Heaven belongs to me
breó
This is me yesterday -breó
and this is me today -breóó
I've got my shades on.
I played a friggin blinder this week. Having taken a week off at
random, and having picked this particular week, I'm the only bugger in
the whole of the feckin north who's off on holidays. Hurrah!
Well, I'm probably not the only one off, but all the others are either
standing in a field outside Portadown surrounded by the armed might of
a sizable proportion of NATO, or off to Majorca to get skin cancer.
The feckin tourists did the decent thing and stayed away in greater
numbers than ever. We don't have much to thank our nutcase politics
for, but that's one of its big advantages.
Meanwhile, the rest of the country belongs to me and me alone.
I took advantage of this fact by going to Portaferry today. Great, it
was. First up, I parked right in the middle of the town square, just
because I could. 25C it was today, and not a cloud in the sky. I
treated myself to a big turkish delight flavoured ice-cream and sat on
a seat outside the shop and ate it. A car stopped and a bloke leaned
over and said 'Hello there. How's it goin'?'
'Feckin magic.' says I.
'Down from Belfast?' he says, sounding rather disappointed.
'Aye' says I.
'Good luck, have a nice day.' says he, and drives off.
Have a nice day? I suppose he had this phrase in his head and had to
use it before he went. Now this stoppin people and wishing them a nice
day doesn't happen all the time, but I suppose he thought he'd spotted
a tourist and didn't want to be left out in the rush in case I spent
some money. You can't blame the guy, I suppose. He probably owns a
hotel or somethin.
I had the town to myself.
I went to Aquarius, its kind of a Waterworld for leprechauns. The last
time I was there there were loads of people, and I didn't get to
stroke the ray (a fish thing) meself because of all the little merkin
shites who wanted to touch it. Pushy wee gits, they are. I had to
stand on one of their father's feet just to get holdin the starfish.
Then they were pushin and grabbin so much that one of its legs broke
off when I tried to pass it on. I nearly shoved the broken leg into
one of their gigantic mouths.
All different this time though. Aquarius was mine and mine alone. They
were a bit surprised when I arrived. All the staff were sunbathing and
seemed a bit perplexed when this bloke showed up demanding
entertainment and proferring money. I had the seapool demonstration
all to meself, and got to stroke the ray and everything. Then the
bloke followed me round telling me things I didn't want to know.
'That's a cod.' he'd say.
'Oh.' I'd say.
'That's a shark.' he'd say.
'A shark? Where?' I'd say.
'There' he'd say, pointing out a big dogfish.
'Looks like a dogfish to me.' I'd say.
'Shark family.' he'd say.
'Oh.' I'd say.
It went on like this for a while.
'Another cod. Big one.' he says.
'Ya don't get many of them feckers to a pound.'
'You do not.'
He got fed up eventually, by which time I'd seen most of it anyway. I
felt he was crowding me a little bit, but as me and him were the only
two in the place I decided not to complain to his manager.
After that I wandered around the town a bit. I had a pint in the back
garden of some pub. Its one of the few pubs I've seen in the north
with a cartoon paddy painted on it, that's why I picked it. Its just
like a proper pub inside but without the people, so I couldn't really
see the point.
Then I did something I've never done in my life. I must admit I was a
little nervous, but seeing there was no-one around I decided to chance
it. I entered an 'Irish Gift Shop'. Feck me, what a revelation! The
things you can buy! There was everything, just like being in the
south. Little pottery leprechauns, teatowels with 'A Souvenir of
Ireland' on them, things made from bits of wire, little varnished
shillelaghs with shamrocks on them, all sorts of tacky shite. The best
thing I found was a 'Turf Incense Kit'. It was in a little cardboard
box that looked like the Irish cottage your great great granny might
have lived in if she was destitute, and inside was a little piece of
slate ('a hearth') and little cubes of feckin turf! You set one of the
cubes on the slate and light it, and it gives your house that chokin
putrid turf smell you get at the Folk Museum. Feckin class! You could
even buy turf refill kits. I was friggin amazed. I started laughin and
that was when the shop assistant realised I wasn't a proper tourist
and started tidyin up all round me for no good reason. I kept my 3
pound 95 in my pocket and left.
As I was walked back to the car I spotted the Tourist Information
Office. Luckily admission was free, according to a big sign, and I
went in. A bloke behind the counter nearly shit himself. I don't think
he'd seen anybody for days, and maybe he thought I was somebody from
head office checking up on him. I asked him if anything was on this
week, and he said 'Not much, I'm afraid'. I thanked him and left
happy.
