Back to the Shannon

There was canoe polo going on in Richmond Harbour on the weekend we returned to the boat from a few days of crisis weeding, mowing and laundry. We knew this was happening. We'd had to put Winter Solstice on the bank beyond the first bridge, along with other refugees from the harbour. We would be allowed out between one and two on Saturday and Sunday, or after five.

Canoe polo is a very energetic game. There was a pitch marked out with floats and rope, the polo nets at each end more stable than the ones we'd experienced at (too close) hand in Ballybrannigan and Kilcock on the Royal. There are five a side and they play for ten minutes each way without a break. It all gets a bit wild, and the referee is as abused as in any game. You can use paddles or hands to catch, block and otherwise control the ball. I thought it was a new game but no - it's been going a while in Ireland and has been popular in other European countries for the last thirty years.

The dogs were ready to go:

We waited at the bridge for the games to stop. There was another cruiser in front of us, and this one approached from behind:

It was Cormac on 76M, one of the barges that used to carry goods along the Grand Canal. We'd seen it tied up at Abbeyshrule when we came through, so weren't altogether surprised to see it again. Cormac came alongside, a little unnerving when you've all those tons of metal settling against our relatively fragile timber. We were re-nerved, however, when the chilled white was passed across the decks. Cormac was, as ever, the hospitable gentleman. We went through the lock before him, so promised to return the glasses at Rooskey.


It was good to be back on the Shannon again. Such a contrast with the Royal Canal. There was boat watching to do again for one thing. There were so few boats on the Royal, and I missed that great distraction of seeing who is coming in and out and the entertainment of the boating equivalent of the hurler on the ditch. Nothing like sitting in your own cockpit having safely moored in a good spot to make comment on everyone else.

The river was busier than I've seen it in a while. There was hardly a spot in Rooskey, but it was late enough - we'd dropped anchor on Lough Forbes for a few tunes and read of the paper.

Rooskey is not the place it used to be. It's finally possible to see it as the village it once was thanks to the bypass. We tied up near the bridge on the road side, something we'd never have done before - you wouldn't have a wink of sleep with the juggernauts juggering past.

Next stop Dromod. It took us all of fifteen minutes to get there. We just popped in for lunch but ended up staying. It's a great spot, especially on the side away from the amenities where the dogs can mooch without annoying anyone. Great people/boat watching. There's a forest trail where we cycled down to another bit of the Shannon. And a pub which we were enticed into by the crew of a boat taking a break from the Shannon Rally.

The closest boat in the photo is a hire boat, driven by possibly the most incompetent hire-boat skipper and crew I've ever seen. This was unusual. These boats are hired by Sven on Lough Ree and he trains people properly. It's cruel of me to say it, I know, as I've been there myself. But Joe and I, even at the very beginning, were never so bad that we drifted helplessly for fifteen minutes between one wall and another without ever managing to come close enough to fling a rope.

Shower in the shower block the next morning. Arrived to find a face peering through the frosted glass, knuckles rapping frantically.
'I'm locked in', said the voice. 'Can you let me out if I push my card under the door?'
'Well I'm coming for a shower myself,' I said. 'But surely you can get out. Surely it doesn't lock you in.'
Not so, he said. So I put in my card, anxious myself then about being locked in. Out came the young fella, a teenager, looking calm enough in the circumstances.
'A buzzer goes,' he said. 'You'll be ok. I didn't come out in time.'
This still didn't seem right. I'd always assumed you'd be able to get out from the inside even when your hot-water-time was up.

Good enough shower, though not a spacious or powerful as those on the Royal. Good old soaping, then the water went cold. Shit. But not far to go. At least the hair was washed. Then it stopped. Shit shit I'm all soapy bugger bugger. What do you do in that situation. Frantic pressing of the start-stop yoke (like you get on the sinks in public toilets) and a dribble came out. Then the buzzer started. I think I was as sweaty when I came out as when I went in with the fear of it. Must send an email to Waterways Ireland.

All for now. More to come.

and more Royal Canal

 
Not too far beyond Coolnahay (in boating time) lies Mullingar, a sizeable Midland town whose populace is unfamiliar with passing boats. The canal loops around the backs, passing under bridges from which people gazed in astonishment and, in some cases, pure bewilderment. Boaters are warned not to spend the night here, but we planned to pause for shopping.

There are two harbours marked on the chart - one before Scanlan's Bridge and one after. It was obvious where to stop. It was lunchtime, the sun was finally shining, and there was an area like a croquet lawn surrounded by high stone walls and a big gate. There was also a service block and we were in need of showers. We can do this on the boat, but it's much easier to use the facilities provided. We had only three units left on the smart card. A shower is two. But I'd seen two fellows making two washes out of two units in Carrick so reckoned we could do the same.

