Down The Rocky Road – Wholesome

 

The Sky over our house

The Irish weather can conjure up some of the most spectacular scenes and striking situations: angry skies with clouds that pass by at speeds usually reserved for planes; wispy white stratus clouds that glow orange underneath at sunset with a hint of grey on the darker side; rain at the front of your house and sun at the back; gusts of wind that blow so hard, you fear you may be used as a soft landing by a couple of rooftiles. The week before last featured all of the above; despite that, we managed to spend some time on tour. However, this past week was glorious: low-to-mid twenties, nearly no rain, and the fluffiest of clouds straddling the sky. For me, I have always liked my summers at just above room temperature. If we had remained in Spain, we would have witnessed its incineration first-hand.

On Saturday 9 August, we took a trip to Lough Allen, a fairly large body of water that separates southern from northern Leitrim. Fun fact: because of the long, thin shape of Leitrim, it is impossible to cross it without entering another county. The county mainly responsible for Leitrim’s two halves is Roscommon: a region spoken about in Ireland as if it were full of witches and ghouls. In the last two referenda, it was the county that voted most against the liberalisation of Ireland’s previously strict laws of childbirth and marriage, and that kind of sealed its reputation.

We would only pass through it for a few minutes, but we took some garlic and a bottle of holy water just in case.

The Scardan waterfall sits high above the steep hills of Lough Allen, surrounded by tall spruces, taller larches, willows and hawthorns alongside heather-clad open spaces with the feel of a subalpine climate. As you turn off the main road along the lough, and ascend the steep lane towards the waterfall, the first thing you notice is the sudden change in the light: it becomes softer but somehow there’s more of it.

Climbing higher, we reached a fork in the road and a few groups of hikers with their Nordic gear talking. There is a small car park beside the entrance to the steps down to the waterfall and we went to take a look. I must say it wasn’t exactly Niagara, but everything around it was truly beautiful.

Lough Allen from the track by Scardan waterfall

On Monday 11 August, we made it to the Ballinamore Family Festival, the highlight of the summer. Lasting a week and two weekends, it’s a cultural marvel and an experience that brings joy to everyone. It’s glorious fun in an imaginative, understated and happy sense: the week includes live music every day in the centre and an agricultural show, but there are other events, such as a makeshift water slide on the grassy banks of the park, mural painting, an adult-child race, kayaking on the river, a children’s fancy dress, an angling competition, a bonny baby contest, afternoon tea with the old folks, flower arranging, a women’s oasis at a local pub and a men’s shed open day (whatever that is). That’s about an eighth of all the events – it’s wholesome and it’s fun; but most of all there isn’t a single moment that you feel overwhelmed by the crowds.

View of the Ballinamore Family Festival children's fun event

We went to the children’s fun afternoon, which included the water slide, as well as a petting farm, bouncy castle, football skills contest, and a water gun fight. Needless to say everyone under the age of 18 was going to get wet. The queues for the water slides were at times quite long but the children waited patiently, except for a few, who found some mates in the line to let them sneak in. Our three did their first run with some apprehension, but after that they slid down with more and more gusto.

The children were soaking wet and we had forgotten to take a change of clothes with us. Luckily there is a Tesco supermarket a few minutes’ walk away. Hilariously enough, when we arrived there, a lot of other parents had had the same issue.

After a lot of complaining and having spent quite a lot on clothes, we walked into town where the BUGS (Ballinamore Ukulele Group of Singers) were performing, followed by the Wren Boys, a huge number of folk musicians accompanied by the town’s talented dancers and singers. Considering Ballinamore has a population of just over a thousand, it punches well above its weight in terms of what it has to offer, and here in this setting it was clearly on display. About 15 to 20 per cent of the town had come out to watch and about 5 per cent had appeared on the stage.

