A little bit of Leitrim

So we were going to take a little trip on the boat to Carrick then down to Drumsna but it was lashing with rain when we got up to Leitrim so we went to the Barge Inn and had a steak instead. A very good one, but pricey enough. I don't eat steak very often, but miserable weather sometimes brings out the desire for strong meat.

There's an interesting business with the jetties at Leitrim. There were new ones built a few years ago by Waterways Ireland, and another strip of sideways-on floating pontoons by the chap who built the (largely empty) apartments and new marina just beyond.

The sideways pontoons were supposed to be taken over by Waterways Ireland, but there were delays and difficulties of the kind that happened at the end of the Tiger Years. The barrier to the private marina was broken and is now tied open. There are few boats in there, in spite of the obvious temptation for people to 'borrow' an empty berth.

The new hotel has closed up, in spite of all the hard work put in by the previous owners. There's another marina attached to that too. I wonder what will happen regarding the upkeep of all these private marinas in which people have paid good money for berths.

The public jetties, the ones that were to become Waterways Ireland's responsibility have, like the apartments, become Nama property. Winter Solstice is there briefly - the weekend after next we'll take her to her winter berth in the marina at Albert Lock. In the meantime Joe tucked her up in her covers.

We'd left the coachhouse roof cover on while we were on board - we had windows put into it, but not enough for true brightness. But there was a very satisfying feeling of being safe from the rain. No leaks guaranteed! We might have more windows put in for those winter cruises. It would be useful to be able to see in the galley and the heads.

Away and home

I've been away over in Nantwich in Cheshire visiting the parents. Sunday to Friday this time. Flight days are according to the Ryanair timetable which is forever shrinking. We managed three of the many coffee shops in town - two of them relatively new. I was looking back at photos of Nantwich from last year and found these two with premises to let:

 This one, now become Enzo's, is on the Square and doubles up as an Italian restaurant. I've only been in there when it's behaving as a coffee shop. It seemed popular with people with young children as well as  the retired who populate most of these places during the morning coffee hour.

Can't remember the name of what this second one (next to the church, behind us in the picture) has become but it does fantastic coffee. The coffee cups are very big and have no saucers which always calls forth a puzzled comment from my mother.


The third is an old favourite hidden away in Hospital Street called Café de Paris. They do astonishing filled croissants which I'm not supposed to eat as they're not gluten free. I sometimes do.

Nantwich is a great town for coffee and second-hand clothes shops with Good Clothes in them. It's a wealthy area these days - there's money in Cheshire milk and cheese - so the 'vintage' (aka old) skirts and shirts and jackets are of pukka quality. Unfortunately I can't buy any of them due to Ryanair luggage restrictions. Ho hum.

As you can see Nantwich is full of black and white buildings. The countryside is also full of them. We went to the Nag's Head in Haughton a few miles out of town for dinner one night.

It's black and white on the inside too. Well, brown and white if you look closely at the photo.

Good food with special deals on Tuesday night. I'm beginning to sound like a tourist brochure. Also the tables are quite close together which is excellent for eavesdropping. As long as you remember you are also being eavesdropped upon.




Being back at home for the start of the school year, memories hit the whole time. September is such a nostalgic time however much you try to keep it at bay. Walking 'across the fields' as we called it - the meadows beside the river that became playing fields and pathways into town for those living on the Marsh Lane side - brings me back to pre-teen days of dens and playing on the railway (oops - mostly the old one). It's not too much different today. A bit tizzed up, a few more paths and footbridges.

This is the River Weaver looking towards the Town Bridge from the mill that burned down on Bonfire Night years ago.












And more of the river looking from the weir (I think) that took water on the roundabout route away from the scary sluice under the mill.

I'm forever trying to write a poem about this area. I still dream about it. No successful poem yet, but I'm still working on it.












Other poems were read, however, in Galway on Friday night where the Skylight Poets (my poetry group) read from its new anthology, Mosaic, at the September Over the Edge Writers' Gathering. We're reading again on Friday at the Clifden Arts Festival. I'm staying over (it's a three hour drive from here) in a B & B with fellow poet Marie. We did the same last year. I'm already planning hangover avoidance strategies. (I know I know - the only surefire one is not to drink).

Onions, Skodas and Winter Solstice

Before we went off on the boat I picked the onions and laid them in the greenhouse to dry. A great crop this year. The onions didn't mind the cool weather at all - stopped them bolting and going to seed. So lots of lovely big fat onions that will last for months. Just have to string them up now and hang them in the boiler shed.

