(Yankee Lady,so good to me
Yankee Lady just a memory,
Yankee Lady so good to me,
your memory, that's enough for me)
(Jesse Winchester)
Ireland is in a rare frost hold, but I'm as warm as a sheep. Except for my hands and they are no good in the warmth of my pockets. It's not that the orange gloves I got as a bonus gift last winter when I bought a 'Gelderse rookworst' (a juicy sausage of mouth-filling dimensions usually served with mashed potatoes and vegetable combinations) stay redundant in the deep pockets of my polar expedition jacket, but like my artificial-leather working gloves they are only of limited handiness. It's doable to fit the pipes and draw up the sailcloth, but making or undoing knots does require bare fingers. And if these are so cold they only feel pain I take a break and puff them warm again across a mug of tea.
The car has excellent heating, if only the engine runs. But of all nights the one before new year’s eve the alternator gave in. That was on Tuesday. With a little bit of luck one from a scrapyard bus would fit, but that proved to be too little indeed. Then it would not be before Monday. The engine could run, but it didn't charge anymore. I was advised to, once upon the meadow, best not to start the engine at all, so Monday I could get to Connole’s in Kilfenora on my own. On the meadow I park-pondered extensively. The uncertain element was the wind direction. For certain I wanted to sleep with my head higher than my feet. After some spot-spying I decided to locate the car with its nose to the North, to be best sheltered against the coldest wind.
Wednesday begged to differ. There was a bit of wind coming down from the mountain, no more than a sigh. Though it came in across the back of the bus I thought it worth my while to build up the tent. Until three o'clock in the afternoon there was nothing wrong, but then sudden gusts of wind came in and I had to break up the tent by emergency scenario. With stones I kept the sailcloth flat while folding it and when everything finally worked out I looked back on the past year in satisfaction. In the evening Willem and I repeated this in full spread in the pub and at 12 I shook hands with Fanore. Moreover I equalled my record intake of last year with five pints.
Thursday I rose alone while my hangover slept late. The weather was beautiful, low wind, ideal to walk the rocks over to Bridie. The rocks felt surprisingly pristine on the very first day of the year. After that I went to wish Joan and Robin a happy new year and many returns, got some stuff out of my storage in their shed, among which a bunch of movie DVD's that meanwhile I had forgotten a little. And so the day ended with a Japanese martial-art movie (Azumi), about ten years old.
Friday I took a firm decision. The wind was still coming from the mountain, though now more powerful. I started the bus and put it with the nose in the wind and the behind up.
Satur- and Sunday saw me working away, making good progress. One of the humpback flippers is ready to be sanded and the other one is halfway. Once I'm busy I am my own heater.
Monday morning came at long last but it lasted even longer as the battery of the bus was stone death. Kilfenora Connole had to come to 'jump start' the bus. This made it exactly until the village limit stone. Then Connole packed the entire jump start box under the hood of the bus and I could continue, the heating on full blast.
The alternator had to be reconditioned, at least that I understood from the technical terminology that was offered me in a heavy Irish accent. That was to happen in Ennis and theoretically the bus could be fit to drive the same day. I decided to seek refuge at Vaughns, a beautiful, real Irish pub that also served pub grub. The rest of the day I worked upon 'The anatomy of a wave', a photo series that is part of my wave epos 'Washed up in Ireland'.
Practice proved the alternator could only be delivered the following day, but the bus was partly in state of decomposition on the elevator in Connole's. I suggested leaving the bus where it was and I would spend the night there inside the garage. I was given the key of the garage and went back to Vaughns to continue working on my photographs while enjoying a pint. When that gave me the shivers, I got me an Irish coffee, souped up with a firm shot of whiskey.
Today it's Tuesday and now the bus will come right.
The good of the bad luck was indeed that I could sleep in the bus inside the garage as last night it was minus six degrees.
All in all a cool beginning of the new year. I am already looking forward to have the engine running tonight so I can switch the heating on.
Not that I will necessarily do so, but as sugar bag wisdom says: 'A few shillings in the pocket are good for the nervz’ and merely the thought that I can do it again is already warming.
At about three o'clock I was fed up with waiting. The feeling crept upon me that meanwhile the bus had long been repaired, but that they had forgotten their promise to ring me. But at the garage it turned out that the alternator had still not returned. So I went for a walk and my attention was drawn by moss and other small growth upon and in between the stone walls that ran along the road. What had been in the shade all day was still covered with ice crystals and where the sun had been shining there were tiny drops of meltwater that caught the light. When after a fat hour I returned to the garage the alternator still hadn’t come back. I then sat down in the bus to select and work upon the photographs I had just taken. Shortly after that, the alternator arrived and the bus had to be elevated to mount the part in front under the car. I was asked if I wanted to stay in the bus. If I could, gladly. And so it came to be, that I was sitting high in the garage while the alternator was being installed.
Royally, but actually I should have gone for a pee first. A typical case of elevated need.