An Award Winning Blog

I needed to wash the city off my skin.  I wanted to be immersed in my beloved Atlantic, to let the cold water erase the invisible grime of the streets.  I needed deep breaths of clear air in my lungs, exhaling the traffic on congested roads, I craved a slower pace, unhurried, no rushing. I wanted to look out to the horizon across the ocean, dip under the waves and let the city go.

City living for me has always been alien; either a blur of wild, carefree nights or shut away, safe behind the doors of tiny apartments.  I grew up in the countryside so a metropolis is a novelty and I can get a little over excited, overwhelmed amidst of the romance of the lights, the constant energy and the background soundtrack of life happening all around. I feel as if I’ve never been able to strike it right, I couldn’t quite figure out the balance (or bank balance) and I briefly mourn for a time that will never be.  I’ll never dander into the city from my home; through the leafy suburbs, a takeaway coffee in hand.  I’ll never have the luxury of unplanned nights, casually choosing where to eat, catching a film, grabbing a beer or heading out to a gig and taking the late bus home. There’s a slight tinge of sadness that I’ve missed the chance.

As soon as we hopped off the train at Connolly, we made the most of every minute of our time.  Lunch in one of the most delicious restaurants, a pint in a much loved pub, a visit to the Irish Art Collection in the National Gallery (always emotional), a walk through St Stephen’s Green and breakfast in the Fumbally the next day.  Carefully curated but exhausting; the pace so different to what I know. Sensory overload.

Uno Mas plate of deliciousness

Back home I have a lie in, undisturbed by sirens or construction, a coffee made by my one true and a flick through a cookbook, the chickens at the back door looking for some food.  A morning cycle down the glen and over the hill, the coast opening up in front of me, Sheep Island and Rathlin catching the sun on their cliffs.  I pass the walkers on their way out to Marconi’s, we greet each other happily, with knowing smiles of how lucky we are.  At the beach I park the bike and strip to my costume, walk slowly across the pebbles, onto the sand and into the ocean. 

I’m obsessed by the colour of the water, ever changing.  Today it's completely clear beneath me, strewn with seaweed and autumn leaves, at eye level it’s bright blue, reflecting the sky and further out towards the island it changes from light grey to dark turquoise to almost navy.  I lie on my back, the gentle current moving me and listen to the sounds of the sea, I’m part of this landscape, it’s part of me.

Murlough Bay painting in the National Gallery, a little bit of home in the city

However, if I hadn’t been in the city then I would’ve missed the opportunity to be amongst my peers at the Irish Food Writing Awards where I won Irish Food Blog of the year, can you believe it?  Amazing! I was humbled by the kind words from judge Charlotte Pike and with the many congratulatory hugs and well wishes by others at the ceremony.  It was surreal and I couldn’t help but feel a little lost amongst the glitz of the capital (though the red wine helped).  A gorgeous evening, full of incredible people, welcoming me into their world of writing with open arms, thank you.  This past 18 months of writing has been such a great experience and I love to be part of this supportive and positive community.

Excellent staff being sweethearts

I love to bake with the staff, I love being part of the team and I love the constant creative outlet. I also taught a Soil to Soul cookery class on Sunday and I can’t help but feel it’s such important work, to bring more attention to our connection to food. I’d like to devote more time to writing but right now I’m glad I have this space to write, to share my ideas and feelings, to carve out a voice north of the border, to bring attention to our amazing landscape and people, to support and guide people through the seasons, to be a diversion and to be a friendly hand, here for you with a cuppa on a ramble through life’s beautiful rhythms.

The tomato harvest…anyone have a good chutney recipe?

Another busy weekend meant more headspace was needed, we set out for the mountain.  Despite Knocklayde being a major natural landmark for the area and part of the beautiful Antrim Hills I haven’t been up in years.  It’s known for the false summits, swift enrobing cloud and being very, very soggy underfoot but we’re here for the peaceful solitude, the wide open space and the views.  We’re distracted by the abundant berries on the holly and the dense tangle of undergrowth in the trees, we watch the ferry heading out from the harbour and hear the chapel bells ringing. We’re in the clouds.

Up and up we go, squelching through the Sphagnum and bog water. A Red Grouse suddenly flies up in front of us, the mist is following.  A raven circles, a snipe startled.  We see the summit, the sunlight shines over the peaks of Croaghan, Slieveanora, Trostan and the distant Sperrins to the south west, a flock of Golden Plover perfect the view.  The wildness in me is calmed, the heath grounds me, my mucky boots stand firm on the Antrim Plateau, my home.

I turn my thoughts to making mincemeat and the Soltstice.