Now, you may be thinking that a group of ukulele players was going to be a rather naff and slightly absurd spectacle. But when about 12 of them get together, accompanied by a drummer and a guitarist, using different harmonies, and directed by a terrific lead singer, the results are exceptional. Banging out some anthemic numbers, they had terrific stage presence.After them came the Wren Boys and a host of accoutrements, accompaniments and adornments. They arrived being led by a goat, some music, and some flames lofted high above them on poles. Sitting around the outside of the stage with their respective instruments, they filled the entire periphery, and didn’t hold back. One of the maxims is absurdity, especially ugliness. Three dancers were dressed in thick blond wigs and grandmothers’ clothes, one with a beard, one with awful false teeth, and one with a hairy chest.

Ballinamore in concert

After a short announcement concerning a recently departed and well-liked member, they hit the ground running with a series of well-known folk songs, such as The Mason’s Apron and Drowsy Maggie. Accompanying them, the McCartin School of Irish Dancing proffered a number of their different age groups for various songs, followed by a recital by a local story teller. A rendition of Fisherman’s Blues rounded it all off and sent us home smiling.

The children had a ball. In fact, Milda has turned into quite a performer; she also has a feeling for rhythm and style. She keeps asking to go to dance school, and watching her skipping to some of the songs put a light on in my head. I think I’ll take a little look into enrolling her in a group this September.

Strandhill Beach, County Sligo

Tuesday was another eventful day. The plan was to go to Gleniff Horseshoe in northern Sligo to see this geological phenomenon, but it was such a beautiful day, I thought we should go to the seaside first. I didn’t tell the children until the sea was in sight, as that would have caused general mayhem in the back of the car. It’s only an hour away and it’s a lovely ride: we drove past some spectacular scenery and arrived at Strandhill Beach, County Sligo, with a group of very jumpy young people behind the front seats. I found a parking place, the last one on the strip, and we walked to the area where people were conglomerating around a cluster of restaurants and cafés. Most of them were offering the usual seaside trash food, so we settled on one place that made toasted sandwiches. It was not cheap – in fact it would end up costing about half the price of our evening meal with desserts, coffees and drinks.

After shedding a bucket load of cash, we decided to hit the beach. The girls in the café warned us the sea wasn’t too safe for swimming in and we should go round to the next beach, which was protected by a land promontory. However, we took the chance as I could see other families on the beach.

Memories of last year’s epic road trip around the Iberian peninsula came streaming back on this wide-open Atlantic beach with extraordinary views of the surrounding landscape. I also remember the sea in Portugal on the wide beaches: that was cold. This was slightly better, but only just. I think it’s all about the ambient temperature of your location: Ireland would have been 10 to 15 degrees colder than Portugal, so getting in the water would have been easier to handle than down south.

But let us just say we didn’t go in far because there seemed to be a lot of undercurrents. The children played happily on the beach for quite a long time, which allowed us to have a rest: it’s been a long summer. We started in mid-June with the end of their school year in Valencia. They have been with us the whole time since we packed up and cleared out the apartment, and I have to say I am particularly looking forward to their return to school on 25 August.

We passed Gleniff Horseshoe Mountain on the way home

As the school holidays are nearly over, we want to do as much exploring as possible. On Wednesday 13 August, we took the children to ninja school and afterwards we went on a trip to the highlands of County Fermanagh over the border. We had travelled through the area just south of Enniskillen, and an Irish friend of mine told me a little about what places of interest there are in that region, but actually going there and seeing it for ourselves reinforced it.

View over Lough Macnean

In the mountainous area that straddles the border, there is a place known as the Stairway to Heaven. Its real name, Cuilcagh Boardwalk Trail, suggests it’s a good day’s hike, but it was already approaching six in the evening, so we drove on the loop that goes high up above Lough Macnean, delivering more stunning views. The children wanted to stop and take a good look at the panorama below, so I found a parking space and we all alighted for fresh air and photos. We decided to take a stop in Belcoo for a drink and a little walk. That meant crossing back into the Republic of Ireland and then once more into the United Kingdom.

