Mystery, Magnets and Monotony

I fell in love with a girl once. It was instant; our eyes locked as I rubbed the condensation off the misty mirror in the grubby toilets of a lively pub. I smiled at her as I carefully swiped on more eyeliner than necessary. It was late in the night and I was seeing the world in a bouncy carefree, ecstatic way. Blurry. I turned around to face her; long wavy black hair and dark eyes held me captive, suspended by her beauty and when she spoke her words were in a tentative tempo with the distinctive rhythm of someone not from here. French, bien sûr. She was chic, I was drunk. We hung out in the alleyway beside the bar, sharing cigarettes and stories, laughing and oh so glad that we’d found each other amongst the loud, rowdy atmosphere of a Belfast Saturday night, she was magnetic. We swapped numbers and then I reluctantly let her go as I went off to find a party.

Being drawn out into the land for a walk in the rain

I never heard from her again. She remains a mystery and sometimes I wonder was she even real? I wanted to say it took a while to forget her although obviously I haven’t; mysterious and lovely proof that the heart can be in many places all at the same time.

Onion and Tarragon tarte tatin

The Oxeyes are dancing merrily in the morning breeze and in an effort to beat the rain I get the bike out of the garage; a space now shared with a family of swallows and I apologise to them for disrupting the peace. As I pull out of the drive I notice a little spider has come with me on the journey and as I pick up speed he bungees off on his web from my glove and I hope he finds a happy new home in the hedgerows of Ballynagard.

Quiche, Hodmedod fava bean puree and leafage

At the brow of the hill I kick the sprocket with my toe to force it into top gear and I pedal downhill like a lunatic past the farm where the dog bit me, always nervous it might come out again. I zoom at high speed towards the bridge at the turn of the road, the Yellow Flag is in bloom down in the boggy bit of the field and I keep my eyes peeled for the mystical blue flash of a Kingfisher. Even on a fast-paced cycle my attention is diverted and my brain floats off easily to other things, dotted with sudden halts when I hit the brakes to appreciate, in quiet contemplation, the beauty of a small waterfall, take a long pause to watch the birds or feel the need to touch or eat the plants on the verges. Constantly intrigued by the magic of nature and the lure of the unknown.

A tethered fairy thorn

When we were children dad used to take us to a souterrain in the glen below our house. We wriggled through the natural split in the rock on our bellies which led to a chamber where we could stand with our torches and further up it broke off to another passageway. I wondered if we’d found Tir Na Nog, exploring these wild and mystical places sparked my obsession with the fairies, myths and legends and all the romantic folklore of our place whilst it gave the gift of claustrophobia to my brother.

Honey Berries; a magically gorgeous fruit I’ve never tried before. DOES ANYONE HAVE MULBERRIES?

This childhood shaped by banshees and leprechauns, Tolkien’s stories of the undying lands of Valinor, The Labyrinth and the Dark Crystal. An insatiable desire to embrace the fantasy and wild later took the form of fascination with topography and trying to learn every detail of place. I think about walking out into the Roundstone bog like my hero Tim Robinson and wonder if I found myself in the land of eternal youth would I want to stay there? Do they have olive oil and tomatoes and salt?

The water, always the water

I lean my bike up against the wall at the dunes, strip quickly and get straight into the water. Two metres from shore the sand drops down deeply like your shoulders after the first Tom Collins and the waves are coming in quickly like the subsequent loosening of your self control. Getting dressed afterwards I see something in the water, the selkie? I don’t look back to the sea so I can sit with the possibility of it. The unexpected delight, the inexplicable, the mystery; the truffle taste of pepper dulse plucked from the rocks, the joyous colours of a young and tender turnip, the smell of the broad bean tops after the rain, the way I say sour and you say SA-WA.

Emotional

Without explanation or thought I take a sudden left down to the friary, the urge overwhelmed me and I leave the bike while I dander silently through the arched doorway. This ancient place. and then shelter momentarily in the bright green canopy listening to the soft rain on the beech leaves amongst the dead.

The 10 O’clock mass bells are ringing as I make my way up the hill to home, their sombre monotony cuts through the birdsong and buzzing of insects, the balance interrupted. I notice a section of deliberate burning of gorse, the sweet smelling smokiness of the blackened branches feels like a violent assault and my eyes fill up with tears at the harsh pointlessness of it. All those creatures.*

Bonamargy

Before I know it I’m back home, Dara’s made hollandaise and I wish I’d picked up some Comber Earlies for tea. Mystery is good, magnetism intriguing and monotony has a quiet comfort.

*Free Palestine; a burnt piece of hedge is sad but the destrucation of communities is traumatic, unjust devastation.