43>Not a Lot of Fishing
I hate the rain. I admit and don't actually like swimming.
Wet has been too actual in my life to seek, unless it's a deep, hot bath.
Having spent most of the time with wet knees, from picking winkles in rockpools and moss in dripping forests, it's a wonder that I have evaded arthritis.
Most of the lobster boats in Aber were share fishermen, with two crew but there was one full time loner called Keith Stone who I respected above the rest.
He ventured into stormy seas that glued most of the others onto stools in the Castle Bar, unless,that is, it was raining.
I suppose this aversion develops amongst fishermen as a defence mechanism. Being wet robs your body of heat and vitality, tiring you and slowing responses.
I notice generally that urban visitors seem to wear far too few clothes to allow for the fickleness of the weather. (the conditionality of it is expressed in the words similarity to 'whether').
Old country dwellers on the other hand look swaddled in their entire wardrobe on the hottest July day.
The summer was ever thus. At the end of June the weather breaks.
Fine Julys are a rare thing. It was ever so; I remember many determined wet holiday walks as a boy.
July is the Month of The Welly.
An old farmer pointed this out to me. Then, long grass laden with seed flops over pathways. Thigh-high opportunities to get soaked are everywhere..
The rain accompanies Wind as a Summer pack of Lows scour the land looking for dry humans to soak.
Branches, heavy with leaves, are ripped by savage gusts from the trees.
Even the beach starts to stink as heaps of storm wrenched seaweed heat and rot, hopped over by hundreds of thrips.
It is as if the Summer heat stirs the Earth's emotions into a wild and tearful Wobble. Great hammerheads of cumulo nimbus pile up in the sky.
Why do we pretend otherwise? 'Scorchio' Climates, yearned for by the tabloids, must be so boring.
We have been honoured by a Classic British July.
Yet this makes the clear, fresh sunny days a welcomed blessing.
It lets us appreciate the flavour of every day.
Relish those fleeting bursts of sun .n a rain-washed Earth.
Wait a minute, it's stopped raining.
Guys are swimming.
Guys are sailing.
Playing baseball,
Geee that's better...
Mother, Father,
Kindly
Disregard this letter.
42> The Sea Is A Fine Mistress.
The sea has settled into a deep Summer sleep.
We have been to the west coast of Ireland for two weeks, ostensibly sailing, but beset by weak or contrary winds. Sligo and Knocknarea will have to wait.
The calm weather was there too, and regarded as a rare event. It allowed us to anchor off the White Strand on the Great Blasket, and kayak along her steep cliffs, exploring the deep, sucking caves.
The far end was a blush of seapinks.
Very Heaven.
If you haven't read any of the Blasket books, look them out. They are about a time when a peasant community lived on this six mile long island, fed on fish, milk, and potatoes. A diet enriched by sealmeat and the spoils of wreckage . They fished with skin boats, canoes, curraghs, kayaks; call them what you like. The landlord had seized their larger boats to cover rent arrears.
The Islandman, or "Twenty Years A'growing" are a good start.
The trip was tarnished for me by witnessing my partner being drawn increasingly to another member of the crew. I started to feel like a jealous and wounded old man and didn't like that role.
I am 15 years her senior & I think she has been constricted by my ways.
On our return, we parted.
Hopefully we will work something out... .
I have felt like I have just been in some horrendous car accident, shaky and shocked.
All that happens to us we can learn from and grow from. I have not spent eight years in the company of two amazing New Age women without learning that. Anyway, the other way leads to victimhood and emotional close-down, and they both lead nowhere.
The initial gain from this is that I have been sleeping in my van, in the forest where I have more work than I can handle.
Trees are a parliament of sense in any social or emotional turbulence. They really want to help.
-Remember that in these last days of the Age of Stupid.
Head for the woods.
Millions of refugees in a century of wars would agree.
The other haven has been my parkup overlooking the sea. Allt Tabor.
The whole of Fishguard Bay with it's ferry and fishing traffic to pace my day; cutting chest-high bracken that has overwhelmed the trees that I planted this Spring.
After the forest it feels fresh and free. For years I have lived in a valley noisy with great tribes of trees and their birdchoir, overlooked by a mountain outline of a sleeping goddess, who jealousy blocked the glory of the setting sun in all seasons.
Now I can gaze out at that golden pathway to the end of the day. The road to a new day.
We have been to the west coast of Ireland for two weeks, ostensibly sailing, but beset by weak or contrary winds. Sligo and Knocknarea will have to wait.
The calm weather was there too, and regarded as a rare event. It allowed us to anchor off the White Strand on the Great Blasket, and kayak along her steep cliffs, exploring the deep, sucking caves.
The far end was a blush of seapinks.
Very Heaven.
If you haven't read any of the Blasket books, look them out. They are about a time when a peasant community lived on this six mile long island, fed on fish, milk, and potatoes. A diet enriched by sealmeat and the spoils of wreckage . They fished with skin boats, canoes, curraghs, kayaks; call them what you like. The landlord had seized their larger boats to cover rent arrears.
The Islandman, or "Twenty Years A'growing" are a good start.
The trip was tarnished for me by witnessing my partner being drawn increasingly to another member of the crew. I started to feel like a jealous and wounded old man and didn't like that role.
I am 15 years her senior & I think she has been constricted by my ways.
On our return, we parted.
Hopefully we will work something out... .
I have felt like I have just been in some horrendous car accident, shaky and shocked.
All that happens to us we can learn from and grow from. I have not spent eight years in the company of two amazing New Age women without learning that. Anyway, the other way leads to victimhood and emotional close-down, and they both lead nowhere.
The initial gain from this is that I have been sleeping in my van, in the forest where I have more work than I can handle.
Trees are a parliament of sense in any social or emotional turbulence. They really want to help.
-Remember that in these last days of the Age of Stupid.
Head for the woods.
Millions of refugees in a century of wars would agree.
The other haven has been my parkup overlooking the sea. Allt Tabor.
The whole of Fishguard Bay with it's ferry and fishing traffic to pace my day; cutting chest-high bracken that has overwhelmed the trees that I planted this Spring.
After the forest it feels fresh and free. For years I have lived in a valley noisy with great tribes of trees and their birdchoir, overlooked by a mountain outline of a sleeping goddess, who jealousy blocked the glory of the setting sun in all seasons.
Now I can gaze out at that golden pathway to the end of the day. The road to a new day.
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