The border between the two sovereign entities throws up some astonishing ironies, including a highway that alternates between Irish and British territory four times within 10 kilometres. I think that fact combined with Brexit is the Karma the UK was due for dividing up so much of the world along such random and arbitrary lines. The final cherry on the top of the cake of fortune is now Ireland is a far more progressive and fairer country to live in than its nearest neighbour.

Belcoo, in County Fermanagh, is reached after a minute’s ride back into the Republic, then across the bridge into Northern Ireland. I stopped to ask a lady walking from the north with a bagful of shopping whether there were any pubs with decent gardens for the children. I didn’t realise I’d caused a ten-car traffic jam until I moved off, but she told us to put the car in a spot just opposite the park, where there was a decent pub. I have to say she was right: the pub was run by a lovely man, and he seemed to be incredibly busy, but we all got drinks.

There was horse racing on the TV above the bar and Milda was fascinated by it. Dainoris also had his attention pricked by the action, and they both sat there happily a row behind the bar watching it. Livia oscillated between us outside on a table and her siblings, but in the end sat watching the TV. Not for long: she managed to knock her drink over and decided to come out to us.

Belcoo Park

Dainoris is not the most observant of people: I can ask him to pick up a red shirt on a grey floor right in front of him and he will completely miss it. But when it comes to food, drink, toys and playgrounds, he has the eyes of a hawk. We decided to go for a walk in the large park opposite the pub as it has a selection of truly majestic mature trees, but Dainoris spotted in the very far distance, and through a tiny gap between the shrubbery, a playground. He made a few gestures of desperation while I tried to explain to him the utter magnificence of finding a tree with an evening shadow of half an acre, but he wasn’t going to let a remarkable spectacle like that get in the way of yet another playground, especially one with a zipline.

I would go as far as saying that the success of a daytrip is dependent on the quality of the playground Dainoris manages to locate. I have recently tried to go to places without one to get the children into other activities with a small degree of success, but for as long as I can remember, the playground remains a staple of our journeys.

As I mentioned, the park had some incredible trees in it. It reminded me of the park in Mersch in Luxembourg, which had a terrific number of important trees. In both places, the landscaper had used sightlines and the position of the sun at different seasons and times of day to make a truly stunningly arranged arboretum and a real magnet for locals and tourists. I highly recommend a walk around this park in any weather. We drove home satisfied that we had made the most of the day while we wait for the work on our house to start.

We are reaching the business end of the summer holidays when we have to start thinking about the upcoming school term, and also for the beginning of the renovation works. Bonny Bee is spending more time working and earning a small fortune to pay for a bathroom for us. We sat down one evening a couple of weeks ago and chose the bathroom we wanted – there is something therapeutic about choosing something important for the house.

ADDENDUM:

Second anniversary: a frank observation 

Just a couple of days ago would have been two years since we left our lovely house in Germany. For a long time it seemed likely that we would stay and buy a house in Spain, but there is more to living in Spain than just that big orange ball in the sky. Shiny Object Syndrome is what tends to draw people to the Mediterranean, but peel back the façade and it’s no different to anywhere else. In other words, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, and I say that without a single iota of irony.

When northern Europeans, known as guiris in coastal Spain (mainly Brits but it’s extended to include any pasty-coloured northerner), head south for a holiday, they may see the turquoise sea inviting them to take a running jump; they may hear upbeat music in a minor key; they may want to help themselves to a bowl of paella with a cool caña on a sweltering restaurant terrace at 9 or 10 in the evening, they may go to an outdoor salsa or bachata dance class, or indeed find themselves being whisked off to a beach party that goes on until the sun comes up. But even those who live there might only do one or two of those activities a couple of times a year, if that.

Because remember this: when you live anywhere as an ordinary resident, including at the coast in the south of Europe, you are a resident too. This means you do all the humdrum things everyone else does: go shopping, fill in forms, pay bills, go to work, cook, wash up, and plan some home improvements. The tourists might be sitting in a café next door or lounging on the beach nearby, but that’s their bubble; we see them from near or far but neither world actually intersects very much. They may speak the same language as you do, maybe even have the same regional dialect as you, but you don’t consider yourself one of them anymore.

