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.
Category: Travel
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.
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.
They seem very helpful. Other entertaining creatures at the Street Performance World Championship today included Pancho Libre from Mehico …
Check out all those white pasty faces, in between the bright red ones…
When it’s too hot to type – and Irish people are in shock at prolonged sunshine – head into a shady, greeny, green wood.
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.
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.
Great conversations, though ran out of time. More colourful bits and bobs coming.
Loving the guerilla knitting!
Hint: It’s raining outside. And very green. And very freindly.
It’s generally kept under wraps, but many medical studies support my hypothesis. Jet lag Will KILL you. It will also cause you to feel like the inside of a carnival horse’s mouth, to confine you to a marshmallowy mental haze, to make outrageously nonsensical decisions, to use capital letters with abandon, and to exaggerate past the point of human decency.
Did the trip with the little ones, 5 or so days ago. Airport to airport, Sydney to Dublin, 27 hours. Or was it 29? This time they decided to hardly sleep AT ALL. Thanks dears. Super. Nooo Mum doesn’t need to sleep, would love to play more cards/ produce more playdough, more markers, green paper and a set of Rob the Robot programs I downloaded for you, on the down low. (Have always wanted to say that.) Sure lets get up again, and go talk to the crew. It’s fine that NEITHER of you eat ANY airplane food. That there’s another 12 hours to go on this flight. That the posh expensive muesli in the little takeaway bowls, even with extra cranberries from our stash, now tastes yucky. Apparently. Fantastic that a 1.5 hour movie actually takes 6.25 hours to watch when the combined ages of your travelling companions equals 10.
Delightful that while waiting for flight #2, contents of our hand luggage spread about departure gate, ready for repacking and disgarding (bye bye pricey uneaten muesli bowls); I desperately need to pee. Fine that my knowledge of this airport means that I know moving the carnival to the far away toilets is a logistical impossibility. So legs crossed tighter til flight called, we board, take off, level out and I tear out of airplane seat to a toilet the size of a tissue box.
Super indeed, that my prized little bottle of JETLAG CURE (Yes it works): homeopathic remedy Cocculus 30C, has sprouted tiny white legs and slinked away from designated spot in hand luggage.
Marvelous that when we arrive Ireland is experiencing its first run of five consecutive sunny days since 1973 (Tric was right), and I’m too foggy to take it in. When I start to become slightly conscious again, the rain and wind has returned. Thanks. Lovely. As well as bright idea of mine to bring the children to a play centre. On a weekend. Seriously? Hundreds of rugrats, birthday parties, screaming, jumping, crying, dodging person dressed in oversized and bedraggled dinosaur costume. Great choice there.
Enchanting that little dears share with me the joyful news that they are mildly peckish, or may require some slight stimulation. At 4:30am. Every morning.
Crankypants here actually had great crews on both flights, hardly any queueing through 3 airports, can do the journey in 2 flights now instead of 3, and not one of our party wet herself. So it wasn’t all bad.
Until the play centre.
Nigella Saved Me 