Archive for July, 2013


Jatlag: 1 Me: 0

Jatlag: 1 Me: 0

Again, it’s the 4:30am wake up calls that keep the ‘lag alive. Suuper that little darlings can fall back to sleep, while I don’t. And 2:30am??? No fair.

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Gobshite: 0 Tree:1

Guerilla fixers2

So. Some Gobshite decided it would be fun to torch the guerilla knitting on the tree next to Patrick Kavanagh. Went over today. Awesome. Two strangers were patching up the burned knitting with felt.

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The statue gets some socks

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It was just a matter of time before the guerilla knitting would stretch a little to left, and land on Patrick Kavanagh. Just a little. Today, Patrick got himself a pair of socks. And I had a few more interesting conversations – one aul guy said he was also from County West Meath, and that “We only send our bad poets to Dublin,” before taking my picture and laughing at his own joke.

A country bus driver and I had a long chat, telling me that – being known as a grumpy old fella – Patrick Kavanagh was not known for wearing matching socks. But the bus driver liked these matching socks, and after finding out what Guerilla knitting is, he also took a picture. Then he smiled shaking his head at the concept, and asked me ‘What am I known as? do I have a ‘tag’? God love him!

Back to this well-known and much-visited statue / bench. For those not native to Ireland, Patrick Kavanagh was a renowned poet. Who was also remembered for enjoying a pint, sometimes a little too much; for his disheveled appearance; and perhaps a robust exchange of views here and there. My mum told me, (after smiling at the socks in situ, replacing the slightly baffled look she gives me when I’m often knitting) that local legend says he was barred from a few of the local pubs. Including one a few hundred metres from where his statue/seat has sat for a decade or two, and another ‘Canal bank seat’ for four decades or more. Mmmm. Seems Patrick had the last laugh there.

Writing this post has prompted me to look up some of Patrick Kavanagh’s poetry again. Though I’m no poetry afficiniado –  reading “Lines written on a seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin,” has moved me all over again. I so appreciate this man’s talent, and I remember my Dad. Who like Patrick Kavanagh, often sat next to the canal while recuperating through that dreadful disease. Patrick survived it, but Des didn’t.

Lines Written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin

'Erected to the memory of Mrs. Dermot O'Brien'

O commemorate me where there is water, 
Canal water, preferably, so stilly
Greeny at the heart of summer. Brother
Commemorate me thus beautifully
Where by a lock niagarously roars
The falls for those who sit in the tremendous silence
Of mid-July.  No one will speak in prose
Who finds his way to these Parnassian islands. 
A swan goes by head low with many apologies, 
Fantastic light looks through the eyes of bridges - 
And look! a barge comes bringing from Athy
And other far-flung towns mythologies.
O commemorate me with no hero-courageous 
Tomb - just a canal-bank seat for the passer-by.

Copyright © Estate of Katherine Kavanagh

So here’s a picture of Dad’s tree, complete with his first granddaughter.

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When in doubt, ask a seagull

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They seem very helpful. Other entertaining creatures at the Street Performance World Championship today included Pancho Libre from Mehico …

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Check out all those white pasty faces, in between the bright red ones…

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Greeny Green Forest

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When it’s too hot to type – and Irish people are in shock at prolonged sunshine – head into a shady, greeny, green wood.

Joining the circus

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Child #2 joins the circus. Funny, always thought that would be child #1. Who cowered at my leg at the sight of miniature pony. The only animal now at good old Fossett’s circus. Pretty sure I last went to see these guys when I was about her age.

And the tree grows on

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Finally got back to the tree today and started sewing. The guerilla knit has outgrown me though … need to come back with a stool to reach the top bit 🙂 Loads of people stopped for a chat, at least 4 saying “Ahh, You’re the one who’s been doing this. Been wondering who it was.” hee hee.

ImageGreat conversations, though ran out of time. More colourful bits and bobs coming.

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Loving the guerilla knitting!

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And God Love her, a child that listens. Was having dinner and a conversation with my mum. Middle of interesting fact/discussion/piece of gossip. Enter child squawking slightly, again,  “Mummy can you…”. Hand raises – “No. Grown ups are talking. Come ask me after Nana and I have finished.” Minutes later, child comes in, slips a note next to my plate, smiles and leaves.

Note2

Guess where I am?

Guess where I am?

Hint: It’s raining outside. And very green. And very freindly.