The irony is, that although you yourself start to see things from the point of view of a local in your adopted city, the locals don’t treat you like one of them. In fact, in Valencia and probably in Spain in general, most people would throw us in the same basket as the guiris, even if some of us try so very hard to integrate. And this is the issue here – we found it a great deal easier to be ourselves and integrate in the north than in Spain.

I believe the reason lies in the fact that southern European cultures are what I would call dominant, while those of the north are what I would call complementary. Dominant cultures tend to suffocate, impede and in some cases disparage the practices of what one would call allochthonous cultures to the extent that incomers feel constrained or even apologetic for not being exactly like the long-term residents. The incomers will find themselves the target of a torrent of criticism for hanging around with their own type and not integrating. My reply was always “well firstly, you have to let me integrate.”

In the south, the media, with the clear and blatant compliance of successive obsequious governments, have managed to persuade the residents that removing hundreds of Airbnb residences from accreditation will be the panacea to the housing crisis, even though we all know it will probably just lead to a drop in income. However, let us also note that the number of second residences Spanish people own (and leave empty for eight to ten months of the year) is a much more likely cause of the lack of housing for Spanish citizens. The fact that some of these owners are also holding on to two properties and yet it’s the foreigners that get blamed and slapped with extra bills and taxes is an outrageous act of sanctimonious hypocrisy and self-unawareness only matched by the government’s acquiescing to this national state of victimhood. Oh, and maybe by the hilarious fact that some British people are moving to Benidorm because back home there are too many foreigners.

For the sake of balance, in the north, the situation is framed another way: the media is always banging on about “not enough room” and invasions of immigrants from countries further afield eroding their advanced civilisation. They also spread lies about the alleged terrible state of public services, the overcrowded public transport and congested roads, the saturation of the job market, the steep rise in house prices and rents, and blame immigrants for this. But the truth is that they, along with successive compliant governments, have intentionally neglected to force those who bought cheap building land and take no affirmative action to actually use it for the purpose it was sold to them.

The secret to governments deflecting the blame for their lack of action and landowners earning a great deal of wealth in the housing market is this: don’t do anything. Let more and more people come and live there until the place is so overcrowded that there is an outcry for more housing. Then you can charge the earth, and immigration can be blamed on the shortage of affordable housing and crumbling public services. For totally different reasons, but by both intentionally failing (or rather refusing) to act, landowners and politicians can make a lot of capital out of scapegoating people that don’t look, dress or talk like you. But at the end of everything, that fact can be way too unappealing for the casual racists and their enablers in the media.

Down The Rocky Road – The Transformation Starts

 

It's going to rain

There’s a saying in Ireland: if you can’t see the mountain, it’s raining. If you can see the mountain, it’s going to rain. This is an undeniable truth: in Ireland it does rain a lot, but it’s not torrential like in Spain. It’s a kind of interlude in the dry weather. That doesn’t mean everyone stays indoors; au contraire – it means people adapt. Pub gardens have plenty of shelters, such as awnings, umbrellas, verandas and pergolas. People wear t-shirts but they may have tied the sleeves of their raincoats around their waists.

Chanclas

Livia, however, has taken defiance of the weather to a whole new level: she wears her rubber sandals everywhere. Originally for the beach, these sandals have been in an Irish lake, a French museum, and up a mountain. Wearing a long coat, a dress and some pink chanclas from a shop in Valencia, she trudges around happily and doesn’t want to change. If I were to wear a similar configuration, I would soon find I had a reputation, but she rocks her outfit like a badass princess.

