Bucket List #5

Renault4

This is not a photo of my first car, but it is a photo of a beige Renault 4 with a sunroof.  My first car was a beige Renault 4 with a sunroof, but it also had matching dents on each front corner, and a chiaroscuro quality imparted by the proliferation of rust.

How does it qualify for my bucket list?  Well, it was a rust-bucket!

My Renault 4 came to me by way of my Sister, Síle, who decorated it with the two matching dents by knocking down first one pillar and then the other on the driveway of her house in Newbridge.  She bought the car second hand from the Burkes, who owned a garage in Tipperary.  That might explain why a Renault 4 came to be fitted with a sunroof.  It also had a go-fast stripe, and I suspect they did something to the engine to give it a bit of power, but maybe that was just an illusion imparted by the stripe.

There is a magic and a nostalgia associated with your first car.  It is usually a piece of rubbish, but it is a very important piece of rubbish.  Your first car is probably the most expensive and most important thing you have ever owned up to the point where you get your second car, or a house, or an engagement ring.

Your first car represents your freedom as a young adult.  Your ability to strike out at great distances without begging rides from parents or siblings, without the need to rely on public transport.

It is a space of your own.  If you have a car you can take a girlfriend for a date in said car.  Louise learned how to drive in it, and there was no worry that she might scrape a door or a wing as there might have been with later cars, of which we will say nothing.  Before you know what is happening a girlfriend can become a wife, much to the confusion of her brothers who would not be caught dead in a car like that!

You could bring friends to rugby matches as far afield as Malahide, Greystones, Clonskeagh and Churchtown.  You could give rides to Glénans trainees for holidays in Bere Island, Baltimore or Collanmore Island, instead of having to hitch rides from other members.

When the last exams finished you were able to bring a gang of friends to Rutland Island in Donegal for a week in Murf’s holiday home.  They could then have a great laugh about the acceleration qualities of a Renault 4 engine going uphill in a headwind with five big lads on board.

You could nip up the Wicklow mountains for Sunday hikes, or head off to Dingle or Glenbeigh for a rainy Irish summer holiday.  The possibilities were endless.

It was a gateway to adventures.  My Renault 4 carried dinghies, ribs  and sailboards on the roof.  It had a great cargo space, especially when you dropped the back seats.  It held lots of sailing equipment, hiking equipment, camping gear, washing machines and plenty of second hand furniture.  When we bought a house it was furnished with bits and pieces of second hand furniture bought from the small ads in the Irish Press and carted back in or on the Renault 4.

Because it was rusty and a bit battered there was none of the concern that you might scratch it, or leave a stain on the seats, or get a chip in the paintwork.  I didn’t worry that the seawater would add more rust.  I didn’t mind if puppies shat or puked in the back.  It was a workhorse, not an ornament.  It enabled my adventures rather than decorating my existence.

In its final years the rust holes became larger and larger.  On rainy days it was advisable to wear plastic bags on your feet because of the spray coming up through the floor.

Then one day it stopped.  Dead.

A friend of my Sister came up from Kildare and towed it away to see service in its final days as a hen house.

When I look back at the sum of my experiences in that battered old rust bucket I pity any teenager or 20-something who is gifted a brand new vehicle as their first car.  You will never understand the unadulterated joy to be had from owning a total piece of crap, bought and paid for with your own money.

Chickencoop

The Lure of Fish

SONY DSC

It is the time of year when the Salmon rivers in Ireland and Scotland begin opening for the season.  Scotland in particular makes a big splash of the opening of the rivers.  Whiskey is poured as a libation before the first flies of the season are cast.

Then it is all about the records.  First fish of the season, largest salmon of the day/ week/ month/ river/ region.  There are never larger fish caught than the ones that got away.  The life of a fisherman is a life of imagination, what might be and what might have been.  The fish you actually caught are almost a throwaway to fortune, because they only represent the thin edge of what might one day be.

