Orlaith in Madeira

Another blog, another place

2008-10-09T12:29:00.002+01:00

Following quite a hiatus, the new blog is up and running at:

http://blog.orlaithosullivan.com

:)

Orlaith has left the building

2007-12-10T19:39:00.000Z

The special council form took a couple of visits - the Man Who Signs Such Forms glanced at my paperwork this morning as I came into his office, then walked out without signing it. I went back again this afternoon, and it all worked out. Phew.

The movers did great work. We had a couple (well, three) instances where they said "Can you confirm that the room is clear?" - I went in and opened a cupboard/wardrobe/other space which was still filled with my stuff. In each instance, I just backed out quietly. However, it's all done now. Another phew.

Landlady wandered through at one point and said "See you tomorrow morning!" Why oh why do I not record our conversations! So I fumbled, "Remember - you said that I could stay in your other apartment tonight - because all my belongings are now packed?" She finally remembered. Triple phew.

So, I'm off to meet a friend who I bumped into earlier, and said "This is your last night; I have plans!" I have no idea what that means...

I will set up another blog (but I'll take several days off this week to unpack/babysit). If you want immediate notification on the new blog you can sign into feedblitz.com - I'll send out a note from there to those who are currently registered; else just check back here and I'll provide the new link to a new blog of Orlaith Somewhere Else.

In the meanwhile, thank you all so much, for everything. It's been fantastic.

A good theme

2007-12-09T18:48:00.001Z

From time to time I get emails from people who are thinking about making a big life change of some kind or other: moving countries or careers or taking some big leap to follow a dream. They write because something about my story resonated with them - and their emails leave me often surprised and always humbled.

There are themes that we come back to: about taking risks, and believing in yourself enough to give yourself the opportunity to go and do something about it. And when we've gone through those, I'm usually the one that gets all practical, because there's a difference between taking a risk and flinging yourself into the unknown.

You can offset so much trauma by preparing for a big change - and I don't mean planning everything out in advance, because there'll always be a zillion things that are entirely beyond your control. I mean getting the overarching theme right: knowing why you're choosing to do something, and how you expect life to be different or better for that change. A good guiding theme provides stability within the tremendous change. With the move to Madeira it was a line from a Patrick Kavanagh poem: "For this soul needs to be clothed with a new dress woven / From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven". And the move did exactly that for me.

Understanding your own quirks - your strengths and weaknesses and fears and hopes - will go a long way to smoothing out how you move into the next phase; knowing what freaks you out is as important as knowing what makes you feel emotionally snuggled. I still treasure the lesson of the Incident Pit.

Apart from the elusive council form (to be tackled in some official offices in the morning), I think everything's settled. Today I got through the last bits on my To Do list, went out for a final pizza and sunshiney beer.

The day was peppered with people calling in to say goodbye (I was inevitably on a break when they called - watching Boston Legal and drinking Coral - so no-one got a sense of industriousness and organisation). The movers will be here first thing in the morning - broadband isn't cut off until Tuesday, so I'll do a final post tomorrow before I leave.

As I was packing this evening, I smiled at my loopy prioritisation: green & red crepe paper for christmassy crafty sessions with my nephew & niece; an Absolut disco ball for my sister (my own one will be shipped); arty stuff that's small enough to take; and my super hot air popcorn maker, which will never leave my side again - they're all in there. Know what makes you feel snuggled - that's important.

Oh, and never attempt an inverted yoga pose after more than two glasses of wine. That's important too.

Here endeth the lesson :)

Other goodbyes

2007-12-07T13:13:00.000Z

Still haven't got that magic form from the parish council, but apparently wheels are turning (invisible ones, and slowly).

The nefarious paperwork is done, so I'm on the home stretch.

I like this stage of things, when you know it's all do-able. I've just got my little terrace to clear, then I'll sit in the sunshine and watch the waves for a bit (the flu medication is leaving me pleasantly dopey).

I like taking final photos before I leave a place. This was dawn on my last morning at a place called Conover Lake in Michigan; the U Haul van was all packed up and ready. I remember hesitating before I took the picture, thinking it would never turn out.

And this was dawn on my last day in my lovely house in Exeter. I woke about 4am, packed, then put on a pot of coffee and sat out in the garden as the first light crept through.

Right, now to sort out that terrace...

Caving in

2007-12-06T11:31:00.000Z

"But you are more sicker!" exclaims the Nice Cafe lady.

And I figure, she's got a point. So I finally concede, and visit the chemist.

Remember back in the day, when chemists were purveyors of arcane medicines - everything was stashed behind the counter, out of reach and unintelligible? That's kind of what they're like in Madeira.

There's nothing like Walgreens or Superdrug or Boots - nowhere to browse along aisles of pain killers and lozenges and night-nursey type things. And you have to go to a chemist even for aspirin (to think, I used to complain about Solpadeine being prescription-only in the US...).

So this was my first visit in Madeira. I went in, recalling asking a UK chemist for advice about flu-stuff before: they talked about contraindications, side-effects, then distanced themselves from the whole process. If I chose to take the pills, that was my responsibility.

Not so here. She doesn't ask anything, just goes into the inner sanctuary and brings out two boxes. "One of these three times a day, and one of these at night", she glances at me, shivering in 25 degrees, "or more often. You can take these more."

Off I went, armed with pills, and got some red wine for good measure. My spidey senses tell me there'll be an afternoon nap today.

Happy Birthday Mike

2007-12-05T10:07:00.000Z

Today is paperwork day - sorting out what to bring/scan/dump, and doing up an insurance assessment for the shipping company. This is probably my least thrilling kind of work. And the moving company just emailed to say I need a letter from my parish council to confirm they know I'm leaving. Hmm. First I've heard of it.

But in other news:

And, as the zillion fridge magnets were peeled off the fridge, a final message was revealed:

Mostly about coffee

2007-12-04T18:34:00.000Z

Have I mentioned coffee yet? It was one of those trial-and-error things when I first visited: I didn't want a thimbleful, nor did I want a cappucino (which not only comes with cream here, but cream-out-of-a-can. Gakkarama. And did I mention it's almost impossible to get fresh milk or cream on the island? There's one shop in the tourist district that ships fresh stuff in... but anyhoo, where was I?)