Over the last week or two, I have been building a rockery with help from the children, and as a reward, they like to go out in the car for a drive or a walk. Milda has some strong ideas of where she would like to go: lake, mountain, city… On Wednesday 30 July, we ended up on the eastern bank of Lough Allen, where we stopped at a leisure area and took a stroll out into the water on the piers. The day after, we ended up in Carrick-On-Shannon where we had a walk around the town centre and through the park. And on Friday 1 August, we took a road trip on the Bellavally Gap, a spectacularly bleak mountain highway that cuts through the remote, weathered landscape revealing places up to 50 kilometres away.

Benbeg trailhead 

We stopped at the foot of Benbeg, a local peak covered in forest and free-to-roam sheep, and decided to take a little walk. However, after a short distance we were so enchanted, we just carried on, much to the chagrin of Livia, who absolutely despises any form of exercise. She was, however, in her chanclas, and about to have a tremendous experience that she would never forget.

Fairy waterfall

Many Irish people believe in fairies, and coming to this place, it was very easy to see why: there were streams as wide as Milda’s arm trickling through the rocks and moss, some ending on a drenched clump of heather or grassy overhang before plunging into a mini pool below and continuing their descent to the valley below. Surrounded by mossy banks, thick fir forests and gnarled yew trees, the acoustics were hauntingly silent with a faint echo coming off the hill. A similar kind of sound to being out at night in deep snow.

As we continued our ascent, we came across some round golden sandstone in a dried groove cut by a stream when the rains are heavier. By this time, the children had bought into and invested heavily in the idea that this was the fairies’ domain. For them this golden sediment was fairy money. They were wondering if we would see any – and then we reached the altitude of the midges. Not only were they very insistent on swarming around us, they were also a little biting. The best way to reduce the onslaught of midges is to keep moving, something Tronald McDump the Carrot-faced Caligula was unable to do on his golf courses in Scotland last week.

Views from the Benbeg ascent

We reached the clearing after a good workout and stood there surveying the vast landscape spread out before us. In the distance we could make out lone mountains, jagged outcrops, majestic lakes, and fields as far as the eye could see. I too had been engulfed in the fairy narrative, and on the way down I decided it would be a lovely addition to our rockery to take a stone from this most magical of places, but I felt the need to ask, and so did Dainoris. I found the rock I thought we could take, and we both asked the fairies, who seemed content with our pleadings. Later, though, we came across another rock and upon removal, it left a mossy outline, so we put it back. I took a much smaller stone instead, and the day after we would put both on the rockery.

Fairy country

Saturday 2 August was to be a very important day: it was the day we would receive a visit from the man in charge of the overhaul of our house. He came at 11 in the morning, and we discussed the timeline and pricing for the bathroom and outhouse. About two weeks from that point, we would get the ball rolling. He then gave us the address of some wholesalers where we could find some decent tiles for a very good price, and we had an extremely quick lunch of gnocchi and bacon before we jumped in the car and headed to the tile wholesaler in Longford. Having no dessert often means the children are obliged to behave themselves for fear of missing out on an ice cream or cake later on. A perfect strategy.

We found the place and what a find it was – just a warehouse opening at the end of an industrial estate. Like a lot of things in Ireland, you can find yourself with your mouth agape when you least expect it. We gave him the measurements for the tiles we needed in the two rooms, both floor and walls, and he gave us a price there and then. We ordered them and he said they’d be with us in the next week or two.

We then drove along the scenic road to Athlone, where there is a huge DIY chain with a wide selection of bathrooms. We found virtually everything we needed despite the children making it difficult with their screaming, running and hiding antics. I have found the best way to deal with the situation is to just ignore them and they often start to get bored. When they don’t, a furious diatribe and threats of no dessert usually does the trick.

We got talking to the guy working in the bathrooms section, and we got onto the subject of where we had been living prior to Ireland. He started: he lived a little north of Valencia. I showed amused surprise and rattled off a few suggestions: Massalfassar, Gilet, Puçol? No, Sagunto. He was pretty flabbergasted when we told him we used to live in El Puig, but even more so when he told us he worked in Carrer de la Barraca in Cabanyal, one road over from our office on Carrer de la Reina. How crazy is that?

