The Bad Smell
Sadie asked me to go on a ghost hunting trip with her. She knows I don’t believe in ghosts and I would have thought it a bit of a disaster taking along a non-believer. I was interested in the place they were to visit, Copthorne Hall, a 16th century Tudor building in darkest Suffolk. I must tell you that townies like me think the countryside of East Anglia a bit of a joke. To hear us talk you would think that everyone was inbred, incest was a way of life and the locals totally without brains. I came home thinking quite differently.
There were eight people including me in the party with ages ranging from retirees to a very intense young man of twenty who surprisingly, seemed to be the group leader. The amount of equipment they were taking with us surprised me; I had the idea that you just decided which room to sleep in and if you were lucky ( or unlucky) you saw a ghost and talked about it over breakfast. I had an image in my mind of breakfast; a dinning room with a sideboard groaning with food and a table set with beautiful china and wonderful conversation about the previous night’s experience.
When we arrived at Copthorne Hall and before we got out of the coach, we were each given a set of instructions. I put mine into my overnight bag without reading it, after all I did not believe in the supernatural. Everyone was busy taking in the equipment, setting it up and talking about the division of areas for the night. Sadie and I were given the kitchen area.
“Sadie, where do we sleep?”
“Anywhere comfortable if we get the chance”
I went off to explore the house leaving Sadie to fiddle with the equipment.
What an interesting house, the kitchen was at semi basement level and led into a corridor with a door at the end. It was locked. I retraced my steps and went upstairs .into the large hall where we came in. Plenty of fiddling with equipment going on there so I decided to go upstairs. The place smelt faintly musty as if no one had lived there for years. I later learnt that it was still occupied five months of the year.
The bedrooms were huge and luxurious, just as I had imagined I was to sleep in, but obviously that was not to be. I liked the Chinese room as the colours looked fresh and clean. The bed was covered with a huge sheet; it had a very oriental pattern and even had abobble fringing, though it was clearly used to cover the bed when it was not use. I opened a few drawers and the wardrobes and was amazed to find clothes stored in plastic bags. Well, this house is certainly full of surprises.
A narrow staircase led to another floor where I found the old nursery, which was not in use by the state of it and a maze of small rooms each containing a bed, a chest of drawers and a mirror. For some unknown reason I started counting the mirrors, even going back into the nursery to see if I had missed any. Seventeen mirrors, not an auspicious number. The last room at the top of the stairs I had left the door ajar and I saw the face of a young man looking at me from the mirror. I froze in horror, and then looked round to see if anyone was behind me. I slammed the door and raced down the two flights stairs to where there were people playing with the equipment.. My heart was pounding. I could not speak as I urgently needed the toilet before going back to the litchen.
“Sadie, I’ve just seen a ghost”
“Don’t be so ridiculous, these people take such things very seriously. A comment like that would not be appreciated.”
I told her my story but I could see she didn’t believe me. She told me there was no evidence of anything supernatural on the top floor. Her friends had been here before, that’s how they knew where to put people and equipment.
In the evening someone lit a bar-b-queue and we had a very lively time waiting for darkness. The cameras and equipment were set to record anything unusual and we all gathered round to check for unusual activity. Nothing was recorded and we all returned to our allotted places.
I could hear people moving about upstairs and once the young man came in carrying several instruments about his person. He remarked that it was a quiet night compared with last time.
Sleep overtook me and I left Sadie playing with the dials on one of the machines while I made my bed on a hard wooden bench.
It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in years. I woke up smelling a really bad smell.
“Sadie, whatever has happened to the drains in the night? The smell is awful”
“I can’t smell anything. By the way, you slept like a baby all night. What an interesting night we’ve all had, there was activity all around and even a ghostly image caught on camera going up the stairs.”
Packing up the equipment took more time and I went into the study to have a look round.
Above the desk was a family portrait; a wedding group I thought before taking a closer look. In the middle row sat all the important people with the children cross legged in front of them. Who were the people behind? They were not dressed as servants. Suddenly my heart skipped a beat and I clambered onto a chair to take a closer look. Second from the right I swear was the ghostly face I’d seen in the mirror yesterday. The chair wobbled and I only just saved myself from falling. I looked around for a more substantial chair to stand on and I once again studied the picture. The last time I looked I the young man was looking at the camera full face but now his head was turned to the right and I could not be sure it was the same fellow.