So, I figured out the portuguese for "a large (which is anywhere else's small, and wouldn't even register on the Starbuck's scale) coffee with milk". It felt like it took a minute to pronounce all the words. On the first day of playing with my new phrase, a nice lady explained that it was just called a chinesa. Pronounced shinyeza. Any coffee comes normal, extra-milky, or super-strong, so if your first cup needs some work, then adjust to taste.

So there you go - my helpful hint for today.

Super-productive morning (yes, I actually set an alarm. I felt proud; smug even) but the afternoon was a washout - Landlady appeared and one thing led to another and suddenly we were in a car - ostensibly off to ensure that the cable & broadband were cancelled next week, but somehow we ended up at her brother's house, waiting for a builder, and waiting... It occured to me that through these kooky trips, I've met four generations of her family :) An odd afternoon, but good craic.

And now pizza and beer. Luxury.

My last week

2007-12-03T20:53:00.000Z

Beautiful day here. Still battling with a head cold; I'm treasuring being able to go for a wander and gaze out over the ocean (while snuffling) as a break from the organising-type work.

I dug out my winter coats, and the sarongs are now packed away.

Another rosy-lilac sunset.

Food tangents

2007-12-02T13:12:00.001Z

Today is kitchen-clearing day.

I got slightly distracted as I was sorting the pantry, and ended up going through my cookbooks and scanning recipes that might come in useful over Christmas.

I'm hungry now.

Before and after

2007-12-01T13:31:00.000Z

When I left Exeter, friends of mine adopted my cat Coco, and the pampered fluffball moved out of the big city to enjoy village life in the Devonian countryside.

It turns out, the big rural move hasn't changed her much. This is her now...

And this was her back in the day...

Little minx.

Enter the arena

2007-11-30T18:59:00.001Z

The annual meeting for owners of apartments in our building is just about to start.

Emotions have been running high this week, as all the issues of the year resurfaced: water, parking, noise, building work, window cleaning, and of course - gardening. (A while back, German Porn Man shouted at the gardener about the right time to prune certain shrubs. The gardener resigned, kerfluffle ensued, etc. etc.) It's been a highly charged year in some respects.

I am so very pleased to be renting.

Here's hoping for a productive meeting...

Have a lovely weekend.

Universe of Memories

2007-11-29T11:03:00.000Z

I'm trying to squeeze in some of the Madeira stuff that I haven't mentioned along the way (like the fact that Ribiera Brava is apparently the place to have curried pigs' feet). In terms of museumy places, the must-see is the Universe of Memories.

Our story begins across the road, with a baroque merchant's house called Quinta das Cruzes. Rumour has it that Zarco (the sea captain who discovered Madeira) lived there. It's a museum now - with some lovely pieces, and flourishing gardens dotted with fragments of Manueline stonework. Very pretty.

Back in the day, a swanky sugar family lived in Quinta das Cruzes. The father had an illegitimate son, who grew up with a chip on his shoulder of the considerable kind. So the son went away, made his fortune, returned to the island with absurd wealth, and built a house directly opposite his father's: bigger, better, fancier. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

Even if the Bastard Son's House was empty, it would be worth seeing for the immaculate restoration work alone: gorgeous wooden floors, stained glass windows, plasterwork ceilings. But the BSH is filled with the private collection of the Regional Secretary for Tourism & Culture: João Carlos Abreu. This guy has been in charge of Madeiran culture for ever - he's a poet, writer, friend of singers and artists and creative types - he's pretty beloved. And in his five or six decades of travelling around the world, Abreu has picked up a bunch of stuff - furniture, art, sculpture, jewellery, masks, hangings...

It's a truly eclectic mix, and this is what makes the Universe of Memories a special place. For example, Abreu likes horses, and so there's a room filled with horses, hundreds of them: from Chinese stone horses to Thai inlaid horses to English rocking horses. It's just whatever has caught his eye over his lifetime.

Er, he also collected ties. There's a tie room, with ties fanning out across every inch of wall and ceiling. Not my personal favourite (although the tie made out of feathers is worthwhile). The other rooms are reeeeally tasteful, I swear - and the bathroom fittings are fab!

Anyhoo, it's a place to take your time going through (an omniscient curator accompanies, with on-demand history of every piece of art and furniture and every fiddley knick-knack). Abreu still drops off pieces now and then, so the collection is still growing. And after exploring the house, you can sit in the courtyard cafe, glance across to the Legitimate House opposite, and wonder at the determination of the man who was told he wasn't good enough.

Less than two weeks to go...

2007-11-28T19:08:00.000Z

I adore being in super-organised mode. I swear, when I feel it sneaking up on me I drop whatever I'm doing and just go with it. The meticulous approach to organising, cleaning, sorting; the sticky-note labelling of piles to take/leave/recycle/dump/donate; the thoughtful approach to life in Dublin and what I might need there.

It only goes so far. It shall wane, and I shall slump once more, adopt some tv show and watch five series of Something-Or-Other over the next less-than-two weeks. I'll still only pack in the hours before I leave the island (which I love doing; there's such a carefree feeling to last-minute packing). But oh, ze leeetle grey cells shall know what I'll be taking, and why - thanks to this passing phase. Love it!

In other news: at dearrockers.org you can give a little back to favourite musicians you may have poached from over the years, and share the whys and the wherefores with the rest of us. Brilliant idea (and a smidge scary that $5 represent the artist's share if you buy three - yes, three! - of their albums on iTunes).

Also: Landlady appeared today, wondering if there was any chance of me moving on Friday. Sometimes I feel I should record the conversations where we agree things.

And last but not least, it's a pretty evening here.

Blocked up and blinkered

2007-11-27T11:23:00.001Z

The Nice Cafe Lady comes up to me as I'm reading over breakfast and gives me a scare. I mean, she didn't mean to - I overreacted, let me make that clear.

It's a full-concentration, blinkered-to-the-rest-of-the-world thing: I sometimes get a shock when I notice movement (or someone standing beside me, waiting for me to notice them). It's actually more disconcerting for the other person, who tends to be perfectly relaxed until I jump out of my skin ("Jesus! I just wondered if you wanted a cuppa! You know I live in this house, right?"). I'm all for people wearing tinkley bells.

There were extenuating circumstances this morning: I was submerged in James Ellroy's The Big Nowhere. It was a bit about a corpse whose eyes had been gouged out, and the eye sockets had been... treated very badly indeed.

