1974

 June 29th 1974

Cape Clear Island, County Cork, Ireland

"There is a castle on the rocky promontory of an island which lies at the very edge of Europe. Years of gales and human neglect have caused its walls to crumble, so that instead of towering nobly above its mother rock it has, like a chameleon, taken on an appearance which does not clash with the cliff faces and the rocky islets that surround it.

Ah, but despite the decline, this ancient fortress has not yet revealed the rich history which the surrounding geology jealously watched being formed. Still, still midst the coastal rock plants, standing there ever so still you can sense worlds that have gone, a pirate called O'Driscoll, on those eroding stairs of stone, his footsteps padding, a tankard of stolen Spanish wine in his right fist. He stops on the parapet., hacking his throat clear. He looks out through the dark night to the ocean and his eyes stumble upon the distant lights of two of his wooden ships returning from the Americas.

On that very same horizon, two centuries later it is the blue and white spinnaker of a French yacht which reveals itself to the island. 

But what if that, that man of the sea with lice in his scalp and food detritus in his ragged beard could see his proud castle as it is today. Perhaps standing with me in the soft clifftop grasses, his shell of hardness and vulgarity might fracture and at last words would rise up from his buried heart, "I didn't know. I didn't know".

And we would walk along the clifftop, watching mewling seabirds glide to their ledges and he would stare at it all, leaning over the edge, seeking his reflection in the waves below... and having failed to find it renounce his days of plunder and piracy, finally seeing like me  a world of waiting and wondering - not rushing to fulfil a fool's dreams."

⦿

That long ago summer I was twenty years old, exploring Ireland on my 
own with a rucksack on my back and a few pounds in my pocket. I used
 a little notebook as my journal and rediscovered it earlier this week. 

The castle in question was Dun an Oir or Fort of Gold but known 

locally as O'Driscoll's Castle.

Sheaffeld

The Sheaf from Cutler's Walk

Most English place names have evolved through history, emerging from times when spelling expectations were not as clearcut as they are today. When I was in Uttoxeter recently, I learnt that through the centuries the little Staffordshire town's name had gone through no less than seventy nine changes from Wotocheshede in 1086 to Utoc Cestre and Utcester just before standardised spellings became the fashion.

This city, Sheffield, also knew  name or spelling changes through time. I used one of the older versions as the title of this blogpost - Sheaffeld.

One of the city's five little rivers is the River Sheaf. It travels for little more than seven miles from its source to its confluence with the much larger River Don. Historically, those seven miles marked a section of the border between the ancient kingdoms of Northumbria and Mercia that predated the very notion of a united country called England.

In Old English the term "sheaf" or "scēað" meant a boundary. "Feld" that later became "field" meant an open area of land or pasture. So you can see that way back in history when a small settlement grew in what is now our city centre Sheaffeld was a logical and rather simple choice. It was not fanciful.

Cutler's Walk

Today I walked down by The River Sheaf. For three or four centuries it drove a handful of waterwheels and industrial premises grew up along its banks - mostly connected with metal working - including the manufacture of cutlery, wire and farm implements.

But I was mostly there to see a muralist at work by Cutler's Walk  which narrowly weaves its way by the The Sheaf and the main Midland railway line. And there she was up a ladder hard at work - Zoe Genders. She has been commissioned to create a 200 square metre mural which is likely to see her working into early September.

Zoe Genders at work today

I stopped to talk to her and it was interesting to hear that she views her creations as ephemeral. They are just here for a while and she expects taggers and teenage scrawlers to come along with spoiling additions. That's all part of the reality of being an urban muralist.

I wished her well and promised that I would return in September to see the finished work.

To tell you the truth, Zoe's abstract graphical shapes and lines and blocks of colour are not my favourite style of street art but it is what she does and she seemed happy in her work.

⦿

This morning at 4.30am, the Irish singer-songwriter and musician Glen Hansard died in a tragic motorcycle accident in County Dublin, Ireland. When I first heard this news, a sharp intake of breath was necessary. I hope they play "Falling Slowly" at his funeral. He leaves behind his Finnish wife Maire and their beloved three year old son. So sad. He was only 56.

664

664 - the number of pages in "Lisey's Story" by Stephen King. I finished it this afternoon sitting at our garden table but I had also read sections sitting on the Derby train, sitting on the Jet2 aeroplane to and from Majorca and sitting by the swimming pool at our Majorcan villa. It has been a long time since I read a book of that length.