After the onions we went up to Drumsna. Got there in time to catch Albert Lock and arrive in Carrick-on-Shannon for dinner at the Oarsman. This has definitely become our favourite place to eat. We loved the Indian restaurant when it first opened - the one at the back of the town, not the one upstairs. Oh dear, can't remember the name of any of them. The problem with Indian restaurants out in the West is that many of them begin with great and innovative menus but nobody wants to eat this type of food. A mild curry is preferred, or really, steak and chips. People haven't learned how to love Indian food in the way they have in England where there's been a big Indian population cooking fantastic (and cheap) food since the fifties. So the food becomes more and more bland and there's no atmosphere because there's so few customers so even less people go there to eat. Big pity, but I don't know whether there's a solution. Or maybe there is. Look to Enniskillen and the Kamal Mahal which I've lyrically waxed about before.

We went to Enniskillen on the Saturday morning, not for food but for Joe's New Car. Here it is:

It's a Skoda which used to be joke cars held together with string and glue and a good dose of optimism, but then VW took them over and now they're Very Good Cars according to the people who know. It's diesel, so economical to run, and it has a cavernous boot which will be brilliant for taking stuff to and from the boat.

That afternoon we had a great treat. The poet Paul Muldoon was reading at The Dock, the arts venue in Carrick. This was the former Courthouse building, and we were in a room with high ceilings,  tall sash windows and fantastic light. I bet Paul Muldoon is a brilliant dinner party guest.

So back to the boat and on to Cootehall where the ghost estates become more ghostly, then to Lough Key. On the way we got caught at Clarendon Lock over lunch, but that was no hardship - a lovely spot with a nice walk to the bridge for the dogs. Not so lovely when we got back. Joe had been fretting about boats tying up to us (the jetty below the lock is very small), but I was doing my usual saying it would be grand. There were boats tied up all around us but all seemed well until I noticed the felled flagpole on the deck, the ensign spread around it, and realised how very close the big Emerald Star hire boat was to our aft deck. And this:

I have huge sympathy for people on hire boats, but this was our second knocking in two days. Another had tried to come into Cootehall - too fast, which is the usual problem - and gave us a major broadside bang. Cue much shouting at which I felt sorry for the poor fellow at the helm. We all calmed down and roped them in, but it makes one very nervous.

An addendum to this. Of course it's not all hire boats that go too fast. We've met some great people doing so well in difficult circumstances (ie lack of proper training by some of the hire boat companies). Later we took the ropes of two boats coming in so slowly and carefully, with people on board eager to learn how to handle this craft they'd only just picked up, and there are others who come back year after year who have excellent skills.

Not to worry. Back to lovely Lough Key and a sweet evening there. But it was cold. So cold. I had on eleven items of clothing including longjohns and thermal vest. Oh summer days.

At Drumman's Island, Lough Key

The castle, Lough Key

New crew and Carnadoe

The weekend crew arrived at Richmond Harbour mid-morning in the rain. Joe was about to set off for Carrick and Enniskillen to look at cars - he'd sold his Focus at the end of teaching in June and was looking for a new one. We began with a spot of training - basic information about the boat, then out on deck in the drizzle with a spare rope to practice throwing lines around bollards. Several goes and they were both flying it, both at bow and stern, so we were ready for off when the lock keeper arrived to let us down into the Camlin River.

We were entertained while we waited in the Harbour by several boats which rather resembled little fat grubs. These were Wilderness Narrowboats visiting from England. Here's one of them:

You might notice the lack of rain. I've jumped forward here to Drumsna where Beehive came in having left the pack behind for a little while. These extraordinary boats fit on purpose-built trailers. This crowd from the Wilderness Boat Owners Club had taken the ferry to Dublin, launched their boats and travelled the Royal Canal to Richmond Harbour along with members of the Royal Canal Amenity Group (RCAG).

The entertainment was several Wilderness boats practicing for that evening's parade around the harbour. The boats were to be lit up, and there was choreography planned. However, things were not going according to plan. A brisk wind had got up and was interfering with proceedings, but they were adapting their boat dance with great enthusiasm.

I'd love to have seen the final event, but we were to meet Joe in Dromod and needed to make a move. Crew at their places (Erin fore, Ryan aft) we let slip the ropes and made way. Into the lock they sat outside in the rain as we went down, and Ryan stayed there as we wound along the grey Camlin River and popped out onto the Shannon where they both had a go at the controls. Not bad for a first attempt.

Here's the two intrepid crew in Rooskey Lock:

Erin at the bow

I asked Ryan to look noble so he did rather splendidly

Relief when the weather cleared that evening. Joe arrived in Dromod with the camper van which was to provide extra berths. The clouds cleared, the sun shone, and we all smiled.

Next morning to Carnadoe for lunch. Joe brought the van while crew and I took Winter Solstice. Erin was already fishing by the time Joe arrived having brought her fishing pole with her. As I'm sure many will know, fishing pole is American for fishing rod, for both our friends were from New York City and State.

It was Ryan, though, who caught the fish. You might just about be able to see it - he's holding it - but on the other hand...











And then there was the swimming. This was Erin's idea, and into her togs she got as we swung at anchor. Down the steps, let go, scream, up the steps. I abandoned any small idea I might have had of joining her.


But then we did have wetsuits on board.

If Erin wore one too maybe it wouldn't seem so much like cheating.

Still took me ages to lower myself in.










Ryan, meanwhile, was back at the fishing:

Re the wetsuit thing. The next day Erin was talking to a woman who had been swimming every day for the last couple of weeks. The water was the coldest it had been, she said. Due to all the rain. We felt less nesh for our wetsuitness.

And back to Carnadoe for barbecue! In sunshine! Oh joy! Apologies for the exclamation marks, but it was an exclamatory event after the mizzle drizzle lashing rain of the day before.

Carnadoe is such a sweet spot for a barbecue. And I'd had visions of the van parked down by the quay, all nice and cosy. Hadn't reckoned on the very narrow entrance with stout stone pillars and shiny red gates. The van wouldn't fit through either forwards or backwards, so it was up on the wide verge of the very quiet road. What a tolerant crew to put up with this.



But who would want to move from a place like this:

Winter fuel in summertime

Early morning and it looked like a mucky day for turf. Joe started clearing the shed while I walked the dogs and the sun broke through.
 
By the time I got home it was shorts weather and Joe was removing the doors. Our friend John Evans helped him build these a few years ago, just after a couple of other friends had helped him build the turf shed out of the old still-standing wall of the cow shed (seen on the right in the photo).

Liam Higgins from Birr was due to deliver the turf sometime after eleven. The first year he came to us we had an extremely narrow bridge for him to cross, but he managed it anyway, tyres only half on the edge (gulp). A few years later, on the day of Princess Diana's funeral, Joe and the neighbour widened and strenthened the bridge. Now it's just narrow, and in whimsical moments known as the Princess Di Memorial Bridge. Here's the lorry coming in:

And crossing the bridge:

This time Liam had a three quarter load for us - previous years we've had half. We would come to feel those extra sods of turf a little later in the day, but for now it was great to see it arrive, and to watch the lorry turn in a small space as though it were a small van then reverse into position. Here's Liam taking off the net while Joe relaxes:

Then the tipping begins:

And the shed begins to fill:

Unfortunately this is about as full as the shed gets from the tipping of the lorry. It's down to us after that. Once Liam has gone we're left with a fine pile:

This photo is deceptive. The ground slopes and the mountain of turf is much bigger than it looks. Really. Much much bigger. You should see it from the other side.

I was on wall duty to begin with, as Joe flung turf towards me. I used the bricklaying method for stacking which seemed to work ok. We've never had to build a wall before in the shed. The last time we did it was when we first moved to Clare and didn't have a shed ready in which to put it. Our neighbour helped us build a reek of turf with proper walls that would allow the turf to dry while the rain ran off the outer layers. Eventually we wheelbarrowed it into the old cow shed adjoining the house at the time.

We'd installed a Stanley range in the kitchen. During our first winter here we began burning turf on it and were delighted with ourselves until black goo started to drip down the outside of the flu.

Joe, being from Dublin, had no experience of turf delivered by the load straight from the bog. Me, being from Cheshire, knew only coal. We had to show our ignorance and ask. The turf, of course, was too wet. We should have known that from the weight of it and its slightly fluffy appearance. It had been a bad year for turf with incessant rain keeping the bogs flooded. Silly us.

This year's turf is excellent. Most of it was cut last year so it's sharp and dry and light, and very black in the Midlands fashion. The shed is now full (admire that excellent wall, though I think traditionally all the sods should be pointing out):

It took about four hours to get it in. Joe was on turf fork duty but I can't do that sort of lifting job. I've developed other methods. There's the back to the turf pile, bend over and sling between the legs trick. Then an arm-swinging from the top of the pile job. The idea always is to have a sort of continuous motion. Joe finished the job. I had to bale out with the excuse of making tea and getting in the laundry. You know. Proper girly jobs.

Feakle at the festival

The road led to Feakle this last week for the annual Traditional Music Festival.

There was the usual mayhem outside the pubs. Gentle mayhem though. Mostly.















Outside Pepper's is always a favourite when the sun shines.
 

People sit beneath the road sign at the table across the road and strum guitars or try to look like famous musicians. (Actually some of these might be famous musicians - the two Japanese were fantastic players).

Here's Joe playing tunes in Shortt's Bar on ... Thursday? Friday? Not sure.





This photo pretty much sums up the week really. Some days we played tunes in the afternoon too. We stayed in the van down by the mortuary which is what we've done for the last couple of years, going home at two or three via the chip van. One night they'd all but finished. It's amazing what you'll eat at that time in the morning. Joe had some class of chicken burger and I ate the chips the woman beside me said she couldn't finish because she felt sick.

Each year there are more camper vans/motorhomes. The last two years there has also been a caravan almost entirely held together with duct tape. There are similarities beween boating people and camper van people, one of which is that some of them run their engines for an hour to charge up their batteries. I sit there grumbling when this happens, trying not to breath as the fumes come straight in. I'm generally a wimp when it comes to confronting people with their inconsiderate habits, but I have a good line in 'are you having problems with your batteries?' Oh so grumpy and intolerant.

I was an attractant for drunken banjo players at this festival (husband not included). Both sat far too close. One kept going on about being a Scottish chieftain or some such. He was certainly Scottish.

Some people were having none of this diddly eye nonsense taking up their viewing space inside the pub.









It's a fabulous location for festival, and there's an opportunity to walk off the Guinness along the kilometer between Pepper's and the rest of the village. Great views as you go...

...and the chance for a spot of contemplation.











Recovery has taken longer than usual. On Monday I thought I might get to bed at the usual after-session time of around two. We were down in Shortt's with our friend Pete over from England. Eileen O'Brien was playing with Seamus Bugler that night - she's Paddy O'Brien the Tipp box player's daughter for those with an interest in musician dynasties. A great fiddle player. And then there was talk at the bar. Whiskies were had. It ended up the latest night of the week. Then we had a house session on Tuesday night with festival refugees. Wednesday was boating refugees. Lashing rain, high winds, friends in Scarriff on boat with three children. Another late and great night. Thursday I was playing with Seamus in Shortt's. Dear god and goddess let me have an early night tonight.

All change

This is going to be a quick one, mostly photos I think, because the Feakle Traditional Music Festival has started and I'm now well into diddly eye mode. It began last night, and we had plenty of tunes in a pub session as well as being on stage at the opening, celebrating the playing of box-player Seamus Bugler - but that's another story.

We went to Grange on Winter Solstice this year. We had planned on Kilglass (see photo above) but the Shannon Rally was in there. The journey to either Grange or Kilglass is simply beautiful. You turn in through a gap in tall reeds that only becomes apparent when facing it straight on. For a while you wind between reeds, fortunately well marked - without the markers you would need a guide or plenty of time in which to get lost and find yourself again. The waters open into small lakes and large pools which provide excellent anchorage. Eventually you find yourself at a point where you can pass through the Carrigeen Cut to Kilglass, or turn right to Grange.

The last time we were in Grange for the peace and quiet a family of water skiiers turned up. We started off a bit annoyed - this river is ours after all! - but they turned out to be charming. And of course they considered this section of the river to be theirs. They'd been coming there for years, had grown up there, but they were very tolerant towards us interlopers.

This time we were looking once again for peace and quiet after a chatty and boaty couple of days. We knew the rally was coming into Grange the following day, but that was tomorrow. However preparations were in hand. There was a digger, a mower, a strimmer. It went on all evening. Eventually we upped and crossed to the other side of the lake and dropped anchor. Joe and Frankie certainly thought it was worth it:




And later we were treated to a fabulous sunset:

We left Winter Solstice back in Richmond Harbour for a few days - until after the festival - then we'll be bringing her south again, back into the home territory of Lough Derg.

Now I have to go and bake an orange and ginger cake and a make a chilli con carne. The van is down in Feakle already so we don't have to worry about drinking and driving. We'll be on festival time - to bed at quarter to or quarter past three (for some reason) and up around eleven. Our musician friend Pete is arriving this afternoon on the ferry from deepest Shropshire. He'll be staying in the house while we come back and forth.

Diddly eye diddly eye.