A while later we were clean, fed and in need of shopping. A quick move to the other side of the bridge. There was a gate on our enclosure with a button to get out and smart card to get in but it was padlocked. There was another small enclosure - surrounded by railings - on the other side of the wall with no padlock, but the other side of the bridge was closer to town. Joe went in search of shops and came back pushing a trolley from Dunnes.

A couple of days later we made it as far as Maynooth where we picked up a mac and not because it was raining. We'd approached along the wall of St Patrick's College, Ireland's National Seminary and Pontifical University. I love the sound of a pontifical university. No need to write essays. You can just pontificate all day long. It's unfortunate (and maybe fitting) that the word meaning 'of or befitting a pontiff; papal' also means 'pompously dogmatic' (Concise Oxford Dictionary).

Turning sharply into the harbour Winter Solstice decided she would go in a different direction, first towards a small island, then towards some evil-looking timber spikes. It was just as we were completely blocking the navigation that the only boat we'd passed in days came towards us. It was a hire boat. They were completely nonplussed.

After some severe steering (and words) we managed to wrestle Winter Solstice against the wall. Joe poked about with the boat hook in the general direction of the port prop. He caught on something and tugged. We thought it was a wet suit moment, but no! Here was the eventual result. The raincoat.

It was on our way back that the wet suit was got out, on the outskirts of Mullingar. We limped into Piper's Harbour - I think that's what it's called - the Piper's bit is certainly correct. The log is on the boat so I can't check at the moment. This was the original Mullingar harbour, and is so called because musicians used to play to the passengers coming in from Dublin. We tied up with the help of a passing stranger and Joe did his usual poking around with the boat hook. No luck this time. So here's the result. Spot the difference:

 

A fertilizer bag around the starboard prop and string and fishing line around the port.

We stopped at Riverstown on the way back where they have a rather splendid signal box.

The platform is still there, albeit somewhat broken up. There's a campaign going to get the station open again. We followed the railway line all the way into Maynooth and became rather fond of the trains, even though they could be startling right next to your head first thing in the morning.

And onto the Royal Canal at last

The Royal Canal is very short of WiFi hotspots, which is no bad thing for the state of mind but not great if you want to update a blog. So this will have to come in a couple of batches and in retrospect. Here we go heading for the first bridge leading from Richmond Harbour at Clondra.

We were a little dopey, I have to say, having gone to bed at 3 am. We'd wandered into the Camlin Bar after a dreary pint in the Richmond Inn where in the bar a fellow was complaining loudly about everything and in the lounge a country and western singer was droning. We were on our way back to the boat, really, and to bed, but thought we'd have a look. There were four accordian players well on in their years and a singer with a guitar. The standard of the accordian players, I have to say, was a bit rusty but it looked fun and welcoming. The rust was because this was only the second session of the year due to the postponement of summer, and they didn't play in between these Wednesday sessions. We ran back to the boat in lashing rain to fetch the instruments.

The first novelty was the automatic lifting bridge between Clondra and Killashee. We hadn't been able to leave Richmond Harbour the evening before because the water patrollers (less well paid than lock keepers but having to do the same job) knock off at five except at the weekend and don't get overtime. The automatic bridge is supposed to rise automatically as you would expect, its sensor clocking your arrival and doing the business. But there's some problem. Birds can set it off apparently. And perhaps dropping leaves. Anyway, we didn't mind and the patrollers were as helpful as you could ever want. Here's the lifting bridge lifted. It's a tight turn to get under the lifting and then the old hump back.

First stop for the night Ballybrannigan. Very pretty, all done up by the local branch of the Royal Canal Amenity Group (RCAG) whose work we enjoyed all the way along the route. They've renovated the old ticket office which sold tickets for people emigrating to new worlds. There's a broken-down canal store too which the small dog was itching to get into to see if there was anything good to eat like pigeon shit or dead rats.

 

The ticket office is signposted from the main road to Cavan which we'd passed many times on our way up to the boat on Lough Erne. It was one of those signs you felt you'd like to follow, but there were still many miles ahead and you really wanted to get to the boat. We spotted this sign when we walked into Ballymahon for supplies and a glass of something. It's a decent walk and an easy cycle. Skelly's is a great little bar with good wine and a reputation for its food, though we didn't eat there. There's a picture of it in the Canal Guide.

This was happening beside the ticket office: 












There are great flights of locks on the Royal. On the Grand they're more spaced out, and there are ten fewer. It was the day of the thundery rain and the fat drops were coming as thick and fast as the locks. The water patrollers were in great form though and saw us through. One of the lads was employed by Waterways Ireland, the other was an agency worker. The agency workers get paid a lot less than the patrollers although they do the same job. There's trouble brewing here I'd say, and rightly so.

