Five go mad in Dorset (Comedy Club Presents)
Here is a poem that neatly sums up how I spent most of my summers in Ireland in my teen years.
Cycling around North County Dublin and up to Cloherhead with my brothers Rory and Cormac.
Cycling to Aughavanagh in County Wicklow with all my brothers and sisters, a long trek that takes you through South Dublin to Kilmacanogue which is unpronounceable to the uninitiated , up the mountains to the Calary filling station at the Sugar Loaf, on to Roundwood, beyond Glendalough and deep into the Wicklow Mountains.
Touring Melifont, Slane, Monasterboice, Newgrange, Knowth and Dowth with my cousin Stephen.
Cycling to Foulksrath Castle in Kilkenny and back through Wicklow on my own apart from a couple of companions along the way.
Cycling to Crossmolina in Mayo to meet John Dermody and then round Sligo where Yeats is buried, north to Donegal and out to Aranmore Island, though Derry on into Antrim with the Causeway coast, Belfast,Down and back to Dublin again on my own except for those I met on the journey.
Cycling from Dublin to Rossbeigh Strand in Kerry to meet my family who were camping down there. Cheating by getting the train back.
All very Enid Blython stuff, good healthy outdoor exercise, piles of buttered toast, lashings of hot buttered scones and bottles of ice cold soda pop. Only we called soda pop “minerals”. All praise to An Oige and the Youth Hostel Association who were such an encouragement and support to the outdoor adventures of my youth.
Chrysalides; by Thomas Kinsella
Our last free summer we mooned about at odd hours
Pedalling slowly through country towns, stopping to eat
Chocolate and fruit, tracing our vagaries on the map.
At night we watched in the barn, to the lurch of melodeon music,
The crunching boots of countrymen — huge and weightless
As their shadows — twirling and leaping over the yellow concrete.
Sleeping too little or too much, we awoke at noon
And were received with womanly mockery into the kitchen,
Like calves poking our faces in with enormous hunger.
Daily we strapped our saddlebags and went to experience
A tolerance we shall never know again, confusing
For the last time, for example, the licit and the familiar.
Our instincts blurred with change; a strange wakefulness
Sapped our energies and dulled our slow-beating hearts
To the extremes of feeling; insensitive alike
To the unique succession of our youthful midnights,
When by a window ablaze softly with the virgin moon
Dry scones and jugs of milk awaited us in the dark,
Or to lasting horror: a wedding flight of ants
Spawning to its death, a mute perspiration
Glistening like drops of copper, agonized, in our path.