Dolphin Address 23
May 25th 2005
I do not want to engage in politics. I’m doing fine with the news from Northern Ireland. I guess it’s an Irish prayer coming true at long last.
I’ve lived through the Irish spring fully for the first time. Like the Eskimo’s have 50 words for ‘snow’, I would not be surprised if Gaelic would have a similar number for ‘green’. Except for the Primulas and the purple Orchids I had a very close-up in the Rocknest. Quite a few weeks ago I discovered a string of minuscule shoots winding around a rock block. On even closer quarters I saw them also wrestling through the shell grit that I had scattered there. A week or two later I could identify its continuation as Camille and so much of it. One day their scent will turn the milk to cream, like the wild roses did on Jethro Tull’s Velvet Green. Meanwhile White Trumpets are speeding their way among the stones. As a child we called them ‘Piss pots’.
Even when we went for the hot seaweed baths in Enniscrone for only four days on returning the meadow felt woollier to my eyes. Suddenly I also see everywhere the white tooter chalices, as if they are blowing with full cheeks on their flower.
A love bouquet, picked for Verena on a single walk down Muddy Lane contained as much as 17 different species of flowers.
But the Irish greens pale the entire Continent. For 30 years on the farm every spring I have praised the day upon which the shabby brown-yellow-grey grass suddenly turns into fresh blushing green. Here I do this every day. Like the sun towards the evening skims through the tops, it is like you can smell it.
The Burren limestone is incredibly fertile. From an agricultural viewpoint the rock strewn fields look utterly worthless. Yet here grows the ‘hungry grass’ and all of the cows appear to be clearly in excellent health. Here flowers grow cozily side by side that derive from Italy and Iceland. The blue Gentian is probably the most famous. The radiating, intense blue flowers, look like sun soaked spatters of ocean water, carelessly thrown between the stones.
Of the trees I mention the May thorn, loaded with thousands of small pert buds and scent-murmuring flowers. Years ago I described one as follows:
‘May thorns holding their branches helplessly towards Heaven:
On one side shaved up by the ocean,
On the other side ripped off by traffic.’
This ‘road movie’ stems from the same period:
‘Rock blocks like fist strokes between the tender greens.’
But maybe just because of all this beauty, things can turn rather desolate here. When this morning I woke up to the rhythm of rain slashes and a wind that was rocking the car I expected the sun, as usual, to break through within the hour. It is raining still and outside looks like a black and white photograph with rich grays. I think I’d better set the color alarm for tomorrow.
Jan Ploeg, Fanore Meadow, May 25th 2005
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