Thoughts on the West of Ireland to follow, once I have done the piles of washing and had a kip. In the meantime, though, a short ditty by Flann O’Brien:
Said a Sassenach back in Dun Laoghaire
“I pay homage to nationalist thaoghaire,
But wherever I drobh
I found signposts that strobh
To make touring in Ireland so draoghaire.”
To shew that a deplorable laxity of morals prevails, I need only refer my readers to the section on roads; they will there see a specimen of those of the higher ranks; and for a sample of those in the middling and lower ranks I must send them to Ennis on a Sunday morning; there they will see shops open, goods hanging at the doors for sale, standings in the streets, timber for sale leaning against the sessions-house, in short every appearance of business as there was on the previous market day; and many neighbouring ladies defer their shopping until that day, after paying their devotions to heaven, totally regardless of the fourth commandment. Had I not frequently seen magistrates sharing in this monstrous abuse of the sabbath, I could not have thought there was one in the town; it surely would be a meritorious act of the Lord Chancellor to supersede the abetters of such gross impiety.
The children, even infants, in this town are particularly wicked, and the ears (not of the clergy, magistrates, or church-wardens) are constantly grated by the most shocking and novel cursing and swearing.
A curious custom prevails in a part of this county; when a beast is slaughtered, the smith claims, and in some instances receives the head of the beast; formerly it was more general, but some have sense enough to refuse such a sacrifice to Vulca; probably the custom originated in a renumeration for the use of his sledge and his sinewy arm in knocking down the beast; however it may have been introduced, it is or was practiced lately in the Western isles, for Dr. Johnson in his Tour, page 183, informs us, that the smith has the head, the piper the udder, (how appropriate!) the weaver and others so many pieces, that a small share falls to the laird.
In many places gentlemen are called by the country people by their christian names, without any of those additions, which modern pride expects from inferiors; on the road to Skarriff, I enquired from a poor woman, who lived in a gentleman’s house within view; she said, “Charley;” pray who is Charley? “Arrah don’t you know Charley? Why you must be a stranger in the country, or you’d know Charley O’Callaghan,” meaning Mr. O’Callaghan of St. Catherine’s.
just how disgusting cleaning an oven hood, fan and filter can be. This is the first time I’ve done it in a couple of years. I am not entirely convinced that anyone had cleaned it previously - the kitchen has been here since the flats were built 20-odd years ago. All of it was caked in the slightly worrying sticky oily deposit - it reminds me of the industrial strength glue my father used to use to fix things at home. Only with that, of course, you had a couple of minutes until it became tacky. This stuff is like flypaper (do they still sell that? I haven’t seen it for years, and even then I think it was on a family holiday to Scotland, although I may be conflating the memory with an episode in “The Broons“). I have washed my hands at least six times since starting - every time I go to touch something (anything) else, I have to do it. In other exciting developments today, I have also rearranged the glasses and cups in the kitchen cupboards, been food shopping and done the washing.
That is all.
Back once again from Ashby de la Zouch and a visit to the National Forest - didn’t know we had one, but it is a far better way of reclaiming former collieries and other disused industrial sites than simply filling them with household waste…
So a couple of other quick things before I put the washing on and disappear out for the day to Southall to top up my sunburn and try to buy a shower curtain. March’s CD is done - post if you want a copy…. This month’s coffee is Yemeni, brought back by my dear nephews from the plantation itself near Sana’a following their recent sojourn there - I may be travelling there later in the year…
Oh yeah, Portsmouth beat Manchester United to throw the Premiership race wide open, and Tiger blew the US Masters. And I saw the last 30 minutes of Mel Gibson’s ‘The Passion of Christ’ - visually stunning, but far too Catholic altogether for my tastes. Although I would like to watch the whole film to see just how outrageous his portrayal of the other religious and racial groups is. I also had issues distinguishing it from ‘The Life of Brian’ at time, and frequently expected this kind of silliness to erupt:
was the name of the bar just round the corner from the hotel. The sign was black lettering on an orange background. In three different fonts. “Bar” was normal. In Arial, perhaps. “Frankfurt” followed the standard practice of using Gothic script for a German name. The “Calypso” element was rendered in a wonderful 1970’s style - I have been searching for the font for about 45 minutes now, to no avail. It was bliss. And had evidently not been changed since the bar opened in the late 70’s or early 80’s. An aberration, I thought. Like a kebab house in the provinces. Everywhere, and especially bars, rebrands itself about four times a week in the UK, and in a major cosmopolitan European city, it must be at least twice a day, if not more frequent. Then there was another. Not the same style, but from the same period. And another. In fact, apart from international brands - Habitat, Starbucks, FNAC, etc, most of the businesses seemed to be small concerns with no desire or need to change their image. Even the Keisy supermarkets make very little effort:
Yet despite this anti-branding, there is a conciousness to the naming of businesses. German and Austrian names are prevalent - especially for bars and restaurants - Frankfurt, Duesseldorf and Innsbruck all appeared at least once, and not one of the bars seemed to have any particular Teutonic influence save the name. I imagine it is due to the fact that Germans were the first real mass tourists in Europe, and must have got to Barcelona in large numbers in the late 1960’s.
I’m back again… As Take That sang in one of their unforgettable mid-90’s classics. No blogging proper today - masses of work to do, and then exciting football of the highest order tonight. So in the meantime, an list of things to help me remember what to write about in the next few days:
1. Barcelona
2. Sevilla beating Barcelona
3. Bar signs
4. Cars with their roofs (or should that be rooves?) removed
5. British weather
6. Pork products
7. Irish placelore
8. Good urban design
Today I have mostly been visiting:
Waterloo Station
Tower Bridge
The Tower of London
The Number 15 bus
Notting Hill
Ping Pong on Westbourne Grove
So, I’m back. Made it over the Cork and Kerry mountains to Kenmare for some chowder and the market, back round the Beara Peninsula to Bantry for an icecream. Dinner and drinks in Schull. Then out into the countryside via Goleen to Crookhaven, Barley Cove and Mizen Head (you can search for these, as every place in West Cork seems to have its own website). Fresh wild salmon sandwiches. Lots of alcohol free Becks. Blarney Castle, then back to Cork airport. Almost all of it in glorious sunshine (my head is now peeling again). Go. Flights and car hire cost almost nothing.
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