On my way home I went to Windmill Hill. You could see the Mournes as
clear as day today. You could even just make out the Isle of Man, I
reckoned. Spread before ya is a land of lakes, loughs, hills and life.
Little ferries slippin across Strangford in the sunshine. Sailboats
scuddin into the wind. Cracker, it was. Definitely the best viewpoint
in Ulster. The tourist board acknowledge this fact by placing the
compass stone behind a big hedge on one side of the hill, obscuring
the half the view for everybody, and obscuring all of it for everybody
under 5ft11. I walked up to the old windmill itself to get a better
view to find that it was locked. A sensible precaution. You wouldn't
want non-tourists going up it and looking all round just wasting the
view before the proper tourists get there.
I got some beer on my way home and am now enjoying them, with you, in
the garden, having just watched the sun go down on another perfect day
in heaven.
May it long continue.
breóó
The Shining One
Madra Dubh
-Conway
(The story itself is priceless. Well done)
--
"Isn't it ironic that I once thought meself Irish"
breó wrote in message <7lr6rk$a6h$1...@news4.svr.pol.co.uk>...
<Eddie, Eddie>
O Siadhail
> took advantage of this fact by going to Portaferry today.
Ahh you feckin cunt, comin in here wit yer sleekit stories of me home.
So which side of the ards did ye drive ?
Did ya take any photos?
Xbelfast (Tony II)
Hockersmith
news:7lr96p$1uh$1...@bgtnsc01.worldnet.att.net...
> How much for the little varnished shillelaghs with shamrocks on them?
> -Conway
> (The story itself is priceless. Well done)
I'm jealous.
KateH
Sir Niffirg
}
}This is me yesterday -breó
}
}and this is me today -breóó
}
}I've got my shades on.
}I played a friggin blinder this week. Having taken a week off at
}random, and having picked this particular week, I'm the only bugger in
}the whole of the feckin north who's off on holidays.
Hah!, were was the sun today then, just heat, some rain and _no_sun.
--
George
This posting has been certified, just like the author.
december
Hockersmith <hock...@internetnw.net> wrote in message
news:93127810...@news.remarQ.com...
I'm gorgeous.
breó
Sir Niffirg <g.gr...@com.d.btinternet> wrote in message
news:378850de...@news.btinternet.com...
> On Mon, 5 Jul 1999 22:06:04 +0100, "breó" <bro@_NOSPAM_talk21.com>
wrote:
>
>
>
>
At work, are we? I'm not but feck me its just as well. Thon canadian
beer is nice goin down but it must contain time release exploding
shite capsules or somethin. I woke up this mornin feeling like a whole
gang of baboons had removed my head for the night and had been playing
'Catch the Head'. They weren't too feckin good at neither. My mouth
tasted like a one of the bastards had been using my tongue to wipe his
arse with. Every time I turned my head my brain took 3 or 4 seconds to
catch up then slowly spun around and pushed my eyeballs from the back
to make them go out of focus. It's very disconcerting. I'm probably
never drinking again before tomorrow.
I was gonna go down the ards peninsula today on the east road to see
some feckin outdoor art exhibitions. By the time I got my head
together it was after lunchtime and the sun had been booted out of
Ireland for being too bright yesterday. So I gave that a miss today.
Might go tomorrow though.
Instead, I took myself to the pictures. There's a lot of oul crap on
so I had no choice but to go and see Entrapment with Sean Connery and
thon welsh bird whose name I can't remember at the moment. What a load
of oul shite. I reckon oul Sean doesn't read the scripts of these
things before he agrees to do a movie. He just looks at the size of
his leading lady's tits.
'Sean, we have a proposition for you. A great screenplay. You play a
master thief and scottish gentleman. You're tracked down by a young
and beautiful criminal who needs your help to pull off the crime of
the millennium. On your trail...'
'Young and beautiful, eh?'
'Yes, to be played by a young and beautiful welsh actress whose name I
can't remember at the moment. Here's a photo.'
'Oh. Very nice. What size would you say those tits were?'
'38C ?'
'Do I get to see them?'
'We could write that in.'
'I'll do it.'
You can't blame the guy really. I'd star in a crappy movie if that
bird let me see her tits. I'd even do it fer nathin. Before you all go
rushin out to see it btw, you don't get to see them. Sean does, you
don't.