We spent half an hour agreeing with each other on why we felt we needed to leave Valencia, and went on our way to the car, as we had promised Milda we would go to the lake. It was this moment that I felt vindicated in our choice to extract ourselves from Spain – I can honestly say we had found another person who was immune to Shiny Object Syndrome, and I understood we had chosen the correct path.

The Lough Ree Inn: the place only opened on 1 August

I took a look on the maps app and found a location about seven minutes out of town by Lough Ree called Coosan Point. It was late afternoon by now, but we were adamant that we wanted a reward. And what a place we had stumbled upon: a shiny new pub sat by the water just above a very well-furnished playground and a marina with a rocky promontory and – holy of holies – a Mr Whippy ice cream van. This was like stepping into family dreamland. The pub itself had a host of tables in the beer garden, and a light interior with pool table, restaurant area and coffee corner, overlooking the immense lake itself.

Ducks, boats, fishers

We spent a good couple of hours here and didn’t regret a minute. We took a walk at the water’s edge with some soft ice creams, the children played in the playground for a bit, while we took a break from them, and then we sat on the terrace of the pub with coffees and soft drinks. I think we will return, and pretty soon.

What I have found here in Ireland is a combination of everything from northern Europe that I had missed in my two years in south-eastern Spain: the abundance of watery open spaces and their bridges, green mountains, winding roads, dark tree-covered paths and lanes, bustling villages with small shops, parks, inns, and friendly people contented with their lot. 

But most of all, there is not the cynicism associated with Valencian culture, where you feel the need to consider everyone within ten metres as your competitor. There is a much more open and honest notion of being part of a team than the low-trust societies of the south, where you need to show documentation even to accept a parcel at your door.

The first stage of the garden transformation is complete now: I have to extend it because I bought more plants than we needed, but it looks great. When it’s done, there will also be a pond, a sheltered seating area, and a viewing platform. I’m also planning to start planting the tree grove I would like to create in our meadow – there will be some rocks as a central feature or altar, and sacred trees round it.

All in good time.

Down The Rocky Road – Mown, Mown, Mown

Carrick-On-Shannon is a great place for a walk and a drink

I would like to introduce you to the Irish word craic, pronounced the same as crack. It actually comes from Northern English, where it meant “chat” or “gossip”. If you said “what’s the crack?”, it meant “what’s been happening?” Someone might say “there was some good crack at the pub last night”, meaning the banter flowed freely and there were a lot of fun things to talk about. This takes on an extra meaning in Ireland, where it also refers to a very special type of amusement – the kind that everyone in your circle finds hilarious although others might not. Sometimes the target will see the funny side, and other times not.

For example, in one railway station, they stuck the timetable on the electronic door so anyone wanting to read it would get close before it moved to the side. And when you move over to read it, the door would of course close, taking the timetable with it. People who discovered this sat there watching the stream of unfortunates try to read the timetable. It’s dark humour but even the head of Health and Safety at Haringey Council would chuckle. That’s the purest definition of craic.

On Wednesday morning, we became victims of this ourselves. The evening before, the children went to look for something in the car and left three of the doors open all night. I discovered this when I left our caravan to check the post. The post box was empty, but a letter was sitting on the driver’s seat in the car, doors still wide open. Utterly brilliant trolling; made my day – we didn’t stop grinning from breakfast to dinner.

I have also been involved in this activity myself: before we left Spain, the previous owner of our property told me of a man in his early eighties, a former farmer who lives just round the corner from us and was looking forward to meeting us. He is a local legend as only a few years ago he was brutally gored by a bull, its horn ripping through him, causing him to spend a year in hospital recovering. The story of his resilience made it to the TV and press as well. But he is a bit of a character and everyone around knows of him. As we were coming from Spain, I bought him an appropriate present: a bullfighter’s hat and cape. I hope he wears them at the pub.

