Reflections

'Great art is there to raise the will above the purgatory of daily life'.

Radio 4 start the week with Andrew Marr. The source? Alas author of the quote, although reaching my ears, declined to lodge within mind for later recall

The colour, perspective and horizon absorbing misty-ness, now surrounding me, recalled this quote. As I walked I noticed at every new pace and movement of eye there was the 'great art'. I, for a time, walked slowly, absorbing myself within  and into this low coloured misty landscape of tree shape and reflected autumn leaves upon still water. The sensation, unlike being in a gallery viewing a picture, had the hardly felt touch of minute mist drops pinging cheeks along with the sound of pigeon wings flapping as tree roost was swapped for roof ridge. This total immersion of the senses within 'great art' heightened and sharpened mind to a point where I could not help but notice I was receiving a wonderful gift.

For Tanya and I this was in some way the full circle. This was Avebury and visited last in the frost and snow nine months ago in January. It was just before we set out over the water to France. Personally I find this area bodes a powerful and calming affect emanating as both a physical and mental felt sense. Today did not disappoint.

A final night is being spent wildcamped on the Ridgeway just by Avebury before tomorrow heading to Salisbury where I will spend time with brother Richard. A welcome base where we will be able to catch up on various tasks and maintenance work before heading off to Spain and Portugal early in the new year.

Memory lane + stewed fruit.

I could not believe what I was looking at. They were like a trigger, a mental one, now pulled. What came erupting out from the barrelled depths of my mind were forty six year old files spilling out their megabytes of memory. 

"Gosh." I said, as I was transported down through seven sets of watertight doors, all having to be individually and manually closed above me as I descended into cold metallic depths. My descent took me to the deepest bowels of the twenty seven thousand ton aircraft carrier HMS Eagle. Destination? The explosives locker right on the ships hull and just forward of the armour plating. This in case the lockers content should, for whatever reason, explode. The idea being to limit blast damage to a neat hole in the hull allowing ingress of water only to the locker itself as of course all watertight doors above were tightly shut. I remember it as a spooky, creaky and tomblike place. I used to briefly place my hands on the cold and grey painted thick steel hull plates. Standing quietly in the creaking silence  I would, for a few seconds, visualise the freezing ocean depths flowing by only centimetres away. The quicker I deposited my load of 'out of date' explosive Martin Baker ejection seat cartridges and re loaded with the new ones the better. Reaching once again the workshops of the upper aircraft servicing decks was always a relief.

Now here I was in Steve's engineering workshop on Richard and Lesley's farm near Cheltenham staring at the familiar sight of a set of these bulky shiny brass cartridges as they noisily jostled in the palm of my hand. Thankfully these were not filled with explosive but nevertheless, they were a powerful dredger of old, deeply submerged memories.

It seems the rise in popularity of flyable vintage jets complete with Martin Baker ejection seats is now prompting enthusiasts to seek out engineering capacity to manufacture these cartridge casings. As I handed the casings back to Steve he explained how, because of his workshops particular set of skills, he had been requested to look into the feasability of manufacturing such items.

More chat and further memories were chugged through before the broken arm of Sadies passenger seat was handed over to Steve for a minor repair. This of course was my original intention upon entering his workshop but I left with mind still whirring from the regurgitated memories prompted by sight and feel of those bulky round brass shell casings. Explosive shells, I may add, designed and successfully used on many occasions to save aviators lives.

This visit to old friends in the Cheltenham / Gloucester area was turning out to be productive in respect of minor mechanical ailments afflicting Sadie. Poor Tanya for several days now has not been able to enjoy her frequent visits to the open passenger door window for a blast of travelling air as we roll along. The electrically operated window has been reluctant to close and when, a few days previously, I had managed with some difficulty to get it closed I decided it had best remain so until further investigation.

