Olive oil, Cellar Door

It was a surprising start to the week when I found myself in Bellaghy weeping over Seamus. Unusual circumstance had taken me to his beloved part of the world; Mid Ulster and alone, his voice in my ears as I walked around the incredible Home Place listening to his words. So much beauty and sorrow, tied to the land. I remember reading Blackberry Picking for the first time as a nine-year-old, in quiet awe at the gentle power of the words. His observations of nature and everyday life in the countryside fill my heart with glad happiness and I leave feeling the need to return very soon to sit in the quiet library amongst his works, writing my own.

The Library at Home Place

As usual words continue to float or tumble around my brain, trying to form coherent prose or meaningful paragraphs, sometimes nonsense, sometimes golden. This often leads to me having a preoccupation with poetic possibility* rather than being in the present, suddenly realising Dara is waiting for a response to an unheard question; I’ve been miles away with the wind in my hair thinking how beautiful the sea looked earlier. It’s always been this way. Maybe I used to be better at hiding it.

*check out that alliteration!

Shore Meadow

After a very hot and busy shift I drive out to my favourite spot for a swim before heading home. Even though I own five swimsuits I still can’t remember to put one in the car so it was once again important to find somewhere secluded for a dip. Pulling into the muddy verge I watch with disbelief someone else splashing at my mermaid pool and I feel a bubble of rage, how dare they? Undeterred, stubborn and now with a hot temper I really needed a refreshing, perspective resetting dip.

All local fruit tarts

If you know your coastline as well as I do you’ll know every boulder, bay and cliff; inquisitiveness and adventure are my companions on each walk and I easily recall that place at the edge of the basalt where the waves break over, I know there’s a deep enough pool for a splash where no one else would be. I’ve never swam here before and as I undress at the edge it feels as thrilling as finding pristine smooth sand on a beach where no footprints have been. The water is crystal clear and full of vivid seaweed and I feel guilty to be intruding into a world that isn’t mine. Ah ha, there’s meaning there.

Unexpected treasure

Round the corner at Kenbane I decide to squeeze in another solo walk, aware that the rest of my week will be given over to baking and the rest of my summer will be in the company of the kiddos; joyously different. I’m surprised at the number of cars in the carpark and think how this place used to be so quiet, rare to see a soul, except maybe the ghostly presence haunting the dark corners of the castle. Whilst I’m a sociable creature, today I crave solitude and I force friendly smiles to the other walkers whilst feeling deeply protective of my therapeutic landscape. This dance of welcoming tourists and day trippers to our beautiful dramatic coastline is always raggedly torn with a slight sadness at having to share it.

Kenbane

I haven’t been out to the end of the promontory for a while; the path narrow with a sheer steep drop on either side. I sit right at the end, almost completely surrounded by ocean, I feel exposed and out of place. The fulmars aren’t happy, I’m too far into their territory, I don’t belong here. Sometimes I find myself hard to place. I walk back to the fishery and lie down on the grass with my legs dangling over the limestone edge and watch a family of razorbill for a while. A few black guillemots fly past and a seal pops up just in front of me, I wave and say hello feeling sheepish at my presence amongst the wildness. I sit with the recognition of my entitled arrogance; I’m the real intruder here, sharing these spaces with nature.

Broughgammon farm

The next day I’m out on the coast again, it’s dull but warm and I scramble round the rocks on my usual route from Portbraddan to the Slaught. It’s quietly still and I feel the rain isn’t far away, my eyes on Rathlin. A six spot burnet clings to a sea pink and I think of that summer counting them and the Cinnabar at Carrick-a-rede, the cliffs full of promise and adventure. The kittiwakes are wheeling overhead, just like at Larrybane that year and there’s a feeling that summer is about to burst open in loud crescendo, like the slow build of a great song. I notice it and feel it, so I intentionally swim slowly today, taking it in, ducking under the surface where the seaweed gently curls around my ankles.

To the shore, always

There’s a thick viscosity to the water, the dark pool reflecting the grey skies, the surface looks slick and I start thinking about olive oil; olive oil, olive oil. What gorgeous sounding words, falling out of the mouth, dripping, pouring, rich with possibility. Some words just sound beautiful together, like the famous euphony Cellar Door. Hard to resist, olive oil ice cream, peach burrata and olive oil, tomatoes with olive oil and garlic glistening in the sunshine, trickling down wrists from breads, floating in a glossy layer on top of stews or soups, that peppery grassy liquid. Butter’s rival.

Olive oil for Breakfast

I joke that I still don’t know how to breakfast, though this week I had a croissant straight from the oven on every shift which was a very delicious way to start the day. On days off I wait for breakfast, slowly considering what I’d really like or really need and today this was it. A north coast girl doesn’t easily have access to burrata or even quality mozzarella for that matter so I thought I’d try sour cream instead and truly there’s little better than a sweet, sour and slurpy salad eaten in the morning sunshine. Easily scaled up for 2 and alternatively great as a side with dinner (without the toast).

Ingredients

Slice of wholegrain Sourdough, or your preference

One nectarine, ripest you have, sliced

A few Strawberries, sliced

Handful of Rocket leaves

A few sprigs of Mint

Tablespoon sour cream or quality Greek yog

2 big pinches of Pepper

2 tablespoons Olive oil

Pinch salt

Drizzle of honey (optional)

Borage flower and dandelion petals because you are worth it

Method

In a medium bowl mix the rocket, peach, torn mint and strawbs with a tablespoon olive oil. In another bowl mix the sour cream, salt and pepper.

Toast a thick slice of bread, slowly drizzle over a tablespoon on olive oil, let it soak into the crumb. Top with the salad mix then dollop over the sour cream and petals.