Stephen King has said several times that "Lisey's Story" is the novel he is proudest of. It is dedicated to his wife Tabatha and contains various echoes of his real life. For example it is set in Maine. The married couple at its centre are a very successful novelist and his wife - Scott and Lisa (Lisey) Landon. And like King himself, Scott grew up in difficult circumstances with one sibling - an older brother.

But what did I think of this book?

My reaction is mixed. There were some gripping well-told episodes and the construction of the narrative was masterful but there were aspects of the book that left me squirming - including the invention of  new words such as "smucking" to replace the casual swear word it rhymes with. Why?

Around half way through the novel, readers are introduced to a strange nether world known as "Boo'ya Moon" where strange beings exist in the night forest. But in the daytime, it is a land of sweet floral aromas where the dead and the living sit quietly by a lake. There the moon is always full. It is possible to cross between the real world and Boo'ya Moon as Lisey does a few times.

Instinctively, I find it very difficult to get along with or accept this kind of fantasising. Maybe it is a weakness in me but I am a big fan of realism and credibility and cannot get off on such flights of fancy. It's probably the reason why I was bored with "Lord of the Rings" and as for "Harry Potter" - totally yawn-worthy in my opinion. I can't see what all the fuss was about.

I am glad I read "Lisey's Story". It is only the second Stephen King novel I have ever read - the other was "Misery". I can't see me reading any more of his novels. After all there are so many great books out there in the world, shouting, "Read me!" and I am already in possession of several promising (and shorter!)  books that still remain to be consumed. 

Here's a small taste of "Lisey's Story". Through it, you can easily deduce what happened to Scott Landon a third of the way through the novel. But was he really gone?....

“Sometimes she'd go a whole day without thinking of him or missing him. Why not? She had quite a full life, and really, he'd often been hard to deal with and hard to live with. A project, the Yankee old-timers like her very own Dad might have said. And then sometimes a day would come, a gray one (or a sunny one) when she missed him so fiercely she felt empty, not a woman at all anymore but just a dead tree filled with cold November blow. She felt like that now, felt like hollering his name and hollering him home, and her heart turned sick with the thought of the years ahead and she wondered what good love was if it came to this, to even ten seconds of feeling like this.”

⦿

And here are three more holiday pictures taken by my lovely daughter, Frances with the aid of her smartphone. It appears that those damnable devices are useful for some things...

Traveller

Traveller's comment on my "Report" blogpost... "Sounds lovely, welcome home. Hope we get more photos in the next few posts".

Traveller's wish is my command even though I did not take many pictures during our week on Majorca/Mallorca. But anyway, here we go...

Are you able to read this engraved padlock? It was affixed to a safety fence at the Mirador or viewpoint on Cap da Formentor. Stupidly I had neglected to have any padlocks engraved ahead of our visit. Declaring your emotional ties on a padlock is such a unique and special thing to do. What is more it is very thoughtful to share those declarations with complete strangers.  Below, the view showing the spectacular northern coastline.

This goat at Cala  San Vicenze beach was obviously the toilet attendant...

Our property had once been a rather humble farmhouse. There was much evidence of this including the "well" you can see pictured below. If you shouted into a hole in the rusty padlocked lid you could hear your echo in a deep underground tank where rainwater would have been collected in wintertime. See the terracotta piping to the right. This came down from the tiled roof. The children enjoyed hearing their voices bounce back and of course there was a troll down there who sounded suspiciously like Old Grandpa.

In the garden there was a big old stone surrounded by little trees. I suspect it may have had some ancient significance but it might have simply been a place to tether beasts of burden in days before motor vehicles.

This was a typical street scene in Pollensa, looking to Església de Nostra Senyora dels Àngels.

Back at our villa, I noticed a tenacious tree on a sunbaked stony ridge, perhaps a mile away from where we were. Can you see it, bang in the middle?

Standing on the very same spot, I zoomed in with my Lumix bridge camera - the one I almost lost at Derby railway station...

Finally, please meet The Beaver. This was my family's friendly inflatable holiday companion. Shirley had picked her up for free at the Age Concern charity shop but I was the one who who had to blow air into The Beaver's secret nozzles. In my humble opinion, everybody should  ride The Beaver at least once in their lives so we left her there for others to ride upon. I imagine that she is still smiling.