A visit to the local Mercedes dealer revealed that the door plus window mechanism were not Mercedes parts.
"Oh dear" I muttered as I summoned my helpless and pleading voice to request any ideas as to what to attempt next.
"Have you tried lubricating the cables and window runners?"
"Well no I hav'nt." I replied and the gloomy bubble of ultra expensive and difficult to locate spare parts receded just a little.
He was dead right too. I now have a happy Tanya able to request a briskly opening and closing passenger door window. She can now once again allow the wind to lay back her ears and stream her beard rearward as she thrusts her head out of a happily trundling Sadie.

The fridge and freezer have also been working overtime too. Our walks over the last few days have yielded bulging doggy bags (always in my pocket.) of delicious blackberries. Combined with Richard and Lesleys Bramley and Worcester Permayne windfall apples plus a little heat and hey presto! Enough delicious stewed fruit for pies and deserts a plenty. Yummy yummy!

Travelling East & sad to leave.

"Fifty eight years!" I exclaimed, as his old head nodded in approval of my awe. 

"Aye, fifty eight years at sea and this boat now some nineteen years old and having saved twenty lives." 

Tommy continued with his story of how even he was surprised at how many times he happened to have been in the right place at the right time to pluck a life back from the sea.

There was also a sombre tale. His old fisherman's head swivelled in the obligatory polo necked seamans sweater to give a cursory nod to a plaque on the opposite wall of Fethard quay on this the South East Irish coast. The plaque remembered a 2002 tragedy at sea where three members of a local family had perished. Tommy had also been on the scene then but had the grim task of pulling bodies out of the sea. Anger and resentment were evident in his otherwise experienced seafaring wiseness as he told how the boat involved was known as being rotten as a plum and should have been off the water months before never mind have got a licence to take anglers out to sea.

Tommy went on his way. Tanya and I saw him later further up the estuary by his moored boat as we were on our river mussell collecting walk.  The walk was pleasant and for the first time in two days the thick and clammy wet sea mist had cleared and we could actually see things.

We had left Castle Gregory two days previously. There was a lump in my throat as I waved Keith and Justine goodbye while slowly driving past them waving back from the doorway of their shop. They had been wonderful hosts and had made me feel very much at home and part of their large community/family.

Moving on though is what we do so eastwards we headed into the ever decreasing vision and wet gloom of what I would normally call 'classic Scottish mist'. Guess here it will have to be Irish Mist. The dismal feel and mood of its close clammyness coupled with lack of any distance vision eventually found us quite early on securely set up for the night on a forest track.

There was not much to recommend it as an overnight spot apart from safe to walk Tanya and the barrier preventing entrance into the forest proper had a sturdy metal post which was just what I needed. Earlier in the day I had another scrunch as I reversed Sadie and once again not noticed a low, bright yellow, water main marker. No damage apart from it bending the full width towbar. This is exactly the reason the towbar is still on Sadie. To prevent me damaging her rear end more seriously. Sadie was carefully positioned in front of the sturdy metal post. Rope was tied between sturdy metal post and towbar. A gentle nudge forward from Sadie and hey presto! We now have a 'hardly bent at all' towbar.

Another sightless day of misty wet Irish gloom saw us travel the coastal path and eventually make tiny Fethard Quay our perch for the night. The mist cleared next morning and I was finally able to see what a delightful spot we had found. All the more so when you add in Tommy's seafaring yarns, three fresh herrings thrown up to me from the boat they had been caught in not an hour before, and of course the delicious river Mussells which were later enjoyed for lunch.

Next stop was Wexford and then a touch north to Merton, home to my niece's current boyfriend. Gerald welcomed me to his tidy, clean and efficiently run dairy farm on the grass rich land running down to the river Slaney. I have to admit here to very comfortably slipping back into my, prior to counselling, work role of agricultural rep as I listened to the difficulties Gerald outlined as to farming in Ireland during this time of financial crisis and extremely limited cash flow. My spot for the night was in front of their beautiful and purpose built home overlooking the gently sloping river valley. My three fresh herrings successfully gutted and filleted by yours truly went down a treat for dinner.