Sadie was calling me and I reluctantly left the study. Perhaps I’ll tell her when we are alone, perhaps not.
Do I believe in ghosts now? As they say the jury’s out on that one.
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THE PILOT, THE CLOWN AND THE LOLLYPOP.
The pilot completed his checks and waited patiently for permission from air traffic control to take off.
“This is your captain speaking while we wait permission to begin our journey.
My name is Philip Sewell and to-day I am assisted by my co-pilot James Dene. Looking after you we have a new steward seconded to us from our sister travel department, Hip hop travels. His name is Joe and he will be helping purser William Purvis and our regular crew of Janet, Mary and Tracy. I hope you have a pleasant flight when we take off in a few minutes.”
“Doors to manual”
“Please watch the safety features on this plane as demonstrated by members of the crew.”
The passengers‘s were quiet, strapped into their seats with their tray tables stowed as instructed by the crew. No sign among the passengers of the chaos about to take place.
Finally we are airborne and the seat belt sign had been switched off.
After a few minutes a clown walked through the cabin. Curley ginger hair, huge red mouth an outrageous hat which seemed to be made from a tartan chicken and feet so big he was having difficulty slapping his way down the aisle. Suddenly he did a cartwheel knocking the magazine the lady was holding out of her hand.
“Madam, I am so sorry” he said getting down on his knees. He began sniffing like a dog declaring there was something rotten in the state of Denmark. The Purser, very red faced came down the aisle and grabbed the back of his baggy checked suit and pulled him to his feet.
“Get back to your seat” he hissed.
“Ok, ok but first you will have to let me past.” The purser was glad to see him move forward but became alarmed when he made for the cockpit.
William forgot all his training and lunged forward to try to pull the clown back but only succeeded in falling face down on the floor. There is no dignified way of getting up from the floor in front of a plane full of passengers.
“Start the in flight refreshments while I phone the cockpit to make sure all is well there.” He asked the remainder of the crew.
“Philip what is going on with that clown?”
It’s OK William, we know Joey well, and you can stop worrying”.
Of course William did not stop worrying and he started fussing the girls who were serving the drinks.
“I’ll get more hot water” he volunteered
While he was filling the water jug, the clown slipped out of the cockpit unnoticed and skipped down the aisle kissing all the ladies noisily as he went. He kissed a man by mistake and the noise the outraged man made alerted the crew to Joey being on the loose again.
The crew surrounded him, William from the back and Tracy and Mary, with the help of their trolley, from the front.
“Got you this time” said William.
The clown promptly picked him up and put him in the overhead rack. The passengers loved this and the clown became very excited, producing a bunch of flowers and presenting them to a lady passenger.
“With the compliments of the airline” he announced.
His next move was to give everyone a lollypop, unfortunately some of the passengers had theirs delivered straight into their mouths. The clown announced
“I nearly forgot the pilot” as he raced towards the cockpit leaving chaos in his wake. This would be a journey no-one would forget in a hurry.
“Hello, your captain again, I hope you enjoyed having Joey on board with you and I’m sure you would like to see him on many more flights. Normal service will now be resumed if anyone can get William down from the luggage rack!”
William’s face was very red and he left the girls to serve the meal by and answer a few questions from curious passengers. The remainder of the flight was normal and as the passengers were disembarking the cockpit door swung open and if you were looking you would have noticed some very strange clothes hanging up.
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PREssing CREATION INTO SHAPE
The idea of starting up a new web site fired my imagination for weeks. Is imagination the word I want to describe the process or was inspiration a better description. Inspiration is the devine influence on our mental stimulation, where as imagination is the creation in our own mind. Let’s not be too pedantic about this and get on the story of what happened.
My computer skills are limited but the idea of what I wanted to do took up my every waking moment. I found myself interrupting conversations to put forward yet another idea I wanted to use. One of my friends, a girl called Mary, decided she had heard enough about this phantom web site and arranged for me to meet someone who could look at my proposals and give some professional advice.