"I'm a happy beaver"

Legend

 

Most people who read this blogpost will never have heard of Phil Brown but to me he is a living legend. Back in 2008, he was the Hull City manager who led my beloved Tigers up to The Premier League for the very first time. Hell, that was eighteen years ago. Hull City had been in existence since 1904.

During his professional  playing career, he made 652 appearances as a defender for Hartlepool United, Halifax Town, Bolton Wanderers and Blackpool, scoring 46 goals. He never achieved any international recognition. Currently, he is often heard on BBC Radio 5 Live - debating football or commentating.

On Saturday afternoon my son Ian clocked him by the luggage carousels at Birmingham Airport. He was wearing pink shorts, a green Hawaiian shirt and a straw hat. I plucked up the courage to go over to talk to him...

⦿

"Hello, Phil. May I shake your hand?"

"Do I know you?"

"I'm just a lifelong Hull City fan. And I wanted to thank you for what happened back in 2008. It was one of the happiest days of my life."

"It was a very special day that's for sure."

"I discovered what tears of joy really mean."

"You won't the only one. I cried them too."

"How do you think The Tigers will do next season?"

"I think they are in with a good chance of staying up. There is togetherness and everybody seems to be pulling in the same direction. I hear they have got some imaginative signings lined up."

"Yes. There seems to be a good team spirit and Sergej Jakirović seems like a capable manager."
"I agree."
"So where have you been on your holidays?"
"We've been to Malta. It was bloody hot. Around forty degrees  in the afternoon. Where did you go?"
"Oh we've been to Majorca and it was very hot there too... Anyway, I don't want to detain you any longer. I just wanted to say thank you for May 24th, 2008. I will never forget it and it has been a real honour to meet you sir."
"Well, that's very kind of you to say so."
(They shake hands for a second time)

Report

On Carrer del Calvari, Pollensa

Our Majorcan villa, just outside the ancient town of Pollensa, was almost perfect. All four bedrooms had effective air-conditioning units which were pretty essential in that sultry heat. And the outdoor area with a lovely deep swimming pool served us well - even though the three children required responsible supervision.

Our Phoebe

My son-in-law Stewart was the barbecue king and every night we had salad and barbecued meat with a dollop of carbohydrates plus wine and beer. Of course my son Ian didn't have the meat - he had beans or a tofu alternative.

There were two or three days at the villa when I got up, put my swimming shorts on and dived in the pool and I didn't shower, get dressed or comb my hair all day. This made a nice change.

Ian and Zach at Playa Formentor

We visited Playa Formentor which Shirley and I had taken Ian to in 1986. At that time we stayed in The Hotel Cala San Vicenze where there is a little sandy cove. Interestingly, forty years later - on our second morning Ian ran there - around ten kilometers before diving into the sea and swimming out for half a mile.

Happy busker in Pollensa

The flights were on time and we didn't have any costly prangs with our two hire cars. The children were happy and healthy and I didn't watch any television or learn what was happening in the world beyond our former Majorcan farmhouse. 

Picnic time

And - oh - I met a famous person at Birmingham Airport but more about that in the next gripping episode of "Yorkshire Pudding"...

Majorca

 

Yo! I got you there with my last blogpost didn't I? "The End"? What on earth did that curmudgeonly old Yorkshire bloke mean?

Well let me start be reassuring you that I was only playing. A few out there will be disappointed when I reassure you that this blog is not over. It will continue when I get back from our holiday in Majorca, Spain.

At this very minute we should be safely ensconced in our rural villa north of Pollensa following a flight from Birmingham and a late night hire car drive to the north of the island. When I say "we", I mean all of us - me and Shirley, Ian and Zach, Frances, Stewart, Phoebe and Margot. A proper family break at the start of the school holidays here in England.

The last time I was in Majorca, Ian was eighteen months old. Forty years ago. He won't remember a thing but I remember it was a lovely holiday in the Easter period when the sunshine was comfortable, not angry as I expect it will sometimes feel during this week away.

Fortunately our villa has a swimming pool and I expect to spend a good amount of time in there. With three little children and simply to save money, I further expect that we will mostly eat in the villa but One lunchtime Shirley and I will treat everybody to a happy family meal that we will remember fondly in the dark days of winter.

This was a "scheduled post". I won't be blogging again until Saturday the 25th.