Now moving on again. This time with Sadie snug down below on deck three with (fingers crossed) a sleeping Tanya inside her. The Irish coast is now dropping away to stern while Wales, my gateway back into the UK, slowly fetches our helm. It is late at night so cannot see a thing but memories of my trip around Ireland are good. I have a feeling I will be back next year ..... 'to be sure now!'

Derrynane

'Here a man can think, reflect and gain perspective'.

'Governments, large institutions and the church tend to be convenient confusing bureacratic vehicles wherein individual greed may flourish'.

"Watch my eyes yourself now." 

So I did and I observed a gorgeous wink as this smartly dressed and attractive middle aged lady said;

"Well of course you'll be knowing now I can only give you the official line saying no camping."  She continued after she had seen I understood the sub text. "Now be sure to visit the house tomorrow. We'll be there to welcome you and we'll recognize you now to be sure."

She and her younger and equally beguiling colleague completed the locking up of Daniel O'Connell's house and went on their way. A short walk around the tropical feeling and looking gardens soon brought me back to Sadie neatly positioned as is her want in front of the 'No Camping' sign in the car park of Derrynane house. The car park was deserted but it felt more comfortable to stay the night now I had the 'un-official' permission of the two ladies who managed the house. I have found during my travels that out of season most officialdom take a pragmatic view, if treated respectfully, of these 'no overnight camping' notices.

Derrynane certainly is a beautiful spot. Mild too with lush vegetation, beaches and a wee harbour to die for. All is snuggled neatly below high peaks and overlooking the Kenmare estuary and Atlantic ocean. I did visit the house and now am far better informed as to Daniel O'Connel and his key role in the creation of Ireland as we know it today. I feel the sad part of the story is how his eventual falling from favour was partly due to his lifelong conviction to, and use of, non violent means to further his causes. His exposure to the ravages of the French Revolution resolved in him this flame of non violence, but as I trod his footsteps around Derrynane I could not help but agree as to how the very beauty and peace of this place must have played an equal and continually sustaining part in his life.

Awoke this morning to a mist-ical sunrise from my lucky find of a wild camping spot right on the Kenmare estuary at Kenmare quay. The mist is just lifting from the mountains across the estuary on the Beara peninsular. Down the estuary slowly creeping over the glass smooth estuary is the Catamaran I watched last night as he changed sails at his mooring just off the quay. I wonder where he is headed? Maybe he is slowly heading south too.

First nasty crunch for Sadie

"Oooooh! I did not like the sound of that Tanya. That, if my thinking is correct, was an expensive crunching type of sound!" 

I had not seen the low brick wall on my offside as I turned sharply into the harbour front car park at Portmaghee  on my way round the Kerry Ring.

We left Castle Gregory earlier in the day but intend to return for the weekend to accompany Keith and Justine to the Dingle food festival. I had heard a lot about the Kerry Ring so thought we would take a couple of days to sample it's delights. Weather was good, road was shite! Good views but narrow, bendy roads with years of 'patch me up' repairs giving a surface that rattles the b'jesus out of Sadie. Plus, being a main road it was quite busy. This is a combination I do not like. It means slow. In Sadie terms that is very slow. To other road users it is annoyingly slow. Personally I get anxious when I see traffic impatient and up my arse! Consequently I am always seeking out a place to pull in and let them by which of course gets tedious and slows you down even more. Ideally I like to get off such roads and take a longer route using back or minor roads. This is what I did at Portmaghee with a quick decision taken to pull into the virtually empty car park to give Tanya a walk plus explore the village. That is when the nasty crunch was heard and I knew the result was not going to be nice.

Sadie was duly parked and round we go to view the damage. Oh dear! Two of the lower skirting panels damaged and blowing in the breeze but thankfully not completely detached from Sadie. I picked up the sorry looking scratched and scraped wheel trim and managed to push that back into place. A half hour later and thanks to plastic cable ties, a bendy piece of tin and some sticky tape the two panels were rendered secure enough for the journey to continue. There looms a costly professional repair job for the future methinks. I tried to console myself with the fact I knew this day would come at some point and overall it could have been a lot worse. However; I could not shake off the low ebb of my mindset as we continued.

A pleasant night was had by the waters edge south of Portmaghee before next morning heading over the bridge and onto the Island of Valencia. A walk to Bray head above the stunning cliffs under sunny blue skies was a real bonus. Especially the views out to the Skelligs. These two phallic like rock promontories sit about 13km offshore and the bigger of the two is a UNESCO world heritage site due to it's 1400yr occupancy by monastics up till the twelfth century. Their 2300 steps and beehive shelters, all laboriously hacked out of the Atlantic gale lashed bedrock, still survive to this day. This was all clearly explained at the excellent Skellig experience centre on Valencia where a welcome lunch of yummily good Irish Stew was enjoyed.

At one point on the circular walk around Bray head we were high on the cliffs and walking on the stiff, coarse bog grass. There was a good path but I had diverted to cut out a corner and was walking across this grass. Tanya lagged behind and in the end stopped. I walked back to her, placed my hand on the grass and understood why she was reluctant to follow me. Even lower than the grass there grows a prickly type of green gorse. To sheep, cattle or goats with their cloven hooves it is no problem. To a small dog with soft paws this bed of prickly gorse must be like walking over a closely packed bed of upturned drawing pins. I tucked her under my arm and carried her back to the well worn and soft grass path. Off she went quite happy to be back to plain old grass, bog and black mud!

Thank goodness for all the doggy blankets I carry in Sadie!

Made it to Castle Gregory

Ireland is wet! Not the raining on my parade type of wet, no not that because my drift down the west coast has been a pleasant mixture of sunshine and showers. Wet underfoot is what I mean. The hills, bogs and glens are sodden and going one inch off the tarmac is a definite no no for a three and a half ton home on wheels called Sadie. I, in a way expected this but I expected it to be more 'the norm' In the Outer Hebrides and Western Scotland. It was a genuine surprise to find those destinations had enjoyed one of the driest summer's on record whereas here in the west and south west of Ireland they have had a washout Summer.

The exposure to Ireland is working its magic though. Westport and the Conemara loop including 'Sky Road' were stunning. Couple this with a program on Radio Kerry which included a history of marriage fixing in agricultural communities alongside an item on traditional milking of cows. Gather all together in a bundle of gently and humorously spoken Irish dialect and I am hooked. I think next year my trip north will be earlier in the year and include more time for Ireland.

I am now with number two son Keith and wife Justine in Sunny, well it is today, Castle Gregory on the beautiful Magharee peninsular between Tralee and Brandon Bay. An area well known for it's superb surfing waves. Keith paints the other side of the Irish equation of how the local community are not only suffering from Ireland's general financial hardship but being an area very dependent on a robust tourist trade they are markedly affected by the dreadfully wet Summer season.

One example is the small cycle hire business that Keith and Justine run from 'Beach Box' their popular centre of village gift and souvenir shop. Saturday is a busy change over day for all the holiday cottages, hotels and B & B's. Lots of enquiries are made about hiring of bicycles. Mmmmm! Prospects look good you would surmise. Then the rain sets in, for the week. No one turns up to hire the bikes. Keith nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders and continues to expertly fling the professional steam iron across the latest batch of B & B linen to have progressed it's way through their launderette in the backroom of the shop.

Later I watch from the beach where Keith himself is put through the rinse cycle as he attempts to battle his way through ten foot breaking waves to the pristine surfing rollers behind. Again another shrug as he acknowledges defeat and accepts this evening he made the wrong choice of beach for his skill at long board surfing. 

"always a good way to work off a hangover though," he throws in for good measure!

As we drove back to Keith and Justine's home in their 1973 all original blue and white Volkswagen camper Van I could understand why these vehicles have become so iconic and loved. Not, I hasten to add, iconic or loved enough to tempt me away from Sadie. I gave her a gentle pat upon our return; 

"you'll do for me old girl, you'll do very nicely thank you."