After the movie I went down Bangor seafront for a big fish supper. I
haven't had a big fish supper for ages cos I've bin doin this diet
thing. Not that it's been a great success or anythin. I've lost 8
pounds in about 8 weeks. I lost 4 pounds the first week, then started
eatin again. It's still headin in the right direction anyway. At least
it was, up till this week. But sure I'm on me holidays, so I can do
what I feckin well want.
Bangor seafront isn't what it used to be. For a start, they've knocked
half of the buildings down and are trying to get the rest knocked down
so's they can build sumthin. I'm not sure what is it they want to
build but no doubt I'll not be allowed in. They moved the seawall out
about 100 yards a few years ago and dropped in a car park, marina and
club house for rich wankers who don't want to mix with the rest of the
rabble. The excuse was that it was gonna attract lots of tourists and
bring money in. How giving subsidised parking spaces for rich people's
yachts was meant to bring in tourists I don't know. It didn't work
anyway. They'd have been better off spending money on decent games for
the amusements. They're all full of one-armed bandits for kids to
waste their dinner money on. Boring as fuck.
Anyway, I sat on the seafront and had my fish supper. It has always
amazed me that the young ladies who work in chip shops can use
sophisticated temperature-controlled deep fat fryers and the finest
Irish potatoes to produce the soggy excuses for food we call chips.
They throw in buckets of fat, 3inch long frozen shards of finest spud
and serve up a bag of bits and pieces of crud. Where the fuck do all
those little bits come from? You know when they take them out of the
fryer and throw in the little space where they can shovel them
from?Does that little space have a device that cuts the chips up into
little pieces, re-fries them till they go brown, squashes half of them
flat, adds lots of black bits, rejects any chips that might show any
signs of crispness, then spews them out again so the girlie can wrap
them up for you? Its the only explanation I can think of for the sorry
mess I got served.
At least the seagulls are happy, even if they do have ulcers. I say
this because you can take the hottest chip you can find that's still
in one piece, throw it high in the air, and some gull will grab it
mid-flight and swallow it whole immediately. If they could talk they'd
probably shout out 'Fuck me, that's hot! Have you any coke?' They're
bound to have ulcers. They daren't drop them cos some other gull will
grab it on the way down. The seagulls in Bangor must live on chips.
People buy them but you can only ever eat half of them cos the other
half are shite. If you throw them on the ground the gulls have them
away within seconds. Stops the bins filling up so quick. I don't get
it though. You never see a seagull with a belly like mine. 'Spose they
don't drink as much beer.
I'm spending this evening wi me mate doing another superb recording of
'Angels', but this time wi the right words. If either one of us could
feckin sing or play guitar properly we'd be friggin rock stars. It's
true.
There may even be some beer involved.
breóó
The Shining One
Katherine Zeta-Jones. That's the one. Nice she is too.
Madra Dubh
lady.
-Conway
--
"Isn't it ironic that I once thought meself Irish"
Hockersmith wrote in message <93127810...@news.remarQ.com>...
>
>I'm jealous.
>KateH
jake
wrote:
>How much for the little varnished shillelaghs with shamrocks on them?
>-Conway
>(The story itself is priceless. Well done)
>
>--
>"Isn't it ironic that I once thought meself Irish"
>breó wrote in message <7lr6rk$a6h$1...@news4.svr.pol.co.uk>...
>
><Eddie, Eddie>
Lovely Bro., I second your nomination, BTW.
--jake
Hockersmith
> > > -Conway
> > > (The story itself is priceless. Well done)
> >
> > KateH
>
> I'm gorgeous.
I'm sure.
KateH
breó
..Got up the smornin' feelin' fine.....da dah da dah dah da da dah..hm
hm hm hmmm hmm..somethin' tells me I'm into sumthin goooooood....
The bastard who wrote this song didn't live in Ulster. I got up this
mornin feeling fine, took one look out the window, and cursed the day
I didn't take that job managing a sheep farm in Australia 20 years
ago. I have to admit, I don't mind the rain. I don't mind the cold
even. Wind can be fun. I'm not saying I like all three together but
you get the general idea. I don't even mind the sun, it can beat down
on me most of the day and you won't hear more than a couple of
complaints. Complaints like 'This friggin beer's warm', and, 'Wud ya
ever fuck off, fly'. But what I really don't like about our weather is
the unpredictability of it. Two weeks of decent sunshine in a year is
not a lot to ask for. Actually we normally get that, just. What does
seem to be a lot to ask for is even a small clue as to when those two
weeks might be. Its a bloody nuisance.
I was definitely gonna go down the coast today wi me camera to see
this installation art but, no harm to George Eastman, his feckin film
does not turn a dull, rainy day in Ireland into bright but subtly
muted sunshine in Shangris La, whatever the friggin adverts say.
