came the sound of a cow pumping water. ref www.riferam.com/pasture/index.htm

She was a brown cow one of those with baleful eyes, as she finished drinking and came near me, I asked her to come closer to fill the lens and she did. Following this I tuned and ambled along only to see a smallish animal running towards me, at first I thought it might have been a hungry fox, then I realized it was a hare and by the time I had the camera up it had disappeared from sight. Similar thing happened with a field of sunbathing rabbits, that as soon as I stepped closer they all bolted. Perhaps I could have a camera attached to my hat so that the raising of an eyebrow takes a snap; I am able to raise one higher than the other just in case you are wondering.

Bealtainne - May

A decorated Maybush

The blossoming May tree with a well hidden

in it's roots.

Mare with a foal that was born

on 5th May

A possible Grand National winner ??

New Chest of Drawers !

I get an earthy sense of May or Bealtainne, as it is in Irish Gaelic, a few days before the start of the month, a quickening or enlivening of the inner self, so much so that I understand what is meant in the old poem about 'the merry month of May'. For yes, I feel Merry and slightly Loopy - actually it is with me now as I write this blog :-)

There are many folk traditions throughout Ireland and indeed Europe to do with the this month, too many for me to do them justice. Locally in the mountains the Maybush is still decorated with rags, ribbons and egg shells and some people get up early in the morning to wash their face and hands in the dew.

The swallows have returned though there are few near us, so I am wondering whether this is may be a portend for bad weather. I did see a huge amount of them on the West coast the other week and I heard a Cuckoo there too and I have yet to hear one near us this year.

I have been rather busy this last week assisting Mrs Heron rearranging and redecorating the roost (bedroom) The colour she chose is I am told Ashes of Roses, though to me it is a sort of lilac-pink, which I find amusing because it is similar to what it once was before herself deigned to migrate from Brighton (UK) to join me on this sacred island. As they say here 'What goes round comes round' and that is true.

Being a simple male little did I realize at the time I agreed to assist, that it was not going to be just a paint job or that it would entail the purchase of new curtains, bed-coverings, a chest of drawers and a decorative cushion solely to catch the light! To be honest though it does look and feel rather more comfortable than it did. I think this transition has much to do with the change of energies it being Bealtainne.

Connemara, Co. Galway

Connemara

Coastal mountains

Cool Atlantic waters, tranquil, flood, surround

seaborne stone that glows in golden light,

A caress from Sun, a gift, a gentle kiss, a farewell.

For night is soon to birth.

All the world has heard of Connemara, a very special area in Co. Galway and it was to Carna, a small coastal village, that we headed off to early on Saturday morning for Carna's Sean Nós Festival and to visit friends. The journey of 3 hours was eased by using the motorway, which I generally try to avoid because they are so boring, my preference is for the quieter and more scenic type of road.

Many are the families that have lived long in Connemara, of who's sons & daughters have travelled out of this land to settle in every part of the world.

One in particular is Seosamh O hEanai (Joe Heaney) 1919 - 1984 a native of Carna, who spent much of his life living in England, Scotland and New York. Heaney was an artist-in-residence at the University of Washington in Seattle. The Joe Heaney Collection of the University of Washington Ethnomusicology Archives was established after Heaney's death in 1984. The Féile Chomórtha Seosamh O hEanai (Joe Heaney Commemorative Festival) is held every year in Carna.

In the pub where the Sean Nós singing was taking place, all attention was given to the singers, even pints of the black milk are left on the bar, customers stand with their backs to the counter and no conversation takes place, that is apart from the necessary hushed whisper to order another pint from the barman.

The long melodic notes of the singers in gaelic tongue, fit in very well with this land they suit the skies, the special quality light that landscape painters thirst for, the rolling fogs and the long waves that sweep the shore. Their songs and clarity of voice sweep before them conjuring images in the listeners minds, to such an extent that it matters not a jot whether you understand the language.

I feel that it would be remiss of me to ignore another family, who promote their Gaelic culture by contributing to the arts of literature, song and music, the Mac Con Iomaires.

(I am not sure whether I have done this correctly, if not please paste references into YouTube)

www.youtube.com/watch?v=e4pUOpdgTWM&feature=related

5:44

Joe John Mac Con Iomaire - Caoineadh na dTrí Mhuire

www.youtube.com/watch?v=MF2CfAjwcAs&feature=related

4:24

Colm & Darrach Mac Con Iomaire & Frank Tate - 'Frailach' & gan ...