Come, are you coming? Yeah, yeah, we will, honest, just tuck my chilblains into my boots. Just a sec, let me stick that bent key into this stubborn lock. OK, here we go and not on the road, hey, we’ll go through the spring gate. Come on, here it smells so much more doggie.
In the previous edition I told you how my tummy turned when I saw the destruction of my kitchen hole. In the reconstruction that followed, the 1953 flood experience and energy of my friend from Zeeland, Willem, played a crucial role.
One could assert my kitchen hole has been land-wrecked. It’s like this. In the last three editions I told I was looking for gigawaves. That was not much of a success, but last Saturnight these aforementioned waves have found me.
Fortunately you can spend the night practically anywhere in Ireland. Even if there is a sign saying you are not allowed to. You see, for the Irish this is a sign that it’s being done (or else it would not be forbidden), so they can do it too. Not a bother at all.
Every now and then the poet in me arises. This can happen in the weirdest of places and at fully unexpected moments. The following poem is inspired on a quote by Nina Hagen:
‘Und fliegt mein Blick dann Himmelwaerts,
tut auch die Seele weh, wie schoen.’
It is not that I want to nag or boast, but little by little it’s getting a bit chillier. The water is not too bad. The ocean is like a giant warm water bottle that only cools very slowly. The beast was in the changing. The icy winds chill you to the bone.
Instead of all these beautiful photos and stories I try to put down here, I’d like to portray now the missed opportunities. It is particularly an incentive inventory for me, as it shows that ‘Dolphin Address’ can be even more attractive. Therefore this collection of pictures in words.
Yesterday was sunny. It had been calm weather for over a week, so the water could be expected to be reasonably clear. Moreover Dusty swam at the caves again regularly and there the sand lies 10 metre or deeper and is the water considerably less disturbed than at the surface.
Unfathomable! Skies in shades of grey and winds flapping around my backdoors. One night makes a difference like night and day. Yesterday pathways of still water meandered in the ocean and only some fleece clouds were grazing the horizon.
A dense foggy rain has turned the clover on the meadow into silver. I hasten to my cookery hole where everything has kept as good as dry. The sheets of marine plywood that I have taken from the shed lie sloping and overlapping over the rock nest.
Far, far away and as soon as everywhere waves kitted up with snow-white hoodies against again clouds about to shower. The wind rustles the grass, or is it rain? The weather is un-time-able and changing rags in the rain is so much sad.
Every nation has its own adaptations to the weather. Eskimo's rub their noses, as French kissing would make them freeze to each other. With the help of the guttural 'g' the Dutch scrape their throat while talking to fend off the ever-in-waiting cold.
This morning I opened my computer and raked my hair with my fingers in the reflection of the black screen. It must be about three weeks that I left this to the ocean wind. One of which in Holland to manage the delivery of my DVD and to get my stash of wood. Two because of the resulting waiting and settling medicalities.
Because its kind of a hard rain and everthing needs its time I’m easing into Fanore now for three weeks. I’m still pretty up- and downish in my moods, so that one moment I sit on the throne rock proclaiming to the waves: ‘Ich bin ein Fanorian’, and a few days later quietly lay reading in a rock dip. It’s a coming and going in accordance to the Tides.
Because from time to time an e-colie bug terrorises the drinking water of Fanore in the course of tides I have bought quite a few plastic five litre bottles of water. These come in handy in all kinds of ways once emptied.
In the last edition we have undertaken the not small endeavour to guard Holland from the caving in and progressing ice from the Polar caps. I take it that, although usually the melt-down is attributed to the North Pole, also the ice that, contrary to the North Pole, at the South Pole largely covers land, will not be excluded from the global warming.
As I am in Holland for now anyway it may be an excellent occasion to advance a modest contribution to the saving of my native country. As a bi-polar patient I have for 33 years tried to fathom either one or the other pole and with the meltdown of the polar caps Holland might need a hand.
Spring in Ireland is supposed to begin on ST. Bridgetsday, the first of February. My Irish spring was almost as early as the notice stamped on a letter posted to me on the 2nd of January: ‘Post early for Christmas’.
This I thought too funny to miss, but the first title that came to my mind for this second report from the funny farm was: ‘Spring Cleaning’.
Some effects are always accompanied by the same cause. Others vary. And then of course there is the paradise where one stumbles into darkness.
And a lot of darkness there was this Christmas. I did write between the lines about not being too happy I had to drive all the way to Holland just because my bus had to have an APK (MOT) check.