The Nice Cafe Lady only came over to commiserate with me for having a cold. The word for head-cold here is constipacao - it's one of those words worth learning early to avoid misunderstandings.

Avoidance Work

2007-11-26T15:10:00.000Z

My moving company is packing me up in two weeks.

The thought occurred to me this morning, as I was contentedly sorting through some books. Within minutes I was out the door, first for local coffee, then into Funchal for a wander and some sunshiney beers, listening to Dave Matthews Band Live at Luther College. Excellent.

There's nothing like avoiding deadlines.

There should have been a memo...

2007-11-23T13:44:00.000Z

Was I was the last person on earth to know that the iconic image of Che Guevara was the work of Dubliner Jim Fitzpatrick??

When I was a kid, I used to adore tracing the intricate knotwork of his Celtic art (Jim Fitz, that is, not Che). Years later, when I got to take care of illuminated manuscripts, that same wonder was there. Give me vibrant marginalia over a showy centrepiece any day.

His style has changed considerably since the 1970s - here's Palu, The Cat Goddess, from back in the day:

The Che image was never copyrighted, and spread quickly, becoming highly controversial: copies were stolen and destroyed, and Fitzpatrick's distributor in Spain was arrested by Franco's secret police. In Dublin, one fine lady went into the swanky BTs (which had a stationery section back then), bought the whole stock of Che Guevara cards and proceeded to rip them up before the staff. Art is all down to how it makes you feel...

Altruism

2007-11-22T18:40:00.000Z

Forget wickerwork, orchids, Madeira wine - apparently the best gift from the island is an Absolut disco ball.

Sigh. I shall do my best in the short time that remains.

Off to refill the ice cube trays now...

...the Charles Atlas seal of approval

2007-11-21T22:40:00.000Z

All is quiet, for now. I'm sneaking this post before broadband fizzles again - the storm has been frazzling reception & signals of all kind. A friend phoned the other night and her voice was like one of those digitized voice-concealers - you know, like they use for ransom calls? Kinda creepy.

Here's one of the many sculptures around Funchal (this one is in front of the ex-Beatles Boat). Most of the sculptures are related to exploration/sea/peace. They have a lovely chunky style, and are well weathered by these gales (often to a gorgeous verdigris), which makes even recent pieces seem well-settled in.

Storm season

2007-11-20T15:10:00.000Z

Today is Day #3 of the Big November Storm. It's not at full force the whole time: it dies down to just rain for a while, then winds rise, and thunder & lightning recur randomly through the day. Nights are very loud indeed - think Dorothy in that little house being spun to Oz. Flying screechy monkeys would be no surprise at all.

I like to make the most of all weathers: in Devon, a day like today would have been perfect for snuggling down in a pub with a book and a crossword (but would have been hampered by the fact that I was working). But Madeira isn't cold enough for that - even if they did snuggly pubs (which they don't; it's all cafe-bars with pointy furniture). So instead I'm at home, shutters rattling and sea gales shoving debris under the patio door (note to self: hoover up debris).

Thank goodness for an Absolut disco ball. Bringing sparkle to darkness.

Celebrate good times...

2007-11-19T14:40:00.000Z

All things considered, I think I'm pretty resistant to Absolut marketing. No, wait - hear me out.

They did a limited edition gold bottle last year, and although I was tempted by the super-shiny bottle, I resisted. I don't go near vanilla or mandrin or peach (way too sweet). I stick to citron, raspberi, plain - a woman of simple tastes.

But today I saw the disco bottle spangling on a local supermarket shelf.

Get this: the outer casing unhinges, so after the vodka is long gone, you have an absolut-shaped disco ball. Who would be without one of those!

An all-white birthday

2007-11-18T14:48:00.000Z

It's a wet and windy day here, and the world has just gone all white and upside-downy. Figure I'll curl up with a glass of wine and watch some Columbo.

It's what Shona would want.

Location location

2007-11-16T18:40:00.000Z

Some days I feel so local.

In the cafe this morning, the nice cafe lady brings over coffee with two sugar sachets on the saucer. "Oh I forgot, you don't take sugar," she self-corrects, and takes the sachets away again. The other nice cafe lady is putting out ashtrays on the tables: "I know you don't smoke," she says, leaving one on mine, 'but each table should have one'.

Later I wander up to the veg shop (meeting Mr Taxi Driver en route: he glances up at the sky, "Today's gonna be a hot one"). As the Veg Shop lady tots up the bill, she murmurs "You will leave Madeira. It is sad." I waffle a little about writing in Ireland, but she's not swayed. All my family are there, I say, hoping this might help. She nods, satisfied. "That is important."

In the afternoon I nip across for pizza (the place with sweet mice on the menu). The waitress is serving a table, and glances over as I come in, "A small Romano with little cheese to go?" I say I haven't decided. Up at the counter, the nicest, most eager pizza chef appears: "Romano? Amalfi?" I decide on Amalfi. "Small pizza, no mushrooms, little cheese, thin base?" he asks. Yep, that would do nicely.

When it's done the waitress boxes it up and brings it over: I get tabasco from the restaurant dresser, she grabs a pepper mill, and we move around the pizza in harmony. As she's closing over the box, I glance up: the chef is standing, expectant, at the counter, waiting to see if it's all okay.

It's great, I tell him. It's just perfect. And it was.

Have a great weekend.

Just sitting thinking...

2007-11-15T17:23:00.000Z

Two white kittens hang out at the end of my road. Each time I see them, it's all I can do not to bundle them up and take them home with me. They'll grow into nervous, lean, hungry-looking cats - like all the cats in this neighbourhood - but right now they're little balls of delight.

One of my big "can't-wait-fors" is getting a cat or two next year. Kittens actually, that will grow into pampered cats that might like to sit on a windowsill and contemplate a rainy day...

A Farewell to Forms

2007-11-14T16:12:00.000Z

Just finished that grant application. Phew.

In addition to a draft excerpt from the book, I also needed a synopsis of the whole twisted plot. I've spent the afternoon trying to set it out clearly. I'm at the point now where it soooo reads like Raymond Chandler/Dashiell Hammett; I need to let it go before I introduce a smoking gun and a falcon of the maltese kind...

What is that little plaintive sound? Could it be coming from the cafe across the road? Might it be a beer pleading 'Drink me, drink me'. I'm on the case!

Loosening up

2007-11-13T20:27:00.000Z

At the weekend one of the local hotel gyms was having an open day, so off I went with a friend.