An exhibit at Glenview Folk Museum

On Monday 14 July we went to Glenview Folk Museum near Ballinamore. It’s packed full of artifacts from past times, and the man who runs the place takes you on a tour round the various objects and displays at lightning speed. There’s a salvaged food truck from the 1920s in there, a massive collection of eggcups, an early electric sports car from 50 years ago (no joke), and a huge number of exhibits from different genres, such as apothecary, newsagent, café, domestic, and automotive.

Just a year ago, we would not have been able to spend so long in such a place, but things are changing and the children are getting a lot more interested in this type of thing. Except Livia, who shut off after a while and went outside.

The children look on as sheep eat away at their inheritance

The next morning, we woke up to find several sheep outside our window: they had escaped from their field and had decided to come over for a mini-break. The weather had been quite changeable, so we took them to a soft play centre in Fenagh Visitors’ Centre. It’s always a huge surprise to show up in small villages and find such facilities – we have virtually everything we need around us, despite being a million miles from a large city.

Seán's sheep

Seán often appears in the area either herding his sheep with a quad bike or checking on his land to make sure the sheep are secure. He promised me one of the lads would come up and cut our land as the grass was starting to get very tall. A lot of it had been appropriated by reeds, and it needed a proper tractor to mow it.

On Monday we were in Longford at a mower shop – I bought a very heavy-duty brush cutter and strimmer at a specialist shop, and then we went to Carrick-On-Shannon to buy some garden tools, such as a rake and a spade. While we were there, Seán called and said one of the lads was coming up to cut our grass. We hurried back from Carrick to find almost all of it done. What would have taken an ordinary mower at least a full day had been done with the tractor in a matter of minutes.

The tractor mows part of our field

The lad on the tractor was 17 years old and handled the immense beast like a vacuum cleaner in an empty room. I gave him a couple of notes for his efforts and we had a chat. Clever kid, had a lot to say – he could have been 40 years old. Anyway, it seems with all these people we’ve met, we’re on the way to becoming part of the local fabric.

We also took a trip to a place called Bóthar na Naomh, a country park with a predetermined path to follow. The shorter route is only a couple of kilometres, and mainly on the flat, so we decided to try it out on the children. I remember when we went to the Garbí near Sagunto for the first time – they complained a great deal about having to walk along the stony paths through all the trees. By the fifth time, it was much easier although Livia was still reluctant.

Here, things hadn’t changed, at least initially. For the first couple of hundred metres, Livia was enraged to the point of explosion that anyone would actually want to go for a walk anywhere, but once she had calmed down and saw where she was, she started to enjoy it. The nature there is resplendent, with a mix of woodland wildflowers and open field ones too. There were meadowsweet, St John’s wort, cornflower, mountain ash. fireweed, syringa, wild orchid, lupin, hollyhock, bee blossom, salvia, saxifrage, hawthorn, elm, beech, oak, cypress, and those are just the ones I could name.

We walked through the forested area, taking longer than usual, because Dainoris and Milda wanted to look at the flora. This was incredibly encouraging. Livia was starting to get in the mood as well. Then we came to the open part, which straddled the edge of a lake and some wide open pastures with cows grazing. Except one: standing menacingly in the meadow, staring at us like a coked-up night club bouncer looking for some action, was an angry-looking cow with an expression of world-weariness mixed with utter paranoia. She seemed the type of cow that would kick your car windows in and steal all your belongings while you and your family were sitting in there terrified. See if you can tell in the photo which one…

Yes, that’s her, the ruthless bovine colossus.

The children had been asking about doing some more activities, especially ones with meaning, which was a credit to their personalities. A week or two ago, there was a poster in the window of The Corner café advertising a Martial Arts course for kids. I proposed it to them and they were delighted. Every day they kept asking, “are we going to Ninja School today?”