Over the years we've deployed a variety of methods for going up in a lock when there are only the two of us. On the Royal for some reason we found the easiest way was for me to stand on the bow with a rope while Joe did the muscle stuff with racks and gates. A big fender out at the port stern quarter and we were grand. With the lads doing the gates it could have been either of us outside, but I volunteered because I had the better rain gear. Drizabone full length waxed coat, my new Tilly hat (Christmas present) rolled up trousers and plastic Crocs. Invincible!

That was a long day ending in Coolnahay, the harbour of the beautiful flowers, all seen to by the lady of the house and her daughter in the lock keeper's cottage whose name I didn't get but should have. That's another difference between the Royal and the Grand - there are frequent harbours, good harbours, on the Royal. We didn't need our stakes and boarding plank nearly as frequently.

It was just after this we picked up the pigeon.

Deer deer

The deer have been eating my runner beans.

Look at this poor thing. All stalk and no leaves. The deer have been coming into the hollow more regularly now that the forestry on our flanks has grown up. Plenty of cover for them and a nice little snack in my kitchen garden. To be fair they haven't done much damage to the vegetables in previous years - they stuck to the young apple trees for that. Slugs have always been the problem, but the slimes didn't even touch the beans in spite of the weather being so damp and mollusc friendly. The horticultural grit I put around the beans on planting out seems to have kept the slugs off, keeping them (the beans) sweet for the wretched deer.

A friend was here for lunch the other day, an agent for a traditional musician who gets sent endless demo CDs and now has a spare-room-full. She didn't feel she could throw them out, but when I told her about the deer in the hollow she offered me some. She'd heard that deer are afraid of the shiny discs spinning in the breeze and keep away. And that wouldn't exactly be throwing the demos away, would it.

I haven't collected any from her yet, and maybe I won't need to. I had a trawl through the filing cabinet and came up with a dozen discs from previous computers and their applications. Here's the result:

So far it seems to be working. I have other deer prevention measures too. Not content with eating my garden, they also traipse through it when nicely raked into seed beds. I thinned out a black bamboo from the haggard and was wondering what to do with the canes. Here's a double solution:

No delicate but deep footprints since the barriers went up. The deer clearly look for a pathway through, and of course the poor dears (wince) don't know there are carrot and parsnip seedlings coming up so I can hardly blame them.

Currant time of year. A bit of a panic on really as we're off to the boat today and I've only picked a couple of containers worth for the freezer. But seeing as I still had some left from last summer's huge crop that's perhaps not a bad thing. The red currants are so beautiful:

Every time I go down a couple of blackbirds fly out of the currant bushes clucking and scolding at me interrupting their feast. How dare I! I don't mind leaving half the crop to them. They need it more than I do. I am sorry, though, that the raspberries are just starting. I adore raspberries and they freeze so well. They always get used. I resent the birds eating these, but they'll have most of them this year. Fortunately I put in some autumn raspberries this year (thank you Anne) so at least we may have a late crop.

The 'mushrooms' we bought from Birr Castle plant sale are in place. Here's one of them:

I think this is the one for big bottoms. The small-bottom one is overlooking the lower hollow.

We were sitting in the conservatory the other day having a cup of tea at tea time when a pine marten strolled through the courtyard and right past us, big rat in its mouth. We've seen a lot of pine martens this year - by a lot I mean three or four. They're very shy and don't show themselves. This one was a beauty.

Damn. It's raining. I still have to plant out more lettuce plants before we go away.

Visitor etiquette

There is a saying that visitors, like fish, go off after three days. I'd be very interested to hear what you, my dear blog readers (should there be any) think about the way visitors should behave. I'll just add here that all the visitors in the photo above have always been EXEMPLARY in their comportment.

I'm going to talk here about the fish ones, the three or more dayers. Some arrive with carrier bags that they hurry into the kitchen. The white wine is placed in the fridge, the red on the kitchen counter. Extra bottles materialise for later, or tomorrow. A box of chocolates is prominent.

During their stay contributions are made to supplies and offers to help with cooking and washing up - but not too many offers, and they certainly don't insist that the table must be cleared and everything washed and put away, so destroying conversation and atmosphere, but when you crawl out of bed in the morning after an evening of conversation and lubrication, you will find the dishes clean in the drainer.

This paragon will also, of course, be excellent company full of wit and repartee. On one evening of the stay they will bring you out for dinner to a fine restaurant. The days will fly and you will be sorry to see them leave.