Rather than attempt a Bodyforming class (which turned out to be a Step class - I'd have actually been okay), I asked if I could use the weights room. Sure, said the nice lady behind the desk, go on in.

No form, no waiver, no caution, no instruction.

Granted, using weights equipment isn't brain surgery, but it's useful - nay, important - for someone to show you how to do it properly. Most gyms I've been in have been really strict about it.

But not here. There were several just-in-off-the-street people in the weights room, zoinging the equipment like they were playing with yo-yos.

I talked about it with my friend afterwards, wondering what would happen if they hurt themselves. 'Would that not be their fault?' she asked.

In Madeira, maybe...

Which came first

2007-11-12T19:52:00.000Z

Scribbling away at a grant application today.

It's kind of a chicken-and-egg situation, in that the grant would help me to do a bunch of research for the next book, but in order to apply for it I should include a draft from... the next book.

I've really worked hard at not sounding sarcastic.

Weather Eye

2007-11-11T11:58:00.001Z

Island weather changes quickly and often - but this time of year seems particularly lively: sudden winds, enormous banks of dark cloud cascading down the mountain, which break to reveal unusual heat. It keeps you on your toes.

Yesterday morning, little cotton-wool clouds lined the entire horizon.

Down at the sea edge, the Desertas islands were lilac against the sky.

... and the thin early morning clouds streamed over them, like a waterfall in slow motion.

Sheer Vagrancy

2007-11-09T19:39:00.000Z

It just occurred to me that in all the time I've been blogging I never mentioned the ex-Beatles yacht: The Vagrant.

Down in Funchal harbour are a bunch of odd restaurants - you know the kind - each table is on its own miniature row-boat; just touristy and odd.

Anyhoo, among these is a permanently moored (probably in cement) yacht called the Vagrant. The Beatles bought it in 1966 and used it to get away from all the craziness of super-stardom. The story goes that after Apple sold it in the early 70s, it hung out in Morocco, and was finally squodged by a storm in the Canaries.

These days, the Vagrant has been turned into a bar/restaurant, charging an extortionate amount for a beer (by Madeiran standards). But the interior appears relatively untouched, and you get a sense of it being a normal private yacht, with like... The Beatles hanging out on it.

The Beatles.

Very cool.

Obviously, there are no lengths the bar/restaurant won't go to to herald its famed past owners: down to photoshopping in the name of the yacht on to a photo of the fab four.

If they'd just evened out the angle a smidge, it would have been less obvious.

Go with the grain

2007-11-08T14:18:00.000Z

Wherever I go, people seem to be carrying 1.5m rolls of brown paper.

It turns out that everyone is starting work on their Christmas displays (sorry Shona, but it's all over the place!!). Each home has a lapinha - a three-tiered scene which is lined with painted brown paper. It's not quite a crib (although some of the same people feature); it's more symbolic than narrative. On the top layer is a Jesus - he's usually featured as a toddler. The other two layers hold other figures, fruit and miniature pots of gorgeous soft green grass (which I think is young wheat).

That's the basic structure, but it's often extended into a landscape, featuring a little village scene which can contain a mish-mash of things (Santana A-frame houses, the Three Kings, more miscellaneous fruit). And the whole display is inundated with lady slipper orchids, which are the Christmas flower here.

So there you go. It's crafty-time in Madeira.

And from sprouted wheat to rice... FreeRice.com began one month ago today: giving you the chance to play a vocabulary game and at the same time donate rice to end world hunger. It started on 7 October, when 830 grains of rice were donated. Yesterday there were 75,201,580 grains of rice donated to the UN World Food Program. Quite a month!

Looking within

2007-11-07T19:57:00.000Z

In Funchal, the Christmas decorations continue to grow: the angels are up in front of Se Cathedral, and the massive steel christmas tree is towering over the marina.

It looks like this from outside...

...but the best perspective is from within.

Reminds me of Shona, taking the same photo last year!

Cruising

2007-11-06T20:54:00.000Z

Ahh... the cruise ships sail by my terrace at dusk. Now, the idea of a cruise is probably the inverse of my ideal holiday: a super-lit floating hotel with a controlled atmosphere and schedule mapped out for you. Yecchk.

But at twilight, when the massive boats begin their journey and start out across the ocean, they look very pretty indeed.

Neil Hegarty's Dublin

2007-11-05T18:56:00.000Z

Today's post is about another author: a friend of mine just had his second book published: Dublin: A View from the Ground.

It's been getting lots of positive reviews, including one from the fabulous John Banville, who called it "a fond, informative and entertaining evocation of Joyce's 'dear, dirty Dumpling', and a fit companion for any visitor, or, indeed, Dubliner, ambling through these rain-washed streets".

Well if that isn't worthy of an across-the-ocean toast with a vodka & tonic, I don't know what is!

Amazon listing for Neil Hegarty's Dublin: A View from the Ground.

At the dimming of the day

2007-11-03T12:14:00.000Z

When I looked up from typing my blog yesterday evening, the room was bathed in sunset. Nipped up to the roof to take a picture...

Somewhere, a goose is getting fat

2007-11-02T18:06:00.000Z

At the beginning of October the Halloween trinkets and masks appeared in the shops; all the Christmas decorations went on sale at the same time.

A few weeks ago they started erecting the light displays in Funchal. Now that Halloween is past, they're working in earnest, and although the red carpets (I'm not kidding) won't line the streets until right before Christmas, already the streets are being covered with bulbs and tinsel. They'll keep adding lights right up to New Year's Eve, when the street display will be totally overwhelmed by the fireworks.

It only gets brighter from here!

Day of the Dead

2007-11-01T14:42:00.000Z

Today is a public holiday here - Dia de Finados.

Each land has its own traditions of dealing with the dead, and Madeira is no different. In addition to burial or cremation, there's a third option which someone tried to explain to me: keeping the body in a 'graveyard drawer' for the first 1-3 years (depending on how quickly they're decomposing). It's normal for the family to inspect the body after a year, but the graveyard manager can check on your behalf, if you prefer. When the flesh has fallen away, the bones are then buried.

I wander around the small graveyard in Canico from time to time, perusing the gravestones. Traditional graves here are more ornate than I'm used to: most have photos in oval gilt frames, and inscriptions are more wordy. I am always struck by the upkeep of the graves - fresh flowers are everywhere, and you get stunning orchids arching from one grave to another, shading the little gifts or family photos that have been left for the dead.