The meeting was arranged in the local pub and when Justin arrived he looked about thirteen and I found my eyes checking to see if he was in long trousers. That tells you my age as boys have not worn short trousers since the swinging sixties. The meeting was going well until the local football team came in after finishing their training. The noise level rose and I could not hear what Justin was saying. I went to the bar to get another drink and to get some thinking time. The bar was crowded and rows of threequarter filled glasses lined the counter. Everyone was drinking the black stuff which takes time to serve correctly. I decided Cider would be quicker and secured two pints to take back to the table. My seat was now filled with a large sweaty man with a shaven head. I caught Justin’s eye and he introduced me to his cousin. Other members of the team came over to greet Justin like a long lost friend. I could see my discussions over for the evening and suggested we meet again another day. One of the boys heard this and insisted I stayed, even offering me a lift home.
I knew all the football songs and quite a few they had not heard before. It crossed my mind at one point that computer buffs were supposed to be nerdy boring people. Justin was just the opposite, always the one to suggest something new. What a night it turned out to be. I have no recollection of getting home and my head the next day felt as if it was in a vice. The thought of the web site no longer took up every waking thought, I was now planning the next meeting with the football team.
An e mail came ,
Meet us at the bus stop with the programmes at 10-30 on Saturday.
What programmes?
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SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT
The 9-15 from Kent station was crowded as usual, the reserved seats were all occupied and the late comers had to find a seat where they could; I found a seat next to a respectable lady of my own age. We began talking and quickly found out that in the course of our lives our paths had crossed several times yet we had never met until to-day. She opened the conversation by showing me a sun set she had photographed that morning on her mobile phone. Just to be polite I asked if she was interested in photography.
“Yes” she replied “ when I was young I took a year off work to go and photograph some of the heads at Nemrut Dar”
“So you’ve been to Turkey” I responded “What year was that?”
“1974”
“That was the year Turkey and Greece went to war over Cyprus, Nemrut Dar was in a military zone and inaccessible to the public” I r3emarked half under my breath.
This began a story which lasted until we reached Thurles Station.
I was one of the bored young people caught in the winter of discontent in Britain. My digs in London were cold and there was never any hot water due to the miners strike. The Tubes were often cancelled and busses never ran to time. I decided to make my way across Europe as soon as the snow melted in the Alps. That’s how naive I was, thinking abroad meant permanent sunshine!
I made my way to Venice and caught the train going to Istanbul. That was not a good experience as I had to take my luggage with me each time I wanted the toilet. The passengers were mostly men, migrant workers from Germany, who could not take their eyes off my blonde hair.
When I arrived in Istanbul I met an Austrian Girl archaeologist who offered to take me with her on a dig near the Giant heads of Nemrut Dar.
“Was she called Anika?” I asked.
“Yes” she excitedly replied.
“I met up with her in 1976 when she was still in Istanbul waiting permission to go back to the site”
The story continued and learnt that when the war broke out the whole team of Archaeologists were not allowed to leave. It was several hundred miles to try to walk away and at first we were happy to stay there. One night one of the team went missing and was later found with his throat cut but clinging on to life. The medic on the team patched him up and the slow process of recovery began. By this time we were all getting jittery and did not go out after dark. We were living in a prison without bars and an escape plan was put into operation. If we could get to the village we could get some local clothes and be less suspicious on our journey. Food was delivered once a week and we bribed the man with a wrist watch to arrange what we needed. Old clothes we told him and he certainly understood. At the edge of the village he was waiting with his stinking bundle of rags. Surely now we could pass as locals and get past the military. Heaven knows what they were guarding, it was all mountainous scrub and we were 100 miles at least from the border with Syria.
“Did you get some good pictures?” I asked.
“Not really, in those days I was using 35 mm slide film which had to be sent away for processing. I managed to hang on to one film to prove where I’d been but the quality is not good.”
I began to tell her about my life in Turkey, getting there a month after the war ended however the tales of food shortages and scouring the streets for milk and bottled gas for cooking seemed very tame after her story.
The train stopped at Thurles station and quite q few people got off. The conversation faltered in all the hustle and bustle of passengers leaving and more getting on. When the guard came to check on our tickets we began talking again but were interrupted by another passenger anxious to tell her story. She had been on a cruise, seen wonderful places, met exciting people and eaten wonderful food. The lady with the photograph became so bored that she opened her brief case and took out some work.