So on Wednesday 23 July, we drove to the community hall in Ballinamore to begin their training. Initially, I told Livia she couldn’t go, because I didn’t think she would be able to pay attention and listen to the instructor. How wrong was I? Not only did she pay attention, she loved every minute of it. Dainoris came away tired but elated. However Milda was not so overjoyed – she decided it wasn’t for her and we respect her decision. She wants to do dance classes instead.

Ninja School - image blurred for obvious reasons

It started with some basic instructions like stand up, hands in the air, now by your sides. But it developed into running up and down, or hopping to the middle, or frog leaping. Livia followed every step and listened to the whole thing.

Then came the breakthrough we have all been waiting for: the instructor said they would be getting their white gowns the coming week and to earn a different colour to go on their belts, they have to do their homework, and this week their homework is to help their parents clean up.

Well.

The day after, Livia not only helped us tidy up, she did the whole thing herself. Since then, she has taken on an air of responsibility and has started putting importance on household maintenance. She still flares up, but she has started to demonstrate more independence and self-confidence.

Roly-Poly Hill, Ballinamore

After the Ninja School, we went outside to the playground and the children did some more running about. Where on Earth they get their energy from beats me. They intentionally get up at a time when adults slouch out of bed to get ready for work. They eat the bare minimum until an intervention from a parent, yet they charge around like they’d been given an athlete’s diet and a litre of coffee. This carries on all day until they have a little crash. This crash and resulting short nap allows them to go on until as late as possible, even if they’ve spent an hour charging around a hall.

I took a walk through Ballinamore’s public park. It is a happy place, and full of everyday life – the kids playing football with a couple of bags as goalposts; the old geezer out for a run; the mother on the phone while her children blow bubbles; a dad, his son and a friend cracking a hurling ball across the park, and my three rolling down the steep spectator banks on the far side of the field, screaming with laughter.

Here, also, I discovered one of the trees of my youth: the Lawson’s cypress, also known as the Oregon cedar, a tree so grand and tall, that it’s essentially permanent nighttime under its fronds. I loved those trees as they remind me of my childhood. They have these unique berries that look like sultanas but are as hard as rubber balls. It’s hard to come to terms with the rubbish you did as a child, but at least you can comfort yourself in some of the more pleasant memories.

Our horticultural hoard

There’s a garden centre about ten minutes after Carrick called Ardcarne, and it is a haven of horticultural happiness. On Thursday 24 July, we drove out there to see what we would like to put in the garden. Thinking we were just going to look, I forgot how insistent the children are, especially Dainoris. He looks at something in a shop and wants to buy it: whether it be a spare part for a lawnmower, a packet of dishwasher tablets, a milk churn, a set of oyster knives, a crystal lampshade, a 1993 Charlton Athletic mug, or some Norwegian flags, Dainoris will take the lot if his eyes train on them.

So in the end, we came out of there with enough plants to turn part of our garden into a mini jungle. All the many staff in there were ultra friendly and the café was a lesson in how to make sure people keep coming back. We had a good gluttonous cake session in there before we headed out to buy some plants. And this is the main issue – the garden wasn’t ready for any plants so I’d need to get back and start preparing the ground pretty quickly. We bought the basic garden tools and some compost, and the next day I dug out a space for many of the plants and shrubs we had bought. There would be a lower flower bed, and with the earth I had dug, there would be a mound to use as a windbreaker.

The children tried to help but generally they fulfilled the role of disturbers and tormentors: I can’t find my shoes! They’re in the shoe bin. Where are you going to put that plant? There. What’s its name? Colin. It winds me down to the point of giving up, but all that money we spent on the plants keeps me going. It will be ready by the end of July. However, Dainoris has shown a lot of interest in gardening, so I can only encourage it. He even made his own little rockery.

Coming up: August Bank Holidays in Ireland are full of events for everyone. The next is on 4 August. Looking forward to it!

EXTRA PHOTOS BELOW

Bóthar na Naomh, wild flowers

Bóthar na Naomh

Bóthar na Naomh

Carrick-On-Shannon

Mown.