And all that's in a normal week! Who knows what goes on on All Souls' Day...

And the healing has begun...

2007-10-31T08:50:00.000Z

When I first talked to her about moving, Landlady was pretty upset, but she's getting into it now. As we sit and chat, she scans the environment: "Are you taking this plant? Are you taking this television? What about this plant?"

Time heals all :)

New horizons opening

2007-10-30T09:11:00.000Z

It's a big week for Funchal airport. Today, Aer Lingus debuts its Dublin-Funchal direct flight, which will run twice a week. Yesterday, Easyjet started its new (daily) Stansted-Funchal route, with ticket prices from £24.99. The improved accessibilty should make a big difference to tourism here.

And on that note...

...I'm moving from Madeira.

I know, I know - semi-tropical island, cheap cost of living and my very own Flat Space - who would dream of moving! Well, the next book is taking me (briefly) to New York, and there's another batch of research for a non-fiction book waiting in Dublin.

And so, having not lived in Ireland for almost a decade, I'm ready to surround myself with its voices and stories. I'm heading off during the second week in December. I've spent the last 3 Christmasses in Madeira: this year it'll be West Cork, followed by New York in January. And I'll take it from there, and somewhere along the way I hope to find another horizon at which to wonder.

The important thing is this: to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become.
--Charles Dubois

Almost All Hallow's...

2007-10-29T14:58:00.000Z

Another regular afternoon: Herman (the neighbourhood three-legged dog) is busy making his rounds, and the enormous shiny hearse just pulled up at the store -- stocking up on nuts and apples for Halloween, I expect. The Classic Tales podcast this week is The Legend of Sleepy Hollow - I'm waiting until it gets dark (the wind is already picking up - it'll be howling by twilight): I shall curl up with a glass of wine and listen to the tale of Ichabod Crane...

And on another subject entirely, musician Bob Mould (who you can see interviewed on Fora TV here) held an interesting poll and discussion of the future of music distribution, as changing technologies redefine the relationships between musician, label, distributor and fan. Well worth a look.

I hope readers in Ireland are enjoying the bank holiday :)

A pocketful of posy

2007-10-26T17:27:00.000+01:00

I somehow spent the afternoon researching flowers. I've been at it for hours: reading up on gardenias, magnolias, freesias, peonies (vs peony trees, which are sooooo different), lily of the valley -- finding out when they bloom and what they symbolise and if they could realistically be in the same place at the same time.

Then I stopped, remembering that today was supposed to be filled with research for the New York book. How did I get here? And I traced it back: to a (NY-related) scene this morning which featured 15th century posy rings...

Some minxy corner of my brain probably thought 'posy... posy... what about that other thing you were working on, why don't you just google gardenia, see where it takes you...'

Have a lovely weekend :)

The Dawn Café

2007-10-25T09:49:00.000+01:00

Café life here - as anywhere - is fascinating. The Madeiran coffee experience is very cheap and very fast - the inverse of my experience anywhere else. There are other differences as well - bread and pastries are all baked in-house, and no-one seems to think that warrants bragging about; and everywhere serves alcohol (in addition to beer and recognisable spirits, there are a few strange bottles occasionally brought out from under the counter).

But the early mornings are when Madeiran café life really stands out. You know the usual: people queueing impatiently for a vat of coffee to drink on the way to work; a few solitary people taking the time to sit with a danish and a vacant expression.

It's different here: parents and children pop in on the way to school for juice and a pastry; suited types stand at the counter, chatting with the staff; friends catch up over breakfast before heading off separately to work. They make it seem like elevenses on a Saturday morning. It all happens very quickly, but without being rushed. And it continues through the day - people coming together for a few minutes and a thimbleful of coffee.

A 20-oz coffee to go would be unimaginable: What a ridiculous amount of coffee, and you say I'd drink it walking down the street... where's the point in that?

A Day Off

2007-10-24T18:05:00.001+01:00

Aah, the deadline was met at some point in the early hours of the morning. A contented sigh followed, then a glass of wine to de-work my brain, and a sound night's sleep.

So, today was like surfacing. Yes, I noticed that the apartment had grown those little 'tunnels of clean' again from room to room. And I'm sure that empty bottles must breed while waiting to be taken for recycling; there's just no other explanation for so much glass...

Anyhoo, today was a gorgeous warm day. I'm rested, fishy-swimmed, and email is up to date. And I think I may actually turn off the laptop for the evening.

Or maybe I'll just set it to standby...

Holy perspective, Batman

2007-10-23T14:37:00.000+01:00

I'm busy meeting a ghostwriting deadline, so for your viewing pleasure, here's some fun street art:

Trompe l'oeils wreck my head, but pleasantly so.

And my personal favourite...

Dumbledore

2007-10-22T18:55:00.000+01:00

I've been thinking about the whole Dumbledore-is-gay news. I think what surprises me is that the crowd reacted with a standing ovation. Presumably it was an expression of solidarity, but honestly, if Rowling thought that the fact was important enough, wouldn't she have mentioned it in one of the books? I mean, now that we all know, it's changed children's literature for the better, but it seems a little after-the-fact to me...

Now, if, after the unprecedented success of Book One, Rowling had written Dumbledore's coming-out scene for Book Two - that would have been audacious. That would have been worthy of a standing ovation at Carnegie Hall.

Day of rest

2007-10-21T16:09:00.000+01:00

Classic Sunday afternoon here: bit of lounging, bit of writing, and a swim followed by a beer (or two). Heavenly :)

A word from the stage

2007-10-19T14:59:00.000+01:00

Funchal's Baltazar Dias Municipal Theatre is a gorgeous old building from the 1880s, which was apparently intended as a mini-La Scala.

I went last night - we arrived late, and I figured we wouldn't get in until intermission. But no, the nice man unlocked the enormous foyer doors, and the nice lady reopened the ticket booth (tickets costing an outrageous five euros). Another person guided us towards the theatre, and unlocked another enormous door. My first thought was "They lock the audience in?? That's got to break every EU H&S law going..." but it turns out she was opening a private stall for us, so we didn't disturb anyone as we took our seats. I felt like we were being rewarded for showing up late.

