Dolphin Address 13
March 28th 2005
Only one single night was granted me on the meadow. When I went out over Funny Lane, the rain had made the mud so slippery that it took half an hour of brilliant and stupid maneuvers in skidding to set tyre on firm ground again. Mick dissuaded me to shovel sand over it as it is a public road. I think I sow legal grass in the twilight. Takes a while but is much easier. Meanwhile I will reside at my old spot in the Dunes.
The taste of milk puts my feet on the grass again. I see something black moving that looks like a wing. A dead crow perhaps? I go to have a look and of course it's plastic. Anything edible would not last long here.
Bridie's voice raises three octaves in ire when she relates that there is no water available yet for the new piping system. A proposal to continue it from the old reservoir for the time being has been rejected. It might contaminate the new pipes. It dawns on me that the people still drink this water. We have a cozy grumble on authorities.
It may be the spider in me, but as soon as I get here I just want to cover here, there and anywhere. Thus I download all the bends, gradients, potholes and other contingencies into my automatic pilot.
Memories ascend as from the submerged part of an iceberg. On the road I feast myself on the blues. A hopeless Negro sings on a single string that he woke up this morning to find his baby gone. Most relatable.
They have put a traffic sign with max 80 at the mountain road across the Slieve Elva. At the Lisdoonvarna entrance. Not in Fanore. It must be meant for brilliant and insane drivers for I have never done over 60 on this steep and winding road.
Sometimes it feels like I passed by only last week. Before the door of the hardware store (nothing computers, axes&spades) a mosaic reads: 'Be honest and fear not'. How encouraging Good things can be true as well
Lahinch would not be Lahinch without a wretched traffic jam in Main street. Baywide, traveled waves wash towards this surfers paradise.
Meanwhile I am just in heaven with a nipplebottle with stone cold water, I can never have it cold enough inside.
There is a surprising abundance of tourists. The rocks never go out of season and they all must have calculated that it must be quiet there. They are smart people and they drive very careful in and often stop their BMW's, Audi's and Mercs. This is the season for the re-tired.
Like a big fleeing pre-motored insect a farmer drives his chugging tractor off the road. It is bordered with stocky bushes that butterfly yellow chalices.
As Dusty is said to have been spotted at Spanish Point, off Milton Malbay, about 30 km. from Fanore, I drive there. A cutting wind nearly blows me of the mutilated coast path. My coat could be named 'splendid isolation'. Lofty waves beat with thunderous force on the cliffs where once part of the Spanish Armada ran aground. Here the wrath of the Ocean blazes. Thus she cools her raging water on the reefs. Rolling ridges tower high, the wind flies the froth of the drifting crests and makes the rest of my dictaphone unintelligible.
On the rocks I am as careful as an old man. They can be slippery without any form of warning and I know from experience that it is not as much as the falling as it is the landing which can be flustering painful.
At the meadow I saw two otters. The next morning two times two and one time six dolphins. Benny Goodman plays: 'Swim, swim, swim'. Hope is the dope for the common man.
Jan Ploeg, Fanore Dunes, March 28th 2005
print version