Ripped off as we Brits are by huge retail prices, I was not gonna
waste a whole film and half a tankful of petrol just to gain myself a
collection of Grey-on-Grey prints that I'll never look at again. So I
was a bit stuck for something to do.
There's not a lot to do in Ulster (or Ireland for that matter) when it
rains. Its probably OK if you're a visitor. In that case you can race
round all the places you've only heard about from your granny, or seen
on the news. You can visit the Giant's Causeway and marvel at the
six-sided rocks for nearly 15 minutes. By the time you've gotten there
and been convinced that this indeed is the place famed as a wonder of
the world, bought a couple of hexagonally-shaped pieces of coal in the
gift shop and drank another coffee apparently made from
sheep-droppings you've killed half a day. You can round it off with a
visit to Bushmills whiskey distillery to be told that the massive
stainless steel vats belong to the oldest licenced distillery in the
world, and you can tour down the beautiful Antrim Coast Road,
surrounded by scenery that makes the Grand Canyon look like the Grand
Canyon. Sight-seeing complete, you can treat yourself to some fine
Irish fare.
'Hi there honey, we'd like some traditionally Irish food. What do you
suggest?'
'I'm nat from Ireland, I'm british, but ya's can have sum potatas an
lomb wi peas if ya's like.'
'Is that Irish Lamb, darlin'?'
'Well, it says Irish on the menu, but if ya take my advice, ya can
have New Zealand lomb. I heard that all them sheep in Ireland are
infected wi radiation from Chernobyl where all them wee kids have
cancer.'
'Oh really? We'll have the New Zealand variety then, cooked in the
Irish way, of course. At least the potatoes are Irish, eh?'
'Well, I don't think so. Tesco's don't usually say where the cheap
ones come from, but our chef always buys the dear ones cos he says
there bedder. So they'll be from Cyprus this week.'
'The peas?'
'Tesco's.'
'Where...'
'Dunno. Do ya's want that ar nat?'
I'm only making all this up, of course. I've never actually seen a
tourist in a restaurant, never mind listen to their ordering
techniques. Anyway, the point I was gonna make was that once you've
seen one six-sided rock, you've seen them all. Driving 160 miles to
see them again doesn't inspire me much. If it was sunny I could go and
take some pictures, but it would be gratuitous. Ulster's a bit like
that all over. If you spend 40 years here driving all over the place
daily, you pretty much get to see the whole friggin thing, and a lot
of it more than once. It's no wonder we drink as much as we do, and no
wonder the tourist board make so much of the 'Irish Pub'. There's
bugger all else to do in the evening. Even if there was, the fact is,
we'd all be in the pub. Its just as well they serve alchohol, it'd be
friggin boring if they didn't.
So I've spent the day messing with the crap we produced last night.
Its funny how a couple of bottles of beer can make any recording sound
good. If I'm ever to become a rock star, I'll have to include a couple
of bottles with every CD. Still, it's better than work, and my idea of
a holiday really. You get all do to do what you like, you don't have
to go out if you don't want to, and you're not on tenderhooks waiting
for some pestering customer ringing you wanting you to do stuff for
them. I like it.
I have it on good authority that it's gonna brighten up tomorrow. I
have to accept their word for that, as there're only wrong 50 percent
of the time. So I'm heading out anyway.
Right now, I'm off to attend a service at the pub for people who're
not on holiday this week. I intend to be the one laughing and singing
and smacking as many pints down me gob as I can possibly fit in as I
don't have to go to work tomorrow, unlike the rest of them. If you
need me any time after 11:30, I'll be the one lying in a heap in the
garden.
breóó
Sir Niffirg
}
}Sir Niffirg <g.gr...@com.d.btinternet> wrote in message
}news:378850de...@news.btinternet.com...
}> On Mon, 5 Jul 1999 22:06:04 +0100, "breó" <bro@_NOSPAM_talk21.com>
}wrote:
}>
}>
}> Hah!, were was the sun today then, just heat, some rain and _no_sun.
}>
}>
}
}At work, are we? I'm not but feck me its just as well.
More rain today, I suppose you stayed in and got pissed.
Still, tomorrow looks good, 25C predicted.
I may take some leave :)
Hockersmith
> More rain today, I suppose you stayed in and got pissed.
> Still, tomorrow looks good, 25C predicted.