The play was a good laugh - I scrabbled enough Portuguese together to follow the plot. Some lines I understood fully, like "Where is the parsley?" (she asked for salsa, which we all know is not coriander but parsley, yessirree). The play was ruled over by an Italian harpy-granny, who barked orders in Italian throughout. When she shrieked"Vaffanculo!" I understood perfectly - thanks to my mother's careful instruction...

A time and a season for all things...

2007-10-18T17:22:00.000+01:00

As I was sewing up the super-thick wool jumper that I've been knitting for myself, it occurred to me that this would work in Dublin/Devon/Michigan. Finishing up a jumper as the night-frosts are beginning is entirely appropriate.

Not here, though. It's sweltering; Madeira never gets frosts. There was snow once up on the highest point - the restaurant up there has photos framed in wonder. I've just shoved the mound of knitted sleeves and bits to one side. I'll wait till the sun goes down.

Disturbance in the kitchen

2007-10-17T18:36:00.000+01:00

There was a mini-crash in the kitchen, and I found my Feathers McGraw fridge magnet in pieces on the floor. And then I noticed the card that he had been holding up on the fridge...

Tales from the Flat Space

2007-10-16T16:10:00.000+01:00

Last night I was down at the Flat Space, padding around just before sunset. A tourist couple walked down: they didn't speak or pay any attention to each other. They stood around, and were about to leave when they noticed that the sun would be setting in a few minutes. So they stood and waited, looking bored and slightly pissed-off.

I see many sunsets here, but this one was particularly gorgeous: against a pale clear sky, the fiery orange sphere melted into the thin bank of lilac cloud lining the horizon. It was really stunning.

And I wondered if that last radiance of the day would transform their drab expressions, or if the couple would slump back up the hill, mentioning to friends over dinner, "Oh yeah, we took a walk, watched the sunset"--making what was clearly a chore sound romantic and pleasurable.

Working night and day

2007-10-15T16:14:00.001+01:00

A short film about the workings of the solar system. The textures are lovely, and when the guy hefts the moon - you really feel its weight. A lovely fable.

Views from the edge

2007-10-14T17:32:00.000+01:00

I went down to the Flat Space this morning to have a walk around the new development before the Superheat came. The dawn-clouds were just burning away as the first yacht sailed by...

The place was very quiet: just a few scuba-divers out, and some early-birds sunbathing & swimming.

Beyond the statue of Cristo Rei is a tapering cliff - they've built a path out to the edge, which will have some little seated areas along the way. At present it's filled with bits of timber and iron bars (if only I could unlearn all that Health & Safety training) but it looks like it'll be lovely.

The view from the edge is great - not only can you see the statue of Cristo Rei properly, but it turns out there's a cool cave along the coast just begging to be explored...

Nobel and Noble

2007-10-12T15:09:00.000+01:00

Alfred Nobel invented dynamite??? Who knew!

The guy spent most of his life developing explosives for the family factory, which traditionally supplied materials for war -- they faced bankruptcy when the Crimean War ended in 1856. But by 1860, the chemist Nobel was experimenting with nitroglycerine, and in 1863 he patented his 'blasting oil'. Despite several people being killed in the factory (including his brother!) he persisted in his work - patenting dynamite in 1867, and blasting gelatine in 1876.

Setting aside his fascination with exploding things, Nobel was a pacifist throughout his life, and a shy, sickly man. He thought carefully on how his fortune would be best used -- the will that established the Nobel prizes was his third.

The back of the Nobel medal shows a tunnel blasted by dynamite. On the front of the medal is a portrait of Nobel, with the Latin inscription Creavit et promovit: "he created and promoted".

And blew stuff up. A lot.

But speaking of creating thoughtful legacies: there's a great (and rare) interview with Chuck Feeney on NPR. Billionaire Feeney founded Duty Free Shoppers, and is on track to give away all of his money before he dies. He's already done a bunch of philanthropic work, and his foundation will spend the remaining $4 billion over the next decade. Feeney calls it 'giving while living'. Fabulous fabulous work.

Making stuff up

2007-10-11T18:53:00.000+01:00

Mango pulp, fresh orange juice and Absolut Citron. Heaven :)

I'm researching the next novel. I adore this kind of work: starting with a vague idea, then exploring and reading and thinking and exploring some more. Then patterns start to form...

I barely left home for my fishy-swim this afternoon!

Daily wombat update: he's no longer last!

The Wombat and the Hare

2007-10-10T17:14:00.000+01:00

The little Wombat is catching up with the other competitors of the Transat 6.50 -- go Wombat!

Although to be fair, the boats that he has caught up with just seem to be twirling around in circles in the vicinity of the Canary Islands...

The twirley-ones are probably just chilling out, taking in the great view, enjoying a bottle of wine and a little picnic that someone kindly packed for them. That's how the scene is playing in my head, anyway. Unless -- the picnics were actually prepared by the twirley-ones' villainous competitors, who are now taking the lead, laughing maniacally into the wind...

Don't abandon hope...

2007-10-09T15:46:00.000+01:00

Interactive Dante is here! The University of Texas at Austin has a cool introductory site on the Divine Comedy, filled with beautiful images and straightforward navigation through the sources and allusions and influences and everything else that's going in that text.

This is exactly what we need for Joyces's Ulysses: everyone would read it if it was ridiculously well-annotated with a cool interactive flash website. I'm just sure of it...

Getting from there to here, to there

2007-10-08T12:04:00.000+01:00

Over the weekend, the 88 boats of the Transat 6.50 Regatta left Funchal and headed for Brazil.

Madeira marks the end of Stage One - they sail here from La Rochelle (France). The first boat to arrive in Funchal from La Rochelle was captained by Isabelle Joschke, and she’s got nearly a 4.5 hour lead for the second leg, which ends in Salvador da Bahia. They reckon it should take 25 days to get from Madeira to Brazil: it's a 3000 nautical-mile journey.

The race's website is good fun: it zooms around the ocean to show you the current positions, and if you hover over any of the boats it shows the sole occupant, their speed, co-ordinates etc. There was one little red boat-marker still in Funchal: turns out Tom Braidwood had trouble with something on the Wombat and had to turn back, but hopes to set out again tonight - he'll be about 240 miles behind the others, who are now just approaching the Canaries...

Republic: The Return

2007-10-05T15:52:00.000+01:00

Today is Republic Day. It commemorates this day in 1910, when the Portuguese monarchy was overthrown and Portugal was declared a republic.