I recall standing in front of a large board of lures like the one above in a fishing shop in Dublin.  I asked the shopkeeper which lures were the best for catching trout.  He replied that he didn’t know about catching trout, but he could tell me which were the best lures for catching anglers.

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS: by W.B. Yeats

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

Make Ireland Gr8at Again

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I want to save this iconic photo for my own memories.  This is how Ireland prepared to receive the Haka from New Zealand in Soldiers Field, Chicago on Nov 5th 2016.  In a tribute to Anthony Foley the Ireland and Munster stalwart who died on Oct 16th 2016, the Irish squad lined out to form the Number of Foley’s jersey.

Ireland broke a 111 year old duck to win the game 40 to 29.

Tomorrow we play the All Blacks again in Dublin.  A second win would be legend!

 

 

 

It’s going to be medieval!

All Ireland

Brilliant photo which fronts the Nenagh Guardian.  You probably have to come from Ireland to get the significance of the All Ireland.  One of the classic rivalries plays out this year, Tipperary V Kilkenny. The photo captures the pure drama of the clash.

Tipperary and Kilkenny share a county border and it is along such a border that the greater drama is played out in rampant displays of tribalism.  Peer pressure is exerted in communities to get householders to deck out their homes with flags and bunting in their county colours.  As you approach a county border the concentration of colours intensifies.

Drive north from Tipperary or south from Kilkenny along the Cork-Dublin road today and you will be able to mark the exact point of the county line.  That is the point when the colours of the flags change.

I’m a Dub living in Tipperary with more interest in Rugby.  Still, I’d love to see more of this tomorrow……….Come on the Blue and Gold.

TipperaryvWaterfordJul16_large

 

 

Schooldays

Rugby

 

Walking Away: by Cecil Day Lewis

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day –
A sunny day with leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-ruled – since I watched you play
Your first game of football, then, like a satellite
Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away

Behind a scatter of boys. I can see
You walking away from me towards the school
With the pathos of a half-fledged thing set free
Into a wilderness, the gait of one
Who finds no path where the path should be.

That hesitant figure, eddying away
Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem,
Has something I never quite grasp to convey
About nature’s give-and-take – the small, the scorching
Ordeals which fire one’s irresolute clay.

I have had worse partings, but none that so
Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly
Saying what God alone could perfectly show –
How selfhood begins with a walking away,
And love is proved in the letting go.

 

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Bjorking Brilliant

Iceland

Oh yeah, they all laughed in the office when I drew Iceland.  Euro 2016 championship sweepstakes and I got the team that was considered the total no-hoper.

Well who’s laughing now suckers?  Spain, Austria and Croatia all gone.  Ireland, heads high, good effort, but gone.  England….embarrassed, humiliated, shocked.  Brexit 2.

Iceland, a country with a population that could just about fill a decent stadium if you let them stand on the pitch.  Iceland, who have 21 players from their national league in their squad and only 2 players who made it on the international stage.

Iceland may get no further in the competition, but they have been worth every penny of my entry fee.  Come on the land of fire and ice.  Or ice and fire if you are a Game of Thrones fan.  July 3rd we take on the French on their own doorstep.  L’hiver arrive!

Fire and Ice; by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

 

 

 

Passes a legend

Cassius Clay.jpeg

Upon hearing of the passing of Muhammed Ali I called to mind this iconic photograph of him towering over the supine Sonny Liston.  Ali all piss and vinegar, youth personified, the new sweeping out the old.  The fallen champion exposing his belly in complete submission.

Ali was one of those few individuals who could make a sport accessible to the wider public.  He was not just the greatest because he won the world heavyweight championship three times.  He is the greatest because he made boxing speak to a generation.  A boxer, not a fighter, he moved his considerable bulk with the grace of a dancer.  He entertained both inside and outside of the ring.  He was the modern day embodiment of the Islamic ideal of the warrior poet.

His like will not be seen again.  Muhammed Ali, 1942 -2016

 

from ‘Ajax‘: by James Shirley

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armor against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Scepter and crown
Must tumble down
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field
And plant fresh laurels where they kill,
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death’s purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.