“And how old do you think I am?” the new woman persisted. I looked her up and down and diplomatically said “about my age”.
“And how old would that be “she persisted.
I told her and her mouth puckered up as if she had eaten a very sour lemon. There was no further conversation before we reached Housten station; we collect our belonging and passed into the crowd like ships that pass in the night.
Ann Hall copyright 2010-11-30
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MARRAKESH
I made the journey to Marrakesh not in the traditional way by magic carpet but in a Ryan
Air 737. The ride in the taxi from the airport to the medina was hair raising to say the least. I had forgotten the Hurley burley of life outside the EU. The Taxi stopped in a square full of vehicles of every description; the driver got out, unloaded the bags and indicated we were to follow him. We trotted behind him pulling our bags through cobbled streets, under arches, round corners until he stopped in front of an unmarked door.
The door was opened by an exotic lady whose beauty was only surpassed by the amazing house behind her. We had left the real world behind and entered a new and exciting existence. The architecture of the house is 100% Arabic but the eclectic collection of paintings and works of art could only have been put together by a true master.
We drank the local wine and ate a few delicacies before going to our rooms to change for dinner. Once again we are escorted through the streets to a restaurant. We are in the medina, an Arabic term for a collection of houses. The streets are clean and ladies walk about after dark unmolested and very comfortable. There are a few shops still open and everyone is very friendly. ( No hassling).
The restaurant is small, clean and very French: it is run by a young lady with sparkling eyes and a terrific sense of humour. It was almost closing time but we were made to feel very welcome and given a menu with twenty pages. Everything we tried to order was off and we settled for chicken pie which was delicious. I caught the girl’s eye as she was rubbing off most of the sweet menu and we both laughed.
The next morning we started breakfast at 8a.m. to be ready for our caliche ride at 9am. We talked so much with our hostess that we did not join the caliche until later. Matching horses, shinning brass and bold yellow and black upholstery and I felt like a Queen riding through the streets looking down on everyone. Actually I was more like a child in a sweet shop snapping away with my camera from the high vantage point.
The first stop was the Majorelle Gardens. These gardens were made by Majorelle, a French artist, but fell into disrepair on his death. Yves St. Laurent came along, bought the house and restored the gardens to their former glory. The hot chocolate in the café was welcome as it was a chilly morning. The garden walls are painted a rich blue, known as Majorelle blue, a colour the artist saw surrounding the windows in Berber houses. Blu is the colour reputed to keep flies away.
The remainder of the morning was taken up looking at the town but nowhere could compare with the Medina.
I asked at a spice stall where the best place to eat cuscus was and we were taken to a near-by restaurant. Every surface from the door into the heart of the place was covered in tiles; the seating was comfortable divans, the music was local and the place was full. The cuscus was wonderful. In the afternoon we made our way to the main square alive with jugglers, snake charmers, performing monkeys and traffic.
We arrived home exhausted, carefully following the landmarks we had noted on our way out. When we found the knife grinder we knew we were almost home. This week is the celebration of eid-ul-Adha where household kills a sheep and divide the meat so that everyone can eat meat at least once a year. There has been a lot of sheep riding up front on motor bikes, in the back of taxis and being walked wheelbarrow style through the streets. The knife grinder was doing a roaring trade and his wheel was almost square!
There are only doors and a few shops, no windows to be seen. Enquiring we were told behind each door could be a mansion or a hovel, no other indication.
Just a quick drink before dinner led to a wonderful evening of talk and reminiscences with dinner abandoned in favour of a good red wine with pate and biscuits.
A visit to the Atlas Mountains gave us the chance to have an easier day. Wonderful views with camels and donkeys waiting at the roadside. Cynics would say a tourist trap; I like to think of a more romantic notion. The river got wider as we went up the valley, a very popular place to eat with numerous restaurants accessed by rickety rope bridges.
Arriving home to a cup of tea and more talk we agreed on a siesta before meeting for drinks on the terrace before talking our hostess to the Vulgar Palace for dinner as to-morrow is her birthday. Walking to the restaurant with Rosie an adorable toy Yorkshire terrier in a bag, we made our way through well lit alleys to the Vulgar Palace. As we were the first diners to arrive we had the pick of the seats. Congratulating ourselves we waited for the other diners to arrive and by the time the entertainment started only three other tables were occupied. Perhaps the festival to-morrow had kept everyone at home.