> I may take some leave :)
So... is the weather as wacky there as it is over here? We had a wind/dust
storm here today...looked out the window, couldn't see across the
street...it was just brown wind and the tree in the front yard was nearly
sideways.
KateH
december
Tree near my house is like that, the front of my car is even worse.
december
breó <bro@_NOSPAM_talk21.com> wrote in message
news:7lr6rk$a6h$1...@news4.svr.pol.co.uk...
I had a big house in the sea front. Long time ago, 1992.
Brilliant
Keep shining
breó
Hockersmith <hock...@internetnw.net> wrote in message
news:93138050...@news.remarQ.com...
> Sir Niffirg <g.gr...@com.d.btinternet> wrote
> > More rain today, I suppose you stayed in and got pissed.
> > Still, tomorrow looks good, 25C predicted.
> > I may take some leave :)
> > George
>
> So... is the weather as wacky there as it is over here? We had a
wind/dust
> storm here today...looked out the window, couldn't see across the
> street...it was just brown wind and the tree in the front yard was
nearly
> sideways.
Brown wind eh? Flip.
breó
?
breó
I didn't get to post this on day 4 cos it was too good to waste
talking to you lot. No offence, but you know how it is.
A good day in Ulster hits you like a smack in the gob. You're lying
there sort of half awake, and you realise that it's awful warm for the
time of year. 'Have I left the heating on?' you think, but then you
notice just how bright it is, and how noisy it is outside for this
early in the mornin. There's something about a certain combniation of
sunshine, temperature and noise that assures you the day you've been
waiting for all year has finally arrived. Kids instinctively react to
it. Whereas you normally can't get the buggers to more away from the
TV till after luchtime, give them the right day and they're off and
out there, making the street sound like a war zone. And so day 4
began. Sun, heat, noise. I was up and gone.
I was finally gonna get a chance to see the famous installation art
works. Well, famous in that I'd seen them on the news at the weekend.
I hadn't taken a note of the phone number to contact, nor really paid
much attention to where they were located, but I did remember seeing a
map of the east coast of the ards peninsula with little dots on it and
the word Ballyhalbert.
Now I used to be a keen cyclist. At one time I cycled around 50 miles
a day, and sometimes 150 miles a day at weekends. I was bloody fit
too. Its the best way to keep fit there is. Its not like that stupid
running that people do. All that does is damages your leg and ankle
joints and gets you run over if you're not careful. And you can't
really go anywhere. How many people have you ever heard say, 'Oh I
fancy going to the beach today, I think I'll run'. It just doesn't
happen.
Bike's are different. With a bike you can go places, and keep yourself
fit in the process. And it doesn't have the associated impact damage
running has. Of course, you may still get run over, but at least with
a bike you can carry lights without looking like a complete dodo.
I don't do much cycling these days as I've become a lazy bastard, but
give me the right conditions and Betsie gets dragged out of the
garage, tyres get pumped, and I'm off. That's how it was yesterday. I
wasn't gonna waste a day like that stuck in the car, so I strapped the
camera gear to me back, took a deep breath, and set off to
Ballyhalbert, man and machine as one.
After a couple of miles I was regrettin not strapping a gallon of
water to me back instead. It was bloody roastin. Some sun cream on my
neck wouldn't have done any harm either. So every garage I passed got
a visit and I had to shell out for another can of icky stuff. I would
have bought bottles of water but it goes against my principles to pay
for the stuff. How people in Ireland can pay 60p for a small bottle of
stuff that falls out of the sky on such a regular basis is beyond me.
Hardly a day goes by when 500 million quids worth doesn't fall on top
of you. I stand outside with my mouth open and save a fortune.
I must say, compared to Monday, there were some people around the
coast yesterday. The big paddling pool at Donaghadee was packed wi
kids all splashin and screamin. I could have got a few excellent
holiday/fun/children type shots here, but theres a fair chance of
somebody trying to knock your brains out for photographing other
people's half-dressed kids these days, so I didn't bother. It's
understandable too, but it's sad that we can't engage in innocent
activities because of the behaviour of a few perverted individuals.
But that's Northern Ireland all over, so I suppose I should be
used to being imposed upon because of the activities of a few nutters,
it happens every day.
As I headed down through Millisle, which was also busy, I was lookin
out for a sign with 'Installation Art. This way.' on it. I should know
better than this. I'd kinda hoped that after all the trouble they'd
obviously went to to get this stuff installed (as I'd seen on the TV)
that someone might have spent an extra 20 quid and knocked up a couple
of signs, but this is Northern Ireland we're talking about here.