In retrospect, it's called the First Portuguese Republic, since from 1926-74 Portugal was not so much a democratic republic as a Salazarist dictatorship. Still, they got over that blip, and a spanky new republic was proclaimed.

So, everyone has started their weekend early. And I think I may do the same :)

Seeing dead people

2007-10-04T14:52:00.000+01:00

I was thinking about Hugh Lane's will, and about the different responses of the living: some feel a responsibility to fulfill the wishes of the dead; others think "dead is dead; it's not like they care anymore".

And I don't mean this just in a legal sense. Take the case of Charles Byrne, the "Irish Giant". He was over 7 1/2 feet tall, and died in London in 1783. Byrne was terrified of being cut up and put on display after he died, and begged to be buried out at sea. But when he died, his body was sold to the museum at The Royal College of Surgeons; it's still on display there today.

Now, most bodies in museums haven't had the opportunity to make their wishes clear, and the choice of how to treat them is left up to us. There's an interesting article from last winter's Heritage Council Newsletter about the morality of exhibiting human remains, whether it represents a violation (or in the case of the murdered Lindow Man, exhibited at the British Museum with the garotte still clinging to his neck - whether it's yet another violation). The author, Jerry O'Sullivan (no relation) says:

"The core of this problem is that the treatment of human remains by archaeologists is diametrically opposite to their treatment by society in general. In almost every part of the world, in every period of human history, it has been customary to bury the dead with ceremony, in a special place set apart from everyday life. The dead themselves are regarded with reverence. Strong taboos attach to their physical remains and the places where they lie. In effect, they are put apart and hidden away. Archaeologists, on the other hand, have a lively and pragmatic interest in the remains of the dead. We treat them as scientific material to be harvested, analysed and interpreted. We bring the dead back into the light, figuratively speaking, in our analytical reports and, quite literally, in our museum exhibitions."

It's not an issue that can be neatly resolved - except for the rare instance where the person has stipulated "please don't put me in a museum". With all the public apologies and attempts to set the past to right that have been carefully formulated over the last 50 years, it's odd that no-one has thought to dismantle the exhibit, and let Charles Byrne be buried in accordance with his wishes.

I wouldn't want that preying on my conscience.

Round Trip

2007-10-03T15:32:00.000+01:00

This began when I caught up on the Classic Tales podcast: it was a special on Edgar Allen Poe (and was great fun). I remembered that the Irish artist Harry Clarke had illustrated Poe's tales -- magnificently...

The picture above is from The Pit & the Pendulum - the scene where he gets the rats to chew through his bindings. Clarke also illustrated Hans Christian Anderson's stories (picture from The Little Mermaid below).

Now, one of the past-treats of Dublin was to sit in Bewley's on Grafton Street and gaze at Harry Clarke's beautiful stained glass windows. I saw his Eve of Saint Agnes stained glass in the Hugh Lane gallery last year, and it's just stunning.

Which reminded me of the dramatic story behind Hugh Lane: the Irish art collector who died with the sinking of the Lusitania in 1915; shortly before his death he changed his will, and bequeathed his collection not to London but to Dublin. But the new codicil had not been witnessed...

And where did that lead? Back to the New York Times Archive, which offers this simple report from 3 October 1915:

The will was not as straightforward as the NY Times first thought; the argument over Hugh Lane's collection went on until 1959.

Mapping famine

2007-10-02T16:30:00.000+01:00

I'm not quite sure what I was supposed to be researching, but I ended up with one of Eavan Boland's (many) great poems.

For those unfamiliar with famine roads, they differ from the altruistic work of New York debutantes: when most of Ireland was being devastated by famine in the 1840s, the then-Government was fearful that charity might encourage laziness. Thus, the famine victims were given the opportunity to work for their alms, and were set to building roads: roads that weren't actually planned or needed, you know, but they kept everyone busy while they were dying. First-hand accounts describe the 'living skeletons' working these often pointless roads that started at a random point and went nowhere in particular.

Those famine roads remain today - as Boland says, "so powerful in their meaning and so powerless at their origin". It's a remarkable feeling, to follow one to its abrupt end in the middle of a field. It just suddenly disappears, and you realise: everybody died. They all died, and then there was no more reason to try to help, and therefore no need to force the dying to labour so that they wouldn't become greedy, lazy, good-for-nothings. A neat ending.

That the Science of Cartography is Limited

-and not simply by the fact that this shading of
forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,
the gloom of cypresses
is what I wish to prove.

When you and I were first in love we drove
to the borders of Connacht
and entered a wood there.

Look down you said: this was once a famine road.

I looked down at ivy and the scutch grass
rough-cast stone had
disappeared into as you told me
in the second winter of their ordeal, in

1847, when the crop had failed twice,
Relief Committees gave
the starving Irish such roads to build.

Where they died, there the road ended
and ends still and when I take down
the map of this island, it is never so
I can say here is
the masterful, the apt rendering of

the spherical as flat, nor
an ingenious design which persuades a curve
into a plane,
but to tell myself again that

the line which says woodland and cries hunger
and gives out among sweet pine and cypress,
and finds no horizon

will not be there.

Eavan Boland

Weather indecisions

2007-10-01T17:49:00.000+01:00

The weather has been somewhat eclectic over the last few days.

The evening:

The morning:

Right now:

You wouldn't know whether to pour a refreshing vodka & tonic or a warming glass of red...

Changing with the tide

2007-09-30T13:51:00.001+01:00

Once a month, the local lido transforms into a nightclub. It's a strange event.

Just to explain the Canico de Baixo lido(1): it's not one of the stylish new ones, with wide spaces and generous wooden decking everywhere. This is an older one: someone poured cement between a bunch of razor-sharp rocks to make small sunbathing plateaux. There's a small shallow swimming pool. And the sea is on three sides.

They turn it into a club by draining & lining the pool, setting up small bars, twirly lights, and arranging some cushions and bean-bags around the place. Oh, and they put a rope around the three edges that open on to the sea.

Hmm. Sharp rocks, a drained pool, the ocean, alcohol, dancing. I cannot imagine how many lawsuits would ensue if this happened anywhere else on the planet...

But in Madeira, it somehow works. No-one tripped in a drunken haze and gouged out an eye; no-one fell into the sea; no-one was thrown into the sea. You dance, stargaze (Orion's belt was right overhead), curl up on a cushion and people-watch. After 5am, I noticed the tide was coming in, and waves were starting to crash over the club. Time to retreat...