Others arrive bearing many gifts but they are on holiday and don't expect to have to do anything more strenuous than open a bottle of Chablis and pour the milk onto their muesli. They may, if left alone long enough in the morning, manage to toast a couple of slices but will come calling you because they cannot find the marmalade. They keep theirs in the cupboard beside the tea bags and cannot conceive of anyone keeping it in the fridge. They also smoke.

However, these guests, once you have all woken up and had a few hours away from each other, once you have taken the first chilled glass and dinner is on the table, become the best friends you remember. They have scandalous stories and interesting opinions. They want to hear what you have to say.

Some are like the above but do not bear gifts. They buy nothing, but thankfully spend all day in bed, eat only four pieces of toast in the day and provide boxes of wine at night for fear you will run out. They are also excellent conversationalists.

Then there are the visitors who arrive bearing only smiles and a sense of entitlement. They are on holiday and so pleased that you will be looking after them because they really deserve a rest. You know only one of them well. The others are good friend/members of their family. On arrival you give them tea and freshly baked cake. On the first night you are generous because you believe things will change. They will, of course, contribute something tomorrow. They were tired/in a hurry/forgetful/came by Ryanair.

In the meantime they drink your wine - not too bad as they consider half a glass of Liebfraumilch to be profligate - and eat the food you have cooked. After dinner they sit firmly in their seats telling you about their friends/children whom you have never met. In desperation you start to wash up. Then you dry up (something you never do) praying they will go to bed. You will probably be lucky here as these people believe that early to bed early to rise etc etc.

The next day comes and they go off on a jaunt (thank God). When they return they are full of stories about their day, the chowder they had for lunch, and expectations of dinner. They make themselves tea and settle down with the cakes they have brought home for themselves but not for you. At dinner you put on music a little too loud for conversation. You wash up again.

By the third day your eyes are swivelling. At dinner it's a toss up between opening wine because you really need to drink a lot of it or not opening any because you're damned if you're going to give these freeloaders anything you don't have to. But they are leaving the next day. You relent a little out of relief while praying that nothing, NOTHING, happens to delay their Ryanair flight in the morning.

So tell me what you think. How should guests behave?
What should they bring, if anything?
Are there major cultural differences in visitor etiquette?

Garderobes and tunes in the kitchen

Some people have anxiety dreams that involve walking naked down a street. Mine involve having to use  a lavatory in front of other people. So this wouldn't be my idea of fun:

This is one of the garderobes at the 15th century Listowel Castle in Co Kerry. They are not for those who fear heights either, as you look down two or three stories to the ground. I just looked on Wikipedia, that glorious font of not-quite-true information, to see how to spell garderobe. It says there that the word means a place to hang clothes, or a euphemism for historical toilets, but it seems it isn't a euphemism at all. We took a guided tour (the only way to see the recently renovated castle) which was excellent. The very knowledgeable guide told us how clothes were indeed hung in the garderobe at the end of the day and the door firmly shut. Ammonia fumes would rise from the steaming heaps below so killing any bugs and mites living in the clothes ready to munch you for breakfast.

The castle is beautifully restored using, where possible, methods and materials that would have been used when the FitzMaurices built the castle. It's full of shadows and memories.

It's tunes time here in Gortavrulla. We have a friend and his two daughters staying. Con is from Donegal, though has lived in Cheshire since the 50s. He's 96 and still playing fiddle. Whenever I'm back visiting my parents I always go and have a few tunes with him. He's full of stories and Donegal tunes. It's the only chance I get to play the highlands he's been giving me over the years. So last night a fiddle-playing friend came down and we had tunes in the kitchen - the best place by far for jigs and reels. We even had an appreciative audience - the daughters, and Dominic's two friends from Germany. Tonight we're into Feakle for the session in Shortt's. Tomorrow he's off to Donegal to meet the friends who are still alive (his words). One of them - the one he used to go to house dances with when young and foolish - is a year older than Con.

Clogher Head, Dingle

Long time no blog. But here we go again with a few photos.

Clogher Head at the western tip of the Dingle Peninsula. Which I suppose I should call Daingean, except Daingean to me is the small town on the Grand Canal. And I don't think anyone does call Dingle Daingean.









Still Clogher Head. There's a troll's house in the distance. We parked the van in a small car park and woke to a wild sea.

Later we were in Dingle town and walked into the Dillon Gallery. Paintings of exactly this sea covered the walls. They were by Honora O'Neill who lives in Clogher. She'd completely captured the light and the movement of the water.

Excellent chowder in Dingle/Daingean. Every eatery was selling it but we went into the Goat Street Cafe in the end. Partly because it was a bit out of town, partly because it looked like a place where local people ate, and partly because of the name. Years ago - more years ago than I care to remember - we were in a small wholefood shop/cafe somewhere in Dingle. As we sat drinking tea a herd of goats was shooed past our table, in at the back door and out at the front.