Anyone with the sense to do this has buggered off to work in England
and America a long time ago. So Ballyhalbert was my only hope. The one
real bit of information I'd gleaned from the TV piece was that there
was a little floating house in Ballyhalbert bay, and I reckoned I
couldn't miss it. I was right too. I arrived in the village (one-sided
street) and stood and stared at the little house, about the size of a
large garden shed, floating away to itself. Good it was too, a little
house looking like it was its own little house-sized island way out
the Irish sea. Great. Fun, just what this country needs. I'd kinda
been hoping for a little sign here with an explanation from the artist
and all that sort of stuff, and possibly information on where to find
the other exhibits, but of course none existed. I went down to the
beach and took a few pictures.
I was attended in this activity by a chubby little girl in a swimsuit.
She appeared to be fascinated by the mechanics of camera tripods.
Every time I released a leg or clamped a clamp she leaned forward with
her face all screwed up as if she'd found some roadkill and was trying
to determine its origin.
'Are you from the newspaper?' she asked at last.
'No.'
'Why have got a camera then?'
'I take pictures.'
'Do people pay you for it?'
'Sometimes.'
'Hmmpt! That's an easy job. I could do that.'
'You could. Have you got a camera?'
'I have, but I never used it. You need film for it. I'm away to get
it.'
She raced off in the direction of the houses. I was packing up when
she returned.
'Here it is.' she shouted.
She handed me the camera. It was one of those jap compact zoom lens
types. Quite a nice one, about 150 quids worth.
'Is this really yours?' I asked, thinking she'd lifted her parents
pride and joy.
'It is, my granny give it me for my birthday. She's rich.'
I had a sudden impulse to determine this kid's future for some reason.
If someone had gave me a camera like that when i was ten I might have
been David Bailey, instead of some fat bloke. I gave her a
film and showed her how to use it. I had to sacrifice two batteries as
well, as the ones in the camera were stuffed. This was getting
expensive. I gave her ten minutes tuition anyway. You never know. She
was off down the beach to photograph a fishing boat with a 'Thanks
mister, I'm gonna work for the newspapers.' I couldn't help feeling it
was her way of saying 'Up yours, ya crappy sucker amateur.'
On my way back to the bike I tripped over another work of art,
literally. A broken slipway had had lots of faces chalked on the
broken concrete slabs that were scattered around. Again, no
information, but it was all the better that I'd just found it by
accident. It was OK, but not as good as the floating house. I took
some pictures anyway.
I headed on. It really was getting warm by this time. The people had
disappeared as I'd gone on down the coast. Ballyhalbert beach had had
5 people on it, including me and the budding photojournalist. The
beaches now didn't have anybody on them, apart from the odd dog
walker.
In another village (can't remember) I came across another artwork. A
big wigwam type thing with some plastic sheeting. I don't know what it
meant, but it kinda fitted the setting. I suppose artists know what
they're doing, even if I don't. Makes for good photographs for the
rest of us. Each to his own.
I was pretty far down the coast by this time, so I reckon I'd mssed
most of the art. If I remember right, there was about a dozen of them.
Aw well, 3 out of 12 ain't bad, as Meatloaf didn't say.
I called in St. Cooey's Wells on my way to Portaferry. It's one of
those places where I've passed the sign for and ignored before. You
get lots of little brown signs in the north pointing you to irrelevant
archaeological sites. I suspect farmers convince the DoE that a pile
of stones has significance just to get a laneway tarmac'd for free.
Many of them can be ignored, but I thought I'd give this one a try.
Turns out it's a religious site. (No really.) It has a wee shelter
thing and a couple of wooden boxes with rocks the size of your head in
them. Penance stones. I don't know what a penance stone is, and there
was no explanation. I imagine you have to do something with them to
atone for your sins. Throw them up and catch them in your mouth
perhaps. No doubt God will forgive you of anything if you're mad
enough to try this.
Rather more interesting was the fact that it was a real archaeological
site. The stones of the original abbey (house) are still there. It was
founded by St. Cooey in the seventh century and has three springs,
which are no doubt holy. The water wasn't bad either, though at this
point I would've drank anything short of Smithwicks. This place had
been raided many times by vikings over hundreds of years, according to
a plaque I found. (Some info!) Makes you wonder why they didn't just
move it inland a bit.
I wandered on through the marsh to the beach, and here the sea mist
began to roll in in a hurry, blotting out the sun. Spooky it was too,
like somewhere you'd come across in a computer adventure game.