The entertainment started with a lady, well past the first flush of youth, dancing with a tray of lighted candles on her head followed by three little maids who could well have been men in drag but the star of the show was the belly dancer. She gave each table a private performance and encouraged the younger ladies to dance with her. The food was also good.
T0-day is the festival of Eid-ul-Adha and our hostess’s birthday. We start the day with champagne followed by a walk through almost deserted streets for brunch in a near-by café. Along the way there were fires in the street and boys were roasting the sheep’s heads. The sheep had been killed at daybreak, and the meat divided into thirds; one part for family and friends, one part to neighbours and the remainder to the poor. This is the portion we saw being roasted on the streets, the heads and horns.
The deserted streets made walking a bit easier, not so many motor bikes to dodge. The main square was quieter than on our first day, most shops are closed for the holiday but the café’s overlooking the square is crowded.
The taxi collected us at 3pm for the airport and our exciting and exhilarating few days in Marrakesh came to an end.
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OPSIMATH
One who learns late in life
Chambers English Dictionary
Mary was a true opsimath. All her life she has been devoted to others, first because she was the eldest of a regularly growing family, then as a wife and mother. She was bereft when her husband died and all her children had left home to pursue their own careers.
The day she saw the notice in the newspaper giving the details of the forthcoming programme for the University of the Third Age she knew where she wanted to go. Living in Cambridge meant all the tutors were well respected academics and she enrolled herself for several lecture sessions on everything from Ancient Egypt to modern day politics.
Mary was a small wirery lady with lots of energy and a willingness to join any event suggested by the organisers. Years of domesticity led to her wearing comfortable practical clothing. A discussion one day about reality T.V. shows prompted her to apply to take part in a quiz broadcast each afternoon on the BBC. Round by round one competitor is eliminated until the last man standing goes home with the prize. She was eliminated in the fifth round at her first attempt but enjoyed the experience so much she decided to try another quiz. The format of the one she chose was slightly different as it relied on a combination of knowledge and luck. She was lucky enough to be chosen at random to join twelve others to compete for a place on the hot seat. The first time she did fastest finger first she was no where near, her time of 3.9 seconds was beaten by a man in three seconds. He failed to get very far winning only two thousand pounds and once again fastest finger first came up. She failed a second time by an even smaller margin and gave up hope of ever getting into the hot seat. The winner however failed at the second question, an unheard of result and once again a new contestant was needed. By this time she had given up hope and took her time to answer the question. To her horror she was the only person to get the answer correct and was escorted into the hot seat. At first the questions were so simple she paused a long time before answering and consequently was still there when the programme came to an end to be continued the following week. During the week she slipped on a patch of wet grass and broke her arm. The producers of the show offered her the chance to defer her appearance but Mary declined saying if was bright enough to win she was not going to let a broken arm stop her.
Need I say she became well liked by the audience and when she won £50,.000 she was given a standing ovation.
Offers of work poured in; from quiz shows to advertisements.
This was not what Mary had in mind and decided to use her winnings to enrol as a mature student. Mary became a well liked diligent student and put herself up for president of the union: after all she was not going to join the workforce and thought this a worthwhile occupation for someone with a desire to learn and the time needed to fulfil her duties.
I met Mary for the first time when she was a visiting lecturer at the University of the Third Age. I asked her to marry me but she declined as she was currently writing her fifth book and would not have time to devote to me. We moved in together six months later as equal partners. The one thing Mary had not learnt was the difference between wife and lover.
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MEDICINE MAN
The horse went lame the morning of the show. Whatever was I to tell Christine, her disappointment would be hard to bear? She has worked so hard to get him in tip top form practicing the jumps every day until I felt he could do the course blindfolded
Christine was a bag of nerves when she came to see me one day last year. She had been a proficient rider as a child but had given it up when she met Harry at one of the events. He took over her life and the two of them went off together as a team. She was not allowed to ride his horse and devoted her time to grooming and mucking out the horse. He went on to win cups and prizes all over Europe. One day she realised she was pregnant. The news was not welcomed by Harry and he suggested an abortion. Christine did not like the idea at all and she decided to return home to her mother where she knew she would be welcome. Harry was furious and persuaded her to stay with him for the next six months. By the time she left to go to her mothers she was exhausted by the work and needed a rest. The child was due in three weeks and at no time had she attended any anti-natal classes. Her mother was furious that she had taken so little care of herself during the pregnancy.