1) Maggie - this is where we didn't swim because it was too rough; Tara & Mike - this is where we walked to with the kidlets and had lunch; Sean & Shona - this is where we went on New Year's Eve, the 'swimming while the red flag was flying' incident; Mom - this is the place we discovered after a very looooooong walk, many moons ago.

How to treat treatments

2007-09-28T16:32:00.000+01:00

Today's work is going well so far: I've managed to make visible progress on a short-story, ghostwriting project and my screenplay treatment.

The treatment is taking a while. It's fair enough, I guess: you do need to map out the whole plot. My problem is that I keep slipping into dialogue. I got some screenwriting software, where you can toggle between the script and a series of index cards representing the individual scenes. No problem, I thought, I'll just complete all the index cards, squodge them together to form a treatment, et voilà!

After a couple of days I noticed that the index cards were filled with dialogue. I mean, stuffed to the gills...

Hmm. So I've started yet another file. The film's main action happens in a single week, so it's a simple calendar of daily events & scenes, to figure out the plot-development from start to finish. And yes, dialogue has been materialising there as well, but my theory is that when I trim all that off, I'll have my basis for the treatment. Baby steps :)

Have a lovely weekend.

Splash of colour

2007-09-27T16:49:00.000+01:00

Aaah raspberries...

From raspberry muffins to raspberry martinis, they start and end your day with joy.

:)

Long-suffering response

2007-09-26T15:31:00.000+01:00

I caught some footage of Bush's speech before the UN General Assembly yesterday, and thought his choice of words was interesting. He was talking about Burma.

(No, it's not that he flaffed a little over Aung San Suu Kyi's name; God love him, he must have practiced that for aaaages.) He said that Americans were 'outraged' by the situation in Burma. Now, outrage to me suggests an initial reaction, it's kind of a response to being shocked by something: "They're doing what? You're kidding! I am outraged!"

But Bush's next sentence said that the situation had been ongoing for 19 years, which just plain undermined his first statement. Either a) Americans have just noticed the situation, which doesn't look good, or b) they knew all along and have been quietly outraged for 19 years, which doesn't look good.

I'd have left a good buffer before I mentioned the 19 years -- or else suggested that the situation this year was even more outrageous than normal, and that's what precipitated some US action.

I just noticed - U2's Walk On (dedicated to Aung San Suu Kyi) is playing in the background. Love that symmetry! And you can see an amazing live version of Walk On right here...

Liquid happiness

2007-09-25T16:04:00.000+01:00

I nipped out for my Swim Like a Fish lesson. In the pool, an elderly lady rested against one wall, her eyes closed, basking in the sunshine, in seventh heaven.

As I got in, she exclaimed how lovely the water was. She was French, had a sweet disposition, and we talked in that blend of French, Portuguese and English that seems to overcome any individual language deficiency.

She was surprised that I was bothering to put on goggles; I could be lounging at the side of the pool, sunbathing. I explained my fish-swimmy thing. She said you tan three times quicker in the pool; her brother is a doctor and told her.

At this point I recognised the scent that was lingering over the water: whiskey. Either she'd already had ample that morning (this was about 11.30am) or she was processing the Night Before, her system distilling ethanol at a rate that Guinness Distilleries would be proud of.

I started my fishy drills. Over the half-hour, she'd float over to where I surfaced several times to chat about the weather, the local dive spots, the weather (hot topic). Then she'd return to her sun spot, basking, eyes closed, smiling.

When my internal clock chimed to say 'that next batch of salsa has chilled nicely', it was time to go. I left her as I found her, in utter bliss.

Salsa Tales

2007-09-24T12:34:00.000+01:00

So there I was, queueing in the veg shop, idly considering that my big bunch of local scrumptious on-the-vine tomatoes cost the same amount as the tin of tomatoes I needed to pick up en route home, and thinking what a rare and wonderful thing that was.

The lady totted up my shopping (tomatoes plus beetroot, carrots, onions, melon) which was coming to all of three euros. When we got to my bale of coriander (I am a salsa glutton), she laid it gently on top of the rest, "Oferta," she said, "No charge".

I looked around, figuring rent lighting wages insurance wholesale cost of produce... It was like approved stealing. Crazy.

And I tootled on home and made the best raspberry salsa ever. Life is good.

The hows and wheres of writing

2007-09-22T14:16:00.000+01:00

Welcome back, little broadband connection. You were missed.

Another glorious weekend. I've been in for my session of learning to swim like a fish; now for some reading and writing.

And the news is, I'll be writing something else entirely, for Cured with Death is all finished. It's edited, polished, spell-checked. We have parted company. It was an odd feeling, waking up and not going straight for the file.

So the work to get it published begins. Meanwhile, I'm working on a short story, and writing my first screenplay treatment. It's a different approach for me: normally I have a clear idea of the end, the beginning and a few key scenes in between. Apparently, in screenwriting, you save yourself much torment by mapping the whole thing out in advance - a brief scene-by-scene description. Any plot/character weaknesses are highlighted, and when you sit down to write the script proper, it just flows. That's the theory, at least. So I'm giving it a go. It's hard: not to get distracted by dialogue, not to skip ahead to the climactic scenes, but the method teaches a lot about pacing and structure.

And I'm doing some ghostwriting as well. Busy busy.

This has been mentioned all over the place this week, but just in case you haven't seen it: The Guardian have posted their series on writers' rooms. You can see where writers write here. Very interesting: I loved Seamus Heaney's, and Jonathan Safran Foer's - who wrote in the Rose Reading Room of the 42nd Street Branch of the New York Public Library. Now there's a place to make you think big thoughts...

Saving society, one corsage at a time

2007-09-20T13:02:00.001+01:00

From today, the New York Times has granted free access to its archive up to 1922, and it makes for fun reading.

The 1913 debutante season was a blast, by all accounts, filled with headlines like:

BALL AT THE RITZ FOR MISS MIMI SCOTT;
Newport Bud of Last Summer Introduced to New York Society by Her Father.

There's plenty of detail on the "wonderful galaxy of buds this Winter in society's garden"; every tea dance, every lunch out, article after article stressing the beauty and charm and er... charming beauty of the lay-dees.

And hey, the ridiculously expensive flowers "are always sent to the hospitals and the sick in the tenements". Such sacrifice, so that others can die/starve with an exