Oh the joy of a quiet house. A rarity here only occuring once a week, a Friday afternoon, a time I treasure and look forward to no end. Today is no exception and now with the Spag. Bol. simmering on the stove, exceptional no doubt because of the addition of half a bottle of wine, given to us by a guest and really only suituable for flavouring my sauce...if you get my gist. I AM trying to be kind!
Just back from walking the hopeless Beagle. He stood outside the kitchen window looking at me with those huge chocolate brown eyes that could veer on a diagnosis of a severely depressed canine and those eyes spoke to me. They said, hey mom what about walkies? Off we went into the townland of Boleybeg where I live. Boleybeg means ''the place of the small milking fields''. In the olden times it was used as a grazing land, though, I don't know why because it is quite boggy in places and very rocky. Behind our house the land is covered in heather, (black clumps now but come early summer a glorious display of purple meets your eye). Old stone walls that have stood for hundreds of years create a rough line to the back of my house. And I can't forget the gorse, the bloom of it in spring, transforming the landscape into a golden host of yellow.
For about six weeks in the Fall one of the farmers from down the road brings his three cows up to graze there, they are a beautiful sight, I could watch those cows all day, those huge ruminating beasts lolling about. Today it is stormy and rainy and I walked along the road watchful of the traffic flying by. Thirteen years ago there were few cars, so few that if one did go by we wondered who was driving it! But that's all changed because it seems the entire population drive a 4x4 or a seven seater people carrier so one has to be careful. I was dressed not to be killed and wore one of those horrendous flourescent jackets over my raincoat and I found a great pair of wellington boots in town, they are pixie dainty style wellies, nineteen euro, Italian made, blue in colour and I can't count how many women have stopped me and asked me where I got them. I also have a fleece hat that hugs my head. I was all set. Isn't it strange how people want to move to live in the country and then bring along the builder with the bulldozer, knock down the hedgerow, bulldoze the beautiful trees and build ''ugly house'' number 2005. I don't get it.... Our trees are almost bare. The Hazel is leafless, the Rowan, the tiny Oak that is taking forever to grow, the Willows stripped too of any foliage, the only stalwart remaining is the Ash but after today I think that will be it, the wind is strong. I must light a fire now. I must be kind and be thankful that I at least see the destruction of the landscape. That I know what is happening should not be so. That I tell my children about this desecration. That they too wonder what happened to the Townland. That they are aware. That at least is a blessing. The fire beckons, soon the house will be full of my sons and my husband and god knows who else and there is that sauce to check on, give it a stir, well, for what you might ask? For luck, I suppose.