Christmas Is Coming

 Are you feeling Christmassy yet? I can’t say I am. Not properly. But this year, instead of brushing the thought aside the way I usually do, I find myself letting it linger. After all, this will be my seventy-third Christmas on this earth. It has never been my favourite season, but there’s no point in pretending it isn’t going to happen. My stock of Christmases is not what it was. I might as well make peace with it all and enjoy what I can.

I’ve more or less chosen a tree - either a very small one or a medium-sized one. Maybe both if Zoë doesn’t want them. They are standing potted in the polytunnel, so I haven’t far to go. I’ve already bought a few presents, and I know where the wrapping paper is tucked away. Christmas dinner is sorted too: free-range turkey again. It might be the last one for a while as the local supplier is threatening to quit the turkey game.

There will be one change, though, and it’s a big one. This will be a teetotal Christmas. I don’t think I’ve written anything about it, but I stopped drinking alcohol at the tail end of January and simply never started again. So here I am, approaching December with a clear head, or as clear as it ever gets, wondering what the season will feel like without the whisky and wine. I think it will be good.

A Good Dog

 

Hannah asked me to go with her to the garden centre; she wanted to buy some houseplants. It’s the first time she’s shown any real interest in horticulture since she started a couple of bonsai projects a few years ago. She bonsaied the life out of an ash seedling and a hawthorn. The hawthorn still survives; the ash succumbed to dieback.

While we were there, I found myself tempted by tulip bulbs. I resisted, having only today managed to plant the tulip bulbs I bought more than six weeks ago. Thankfully, they’re all in the ground now, though I still have a good number of daffodils waiting to be planted.

My original idea had been to plant the bulbs on Judy’s grave, but the area has become rather grassy, and I was reluctant to start digging it over - and it’s far too wet to hoe. I don’t know why I worried, for Bert planted her deep.

Phoenix, Locky’s husky, lies not far behind her, with Dora, Jazzer’s dog, resting between them. Locky once talked about getting little plaques, but he hasn’t got round to it, and I rather hope he’s forgotten.

I had thought about painting stones for them instead. I even bought the paint, but, like so many things, I’ve not got around to it. Locky hasn’t been to visit since he buried Phoenix.

I miss Judy a lot. She died on the 5th of September, in the time between Jonny’s death and his funeral. That was very much on our minds then. People are more important than dogs, are they not? It felt wrong to make too much of Judy’s passing when we were mourning a dearly loved member of our family. But I do miss her. She was a good dog.

Judy and Dora

Judy and Phoenix

At the beach

Culture Vulture

I’m writing this while listening to the brilliant fiddler Colm Mac Con Iomaire, who I had the pleasure of hearing perform at Seamus Heaney HomePlace in Bellaghy a few weeks ago.

I went along with Bert and Zoe to hear Colum McCann in conversation with Rami Elhanan and Bassam Aramin — the two bereaved fathers whose friendship and shared loss inspired McCann’s acclaimed novel Apeirogon.

Which, I’m sorry to say, has been on my “to read” list since the last time I saw Colum McCann appear at the HomePlace, just over a year ago.

One of the most sobering things about growing older is realising how much I still haven’t read, and how much I still don’t know. For instance, I hadn’t realised that Colm Mac Con Iomaire was in The Frames with Glen Hansard, even though Glen Hansard also appeared in The Camino Voyage with Kerry Sister’s husband.

Nor did I know that it was Colm Mac Con Iomaire who accompanied the artist and poet Kae Tempest at Other Voices in Dingle - even though I watched a documentary about that venue and thought they were the best part of it. I’d love to see Kae Tempest perform live. It would be handy if he should ever come to Bellaghy.

Two From Twenty Years Ago

 Two little posts from October 2005. Mum was still around then, as was George.

Also, where have all the street drinkers gone? They must all have houses now, which is nice.

Belfast City Airport was officially renamed George Best Belfast City Airport on 22 May 2006, to honour the footballer shortly after his death in November 2005.

The cafe that Matty and I liked to frequent back then was Ditty's in Castledawson. Happily, it is still there and still serves delicious food.

Matty Misunderstands

Whilst sitting in a cafe in Dawson City today I picked up the Sun newspaper. The front page story was about George Best and I showed this to Matty. We both examined the accompanying picture which showed Bestie looking frail and wan. I said it was a sad thing that he had destroyed two livers with his drinking. Matty continued to peruse the photograph and said, "He's looking well."

Overheard

Overheard on the streets of Ballymena today

Street Drinker 1: Hows about ye mucker!

Street Drinker 2: Long time no see!

Street Drinker 1: I heared ye were murdered!

Street Drinker 2: Naw. I was in Coleraine.

Reading and Flying

 These days it seems I never have enough time to read. What keeps me from it? At night it is the need to sleep; during the day, everything distracts me. I always bring a book (or two) when travelling, even if it is just to pick up the grandchildren. I do not mind waiting if I have something to read, no matter how long I am kept waiting.

Train journeys are another good opportunity to catch up on my reading. When I was at university, I always carried something entertaining, never anything related to my studies as that would have been far too dry. I was not the only one. Almost everyone travelling alone would be reading something, even if it was only a newspaper or magazine. I would always try to sneak a look at the cover of whatever book a fellow traveller was reading, and of course I would judge them on it. Nowadays, readers on trains are rarer, as most people are glued to their smartphones. If I do see someone with a book, I am impressed, no matter what it is.

On my most recent trip to London, when Zoe and I were travelling for Jonny’s funeral, I brought TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. It was a ridiculously early flight and we had agreed not to chat on the plane journey - there would be time enough for that later. 

Instead, I read. The first part of the novel centred on the pioneering flight taken by Jack Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown in 1919 when they flew from St Johns, Newfoundland to Clifden, Ireland. That year alone was enough to captivate me, as my father was born in September 1919.

Alcock and Brown’s was the first non-stop transatlantic flight ever completed. They flew in an adapted Vickers Vimy, a former First World War bomber chosen for its ability to carry heavy loads. The plane was flimsy by modern standards and freezing cold. Of course, I knew they were going to make it, but even so I was gripped. The final push towards Ireland, when they hit a fog bank and briefly lost control, was nerve-racking, and the bog landing, rough as it was, felt like a triumph.

It was only a few days later that I realised, as I had been reading this thrilling account of an earlier flight, that I was actually sitting in a plane myself. Although it was nowhere near as precarious and uncomfortable as Alcock and Brown’s Vickers Vimy, the seats weren’t that comfortable and I did have some concerns that my hip might start to cramp. Which it did, but the walk from plane to train soon loosened it up. Compared with Alcock and Brown, we modern folk are softies - most of us, anyway, and I certainly am.  

Some Things That Happened In September: 1

Just over a week ago, Zoë and I travelled to London for Jonny’s funeral. We caught the first flight out of Belfast International to Stansted, which meant rising in the wee small hours. It was the second time in just a few weeks I had done that. 

The funeral was everything my sister had hoped for, a fitting farewell for her beloved husband. It was dignified and caring. My brother-in-law was deeply respected and greatly loved, and we are all going to miss him terribly.

Jonny is the first of our generation to leave our family, and it feels too soon. We'll go on without him, but we'll carry this forward  - his fortitude, his humour and wit, his kindness, and his unerring good taste in music have all left their mark on us. These are the things we'll remember, the things he passed on without ever meaning to.

Just one more thing. Jonny had an online radio show which streamed on Mad Wasp Radio. It played weekly for about eight years, ever since Mad Wasp began. He poured his heart and soul into that show and he really appreciated receiving interaction and feedback. 

The radio station (with London Sister's consent) are running his shows from the beginning and  I've been listening to it more regularly. It's such a bittersweet experience. I didn't listen often enough before - I wish I had.  Too late now, too late to give him the feedback he loved to receive. 

A Tale Of Two Cakes

It was just over a year ago that Bert took over baking the family birthday cakes, and I was only too happy to let him. Our system was simple: we agreed on what he’d bake, I went shopping for the ingredients, and then I laid everything out – the recipe, the scales, the bowls, the spoons, the tins, and their liners.

Bert would assemble and bake the cake, take it from the oven, and leave it to cool. I prepared everything for the icing and decoration, and Bert handled the finishing touches. We’d stand back to admire the cake. Compliments would be lavished upon Bert. Afterwards, I cleared away and washed up.

The very first cake Bert baked was for Martha. He chose the recipe, though neither of us remembers which one, and the photographs don’t offer many clues. What is clear from the pictures is that Martha didn’t look especially pleased to receive it. At the time, this is what I wrote, back in 2024:

‘When a young woman hits her mid-teens she may not be just as excited about birthday cake as she once was. But that's OK. When you've experienced many birthdays, you can be excused for feeling a certain ennui.’

As it turned out, I was wrong. Nearly a year later, the real reason came to light.

In 2024 Martha had been asked what cake she wanted for her birthday and she’d asked for chocolate. Didn’t matter what recipe I picked, just let it be chocolate. Then Bert decided he’d make the cake and I let him choose the recipe. It wasn’t chocolate. I was so excited for him to be baking the cake that I forgot Martha’s request.

Bless her. She never said at the time, but she could not help feeling disappointed. It wasn’t teenage angst at all. Well, maybe it was – just a teeny-tiny bit.

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I chose Zoe's photograph because it showed Miss Martha (now a sweet 16) beaming her beamiest smile.

Chocolate, mascarpone and cherry cake

Happy Birthday, Martha!