Atmosphere by the bucketful. If MacBeth's witches had appeared from
the drifting mist I wouldn't have been surprised. I could easily
imagine the creaking and crash of the longboat as it grounds itself
onto the shore and hear yells as the norsemen pile off the ship and
run across the rocks to the abbey with their axes and swords waving in
the air. Spooky indeed.
Having decided to give up my quest for civilisation I went across on
the ferry to Strangford, (Portaferry was just as empty as it had been
on Monday.) and cycled up the west coast of Strangford Lough homewards
in the sunshine.
Strangford Lough is my favourite place in the whole world. It's named
from the Norse for Strong Current, or Strong Fjiord. Apparently the
Vikings were impressed by the vicious currents at its mouth as the
tide goes in and out. There are parts of Strangford were people have
fallen in the water on fine days and disappeared forever. It's got
whirlpools and undercurrents and all sorts. Its also a nature reserve
and one of the least developed places in Northern Ireland. People do
get away with sticking up houses here and there but so far it's fairly
under control. I hope this policy tightens up in the future and no
more houses can be built near the lough. It's one of those areas which
it would be a crime to develop. The vikings understood this, and
regularly came round to do a little demolition of monasteries and
villages thrown up without any planning permission whatsoever.
I called in at one of my favourite places, the Nendrum Monastic site.
Like Temple Cooey, it had its fair share of viking raids, but it was
quite heavily fortified and up on a hill, more easily defended. It's a
place where you can picture yourself living and working a thousand
years ago. If I didn't think reincarnation was a lot of oul bollocks,
I could imagine meself burning the place to the ground with reckless
abandon. It always seemed very familiar to me.
Anyway, I got home eventually. I was just sitting down to write this
when the phone went. A bloke I hadn't seen in friggin ages was in
town, and a pint was waiting for me at the pub. So I abandoned this
and went. Good crack it was too. The frigger was tellin me how he's
made his fortune and was thinking of retiring, at 36. Bastard. Nah,
good luck to him, he deserves it. I recommended he buys a house down
round Strangford, maybe on one of those wee islands if he can manage
it. I fancy somewhere to crash down there. I didn't get home to very
late anyway.
So before the story of day 5 turns into 'I spent the day writing about
day 4', I'm off out, if I can get my legs to work, that is. I've a
bloody sore arse as well, but I'm missing around 5% of our annual
sunshine quota doing this.
breóó
The shining One
Hockersmith
> wind/dust
> > storm here today...looked out the window, couldn't see across the
> > street...it was just brown wind and the tree in the front yard was
> nearly
> > sideways.
>
> Brown wind eh? Flip.
> breó
You two don't believe me...do you?
Actually it was sort've cofee (w/lots of cream) colored.
KateH
James C. Woodard
Hockersmith wrote in message <93153514...@news.remarQ.com>...
storms all spring. Wind would blow 45-50 MPH all day every day for what
seemed like weeks and weeks. Not a cloud in the sky but you not only
couldn't see the sun but it was dark like during a thunderstorm. The wind
whistled through the big box elder trees and round about the log cabin I
grew up in, blowing sand in through every crack and crevasse. It would cut
the young plants off at ground level. The road in front of our home would
drift full of sand every bit as bad as when we had a blizzard. It was a
very hot dry wind and with the sand grains rubbing together the static
electric charge was so high that it actually caused my nerves to feel pain.
Everyone was on edge for the entire spring. When it stopped my dad would go
out and re-level our fields and re-plant all the grain. We had a device
called a ditcher which we pulled behind the horses. It was just two large
pieces of steel joined to make a V. It was used to get the sand out of our
irrigation ditches. It took three sometimes four people to operate. One
man drove the team and the other two-three rode on the ditcher to keep in
down and cutting. They would shift their weight back and forth to maintain
the grade in the bottom of the ditch. This was important for us because we
weren't Mormons. Only the Mormons could make water run uphill. Before I
got old enough to ride the ditcher we stopped using horse to farm and got a
tractor. A Case model AC. Big orange thing with a crank that would break
your thumb in a heartbeat it you weren't careful, a little tab on the
magneto to turn it off which would give you a jolt that made your arm ache
all day and a hand operated clutch that if not properly engaged would pop
out and whack you on the knee and make you limp for two or three days.