The child, a boy was born a week early and everything seemed O.K. She called the boy Henry. However when Harry came to see him he was furious about her choice of name. The next day a letter arrived for Christine. It was from Harry telling her it was all over and she was not to contact him again.
Christine was devastated and depression set in. Her mother took over the baby to give her space to get well again but nothing she suggested made any impression. One day her mother asked Christine if she ever missed her riding. This struck a chord in her and she decided to try a session at my stables.
At first she was almost too timid to mount “Hero” one of our most docile horses and led him round the arena several times before she made an attempt to get on. At the end of the session I noticed her nuzzling the horse as she led him back to his stable to be groomed. This began a great love affair between Hero and Christine. Her confidence grew as she worked with him each day; at last I learned the secret, before going out she would spend fifteen minutes talking to the horse. He stood docilely listening and occasionally shaking his head or giving a low whinny. They became as one when she was on his back and had a bright future together.
Was my disappointment for me or Christine? I had to tell her as soon as she arrived.
“The poor boy” she said “I must go to him and see what’s wrong.
I was flabbergasted; I had expected tears and disappointment only to find her calm and sorry for the horse. I followed her to the stable and heard her conversation with the horse.
“Whatever’s wrong old fella” I heard her say. Hero replied with a shake of his head. “No bother old sweetheart I can soon put that right” I heard her say and she proceeded to rub his shoulder.
I left them together as I felt I was intruding on a very private moment.
Twenty minutes later she came out leading him shouting to me “We’d better get a move on or we will be late.
No medicine man needed when Christine was around.
TO BUY OR NOT TO BUY
A reviewers nightmare
Reading a review of a recently published book I stopped to consider exactly what the reviewer wanted to tell us. Atomising, according to the dictionary is the reduction of a liquid to a fine spray, so let us consider what the reviewer wanted us to know.
Do not buy this book unless you want to be showered with meaningless words.
Perhaps, he couldn’t think of anything to say about the story and , as he was a friend of the author, did not want to stop you buying the book and could not think of a single good thing to say about it; or did he hope you would put your own interpretation of the word without thinking too much.
I next noticed that the story was seering and again I reached for my dictionary. Surely he could not mean I’d be branded if I read the book. Branded as a person with more money than sense for buying such rubbish perhaps.
Could a mistake in the text give the incorrect spelling leading us to think that the book was a heavy tome weighing in at approximately 2 lbs Indian weight? I prefer to think of it as some of the alternatives. Dry and withered fits in nicely if the book really is that boring, however I like the explanation to brand: to cauterise: to render callous or insensible. Another definition is a catch that holds a gun at cock or half cock could mean that the story never really gets going. Shakespeare used the expression “tickled a th’ sere” meaning ready to go off and this could say it all.
Will I buy the book? Probably not but I will remember the review and one day may see it on the library shelf and curiosity will make me peep inside.
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A visit to Mulranny
Talking in the pub one night about the interesting place names in Ireland, I found everyone had their favourite. It all started with me telling the story about a friend who came to stay and wanted to go Ballydehob. She laughed every time she said Ballydehob and it almost came like a password between us. I could not understand her fascination with the name, I thought the place she came from much funnier, Ballybunion.
As the night wore on and we all became a little light headed someone suggested we all put a name into the hat and at the next bank holiday we would all go to our selected place and report back.
I picked Mulranny.
Looking at the map, I decided to take two days to get there stopping over night at Ballynahinch as this happened to be my favourite hotel in Connemara. I first learned about Ballynahinch from a friend who read a book about Ranjitsingh the one time owner of the house and knowing I had spent time in India told me about the Hotel. I of course knew the name as my family were great followers of cricket and as children if a good stroke was made you were likened to Rangy as we called him. The story of how he acquired wealth, fame and fortune is so typically Indian. He was adopted by the Maharaja of Baroda and designated to be his heir. He was educated in England, first at Eton then at Oxford where his prowess as a cricketer gained him a place on the England team. He visited Dublin on a diplomatic mission and fell in love with the country, eventually buying the estate at Ballynahinch where he improved the way of life there building roads
1
And bringing the railways to the far west of Ireland. He was never out of debt inspire of his title in Baroda but this did not deter him from continuing to spend money.
The next day I took the route north via Clifden, Westport and Newport arriving in Mulranny at three o’clock. I found a B and B near the start of the Atlantic drive; it was set in a garden teaming with giant fuchsias and all manor of exotic looking plants I had never seen before. I asked the owner about a castle I could see in the distance and was told it was Rossturk castle, one time home of Grace O’Malley a notorious pirate queen.
Grace O’Malley was a legend in her own lifetime and has gone down in history as one of Irelands most colourful characters Born in1530 the daughter of a sea captain Owen O’Malley she was determined from a very early age to go to sea, tricking her father into taking her by dressing as a boy, he gave up the struggle and allowed her to go with him on his voyages.
She married twice, both were political marriages, the first at the age of 16 to Donal O’Flaherty the son of a sea faring family and secondly after his death to Richard Burke.
The O’Flaherty Clan refused to give her a decent share of her husband’s wealth after his death so she gathered her followers and went back to sea. Returning home she moved with her followers back to the O’Malley clan and became a chieftain in her own rite. By this time she had built herself an empire of five castles and several islands in Clew Bay. Because of harassment from the English she needed Rockfleet Castle to defend the North corner of her empire so she married the owner Richard Burke.
Twice she presented herself at the court of Queen Elizabeth the 1st to ask favours but was looked upon with scepticism, returning to Ireland empty handed. The second time to ask
2
for the release of her property taken by Sir Richard Bingham after her capture at sea by the English fleet. She escaped execution but was harassed by him for the rest of her life.
After listening to Graces life story I felt it was too late to take the Atlantic drive and decided to take a walk on the beach. The sun was setting over Clare Island and the last few surfers were packing up for the day. The scene was breath takingly beautiful.
Tired out I looked for a pub to get my dinner and afterwards was entertained to traditional music and dancing until the early hours of the morning. There was magic in the air and I could not leave the next day and began to wonder if I would ever leave.
I arrived home with more than a story to tell about Mulranny, I also brought my bride.
Ann Hall 2010 Copyright
31 Streetgate Lane
Sunnyside.
March 14th 1957
Dear Mr Weaver
I have been given your name and address by Sandra Holliday who told me that you held dog training classes occasionally. I have an uncontrollable young Labrador and I am desperate for some help.
Yours sincerely,
Betty Close
The Old Stables,
Willington
March 20th 1957
Dear Miss Close,
I’m sorry your dog is causing trouble. Usually, I find it’s the owners who need instruction and I would be very pleased to help you. The next class begins on the 4th of April and lasts twelve weeks. Please let me know if you are able to come. There is a charge of 2/- per session and we try to begin at 7pm.
Yours sincerely
Ralf Weaver
31 Streetgate Lane
Sunnyside
March 22nd 1957
Dear Mr Weaver,
Thank you for your prompt reply. I would love to join the class on 4th April. I enclose a postal order for 2/-.
Looking forward to meeting you,
Yours sincerely
Betty Close.
The Old stables
Willington
7th April 1957
Dear Betty,
I am so sorry that things didn’t turn out well at your first class. I hope your leg mends quickly and that you are out of hospital very soon. Perhaps I could come to visit you? I feel I was partly responsible for you injuries
Regards,
Ralf.
St Mary’s Hospital
Ward 4,
Cauldfield
April 9t 1957
Dear Ralf,
I would be delighted to have a visit from you. However, you were in no way to blame for the incident. My dog had already proved too strong for me to control and meeting a lady friend was just too much for him.
I shall be here for another week and hope to see you soon.
Cheerio,
Betty
Ward 7
April 14th 1957
Dear Ralf,
Thank you for the wonderful flowers you brought me. I have been transferred to another ward and as you said you would visit me again, I wanted you to know.
Thank you for looking after Major for me while I’m in here, I know he’ll be a better behaved dog when I come home.
Looking forward to seeing you again,
Best Wishes,
Betty
The Old Stables
Willington.
19th April 1957
Dear Betty,
I’m pleased that you are at home and able to get about a little. It’s very brave of you to come to the class this week even though you are not taking part but you’ll be able to see Major and see the change in him
Love,
Ralf.
31, Streetgate Lane,
Sunnyside.
April 28th 1957
Dear Ralf,
I’ve just heard that I have a hospital appointment on 2nd May and if you are free I would like to accept your offer to take me there. Thank you for looking after Major, it would have been impossible for me to take care of him at this stage.
Love Betty
Dear Betty,
I can’t believe how much I’m looking forward to seeing you. Would you like me to bring Major in the car, after all he was responsible for bringing us together.
All my love,
Ralf
The Old Stables
Willington
8th June 1957
Darling,
Call me an old romantic if you like but I’ve been reading the letters from when we first met and felt I had to put my feelings in writing to-day of all days. You have changed my life and I hope our happiness continues as long as we live.
By the way, last night major became a father for the first time. He now has three sons and two daughters.
Will it be our turn next?
You loving husband to be,
Ralf
Raymond born 8th march 1958
Elizabeth born 14th March 1960
Jane born 14th February 1961
William born 2nd June 1963
The Surprise
15 seconds later his mouth slowly closed. The shock was so great that no sound came out of his mouth. He stood quivering uncontrollably until someone had the presence of mind to slap his face. Then the tears rolled down, dripping off the end of his nose and soaking the front of his tee shirt. Slowly he began to move forward towards the exit and out into the street.
Tom met Jan one cold January day while jogging in the park. She had been walking her dog when it got into a fight with a stray dog and trying to separate them had herself been pulled to the ground. The only damage was a scraped knee. Tom insisted that they both went to the nearest café to warm up and get over the debacle. Romance was in the air and three weeks later they moved in together. Life was good for Tom and Jan, they both had jobs in the city and both owned their own property. She liked walking and badminton and he liked jogging and rugby so there leisure time was equally split between their sports. Valentines day was their first celebration only days after moving in together followed by week-ends in the country and exotic holidays. Marriage was talked about but neither were able to fit it comfortably in to their busy scedules. Excuses such as looking for a house cropped up and it was not until Jan became pregnant that any sustained serious discussions took place. Each week-end was spent house hunting until one day a serious problem occurred with the pregnancy and Jan was rushed into hospital. An ectopic pregnancy led to her loosing one of her fallopian tubes and although she was assured that it would not stop her getting pregnant again, no pregnancy resulted in spite of all their efforts. Meanwhile they bought their dream house in the country, got married and settled into a new way of life, working from home. Jan became a journalist, reporting on their new life for one of the Sunday Broadsheets. One of her slants on village life was to go to the local pub and gather the village gossip. She had no desire to return to the city.
Her snippets about gardening led to yet more work and then the inevitable happened, she once again became pregnant resulting in the birth of twins, a boy and a girl. Jan was so excited by her journalistic work that she did not want to give it up, instead employing a nanny. Vivian was a very lively energetic girl, just the type to cope with the twins and life in the household was very well ordered. His friends told him there was no such thing as a plutonic friendship between a man and a woman living in such close proximity, but he ignored their advice.
The inevitable happened and one evening when Jan was in the pub collecting the local gossip, he was sitting on the sofa with Vivian when he found himself drawn to her and once the ball started rolling he found he could not control himself and they ended up in bed. Six weeks later she told him that she suspected she was pregnant.
The next few weeks became a nightmare as he was still in love with Jan but on the other hand did not want to let the girl down. Vivian was made of stronger stuff and announced she was leaving to go to look after her mother who had just had a heart attack. No one could argue with that excuse.
Fate can be very cruel and one day in London Tom bumped into Vivian. He asked her for a contact number so that he could see her after the baby was born. At first she refused saying it was better that they had no further contact for both their sakes but relented and said she would send a message through a girl she had known when working for them.
Tom breathed a sigh of relief but went away feeling miserable that he had put his entire life and that of his family in jeopardy.
The news was given to Tom by text. Vivian had gone into labour at a friends house while on a visit and by the time she reached a hospital complications had set in, the baby was born but only lived a few minutes. Unfortuneately it was too late to save the mother.
SUMMER NIGHTS
