a hundred islands
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DREAMCATCHING It was a rare gem of a day in the middle of November, when the sea calmed and the sun shone on the lush green grass around Schull.It was a day to watch the wildlife basking in the unexpected warmth,revelling in the absolute stillness, when the only noise was the chirping or the cawing or the screeching that they made, underpinned by a low rumble of the sea contentedly relenting and consenting to take it easy after the frenzy of the weekend storm.As if self conscious of how good it looked as a backdrop to the islands, it just lapped instead of roared and you knew that every living wild thing was out that day, finding the spot where the sun shone, the piece of fern that faced the sun, the treetop with a three sixty of world. It was this day I happened to visit the house my father built, the one of his dreams.The one that was being renovated, windows replaced, old shed removed, bedrooms extended to the rear. The builders must have thought it too nice to work that day,so I had free rein. I walked along the verandah to the front of the house and found the old barrel containing my mother’s Rosemary plant that managed to cascade blue flowers down its sides every year, surviving the westerly gales all winter long. I spied the vivid blue and tried to drag the whole plant out of the barrel. Not a hope that a plant that was so firmly ensconced would yield to my yanking.Instead I cut some of the hardwood and I’ll hope that I can nurture it in Corfu where I have struggled to cultivate it.Maybe this hardy version will survive the blistering heat better than the local varieties.In the end, the house was insignificant. It’s still there, still evidence of his dreams, of the place he called ‘Heaven on Earth’.What stayed with me was the trees that had grown into substantial thick trunked specimens, the birches forming a row along the driveway, their bare branches healthy and lying in wait for the spring when their buds will swell again.What stayed with me was the little Irish deciduous woods he created at the bottom of the front field, full of alders, weeping willows, weeping birch, oak , some pines and some trees I couldn’t identify. the extraordinary redbark of willows like a burst of colour against the green.I was amazed they hadn’t been razed. I know the love and care he poured into these trees, measuring them, trimming them, nurturing them.At the time of his death, they were established, but not the fine sturdy trees they are now.I walked around in a sort of trance,thinking of how he and my mother loved this place. but I wasn’t sad. I was happy that their legacy has lasted. I don’t want to know if the new owners ever tear down his trees. I want to remember them as they are now. Every tree that is planted looks to the future. Every tree makes a difference to the landscape, never knowing when to stop getting higher. We have to tell them that. we have to say, grow to the left, we have to say, that third branch will stunt your central core and we cut out that superfluous branch.I know that my father , who collected seeds everywhere he went, and my mother who had green fingers are connected to this beautiful heartstopping area in a way that will never end.
Seeing how the trees my father planted have grown.Memories of his dream Continue reading
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New Year Succour
searching for peace in the beauty of West Cork Continue reading
AH SURE AZURE 