Height of modern technology it was. Dad paid $300 for it used. I hated the
damn thing. From the time I was 7 I had to drive the damn thing in my
capacity as derrick driver. We had this large A-frame device called a hay
derrick that was used to lift the hay bales from the truck four at a time
and put them on the top off the hay stack. It required fine control of
speed and starting and stopping the tractor so that one did not kill one's
father or brother or cousin. The derrick driver was the yellow dog of the
hay stacking operation, anything that went wrong was automatically his fault
and he got yelled (dad) or his ass kicked(big brother) for very small
mistakes or even things that weren't his fault. I still wish some days I
had that tractor and some C-4, I'd blow it and it's damned hand clutch over
to torment some poor culchie in the Wesht.
Jim
EzeeDuzit
>> breó
>
>You two don't believe me...do you?
>Actually it was sort've cofee (w/lots of cream) colored.
>KateH
>
Yes, definitely coffee with cream colored. Good description. I got caught
outdoors in a duststorm in El Paso, Texas. Like a dummy, I stayed outside to
watch the brown clouds approaching. I had never seen anything like that. I
didn't know they where dust and sand clouds and the bottom was on the ground.
It was the most uncomfortable weather experience I ever had. Hot wind whipped
sand. You are suffocating and being sand blasted at the same time. I was only
out in it for a few minutes and it was an experience I wish to never repeat. I
will take good old midwest blizards, hail. and thunder storms any day. The
only thing worse than a heavey dust storm is a tornado.
Easy Does IT,
FRANK C.
"Truth Like Football. Get kicked around much, before reaching goal." -Charlie
Chan
Hockersmith
>This type of weather is not new. I can remember as a child in Idaho, wind
> storms all spring.
> Jim
Oh, I know it's not new...not new here anyways. What had me wondering is
the news. Every time I turn on the tube they're goin' on about the poor
Farmers in NewYork getting heat stroke and yet here, where we expect to HAVE
heat stroke (by now) have been having a mellow, cool summer, for the most
part. I was just wondering if Ireland was experiencing similar shifts in
the weather pattern.
Kate(loved the story, tho)H
Out chasin' dust devils
Whirlin' cross the plains
Like the dream of a lover
Never...seen again
Sir Niffirg
}
bastard, bastard, bastard (yes I was in work you bastard).
snipped large post you bastard, lording it over those that have to work.
}
}So before the story of day 5 turns into 'I spent the day writing about
}day 4', I'm off out, if I can get my legs to work, that is. I've a
}bloody sore arse as well, but I'm missing around 5% of our annual
}sunshine quota doing this.
}
Hah, revenge at last. If you're that sore after one day then on the second day
you are going to suffer. At last, he won't even make it to the computer to type.
And the weathers going to change (I'm off now for a short period) and it will
probably rain.
Peter O'Stuart
Hockersmith wrote:
> breó <bro@_NOSPAM_talk21.com> wrote
>
> > Brown wind eh? Flip.
> > breó
>
> You two don't believe me...do you?
> Actually it was sort've cofee (w/lots of cream) colored.
> KateH
<whoosh!>
breó, you're mind's in the gutter, right next to mine.
--
Pete Stuart
ar mhaith leat tuilleadh?
breó
> breó <bro@_NOSPAM_talk21.com> wrote
> > Hockersmith <hock...@internetnw.net> wrote in message
> > > So... is the weather as wacky there as it is over here? We had
a
> > wind/dust
> > > storm here today...looked out the window, couldn't see across
the
> > > street...it was just brown wind and the tree in the front yard
was
> > nearly
> > > sideways.
> >
> > breó
>
> You two don't believe me...do you?
> Actually it was sort've cofee (w/lots of cream) colored.
I believe you. I was just wondering if you were gonna explain the term
or let us use our imaginations. We get wind-borne sand on occasions. I
remember a few years ago when most of ireland got covered in a
noticeable layer of red dust, from the Sahara apparently.
The wind Jimbo's talking about is the one you get when you operate
machinery that scares the shit out of ya.
breó
december
> James C. Woodard <gwy...@aracnet.com
> >This type of weather is not new. I can remember as a child in Idaho,
wind
> > storms all spring.
> (snipped Jim's Idaho childhood torture and why he hates orange tractors)
:)
> > Jim
>
> Oh, I know it's not new...not new here anyways. What had me wondering is
> the news. Every time I turn on the tube they're goin' on about the poor
> Farmers in NewYork getting heat stroke and yet here, where we expect to
HAVE
> heat stroke (by now) have been having a mellow, cool summer, for the most
> part. I was just wondering if Ireland was experiencing similar shifts in
> the weather pattern.
> Kate(loved the story, tho)H
It was 130 F in my car today with the windows down (both sides front and
back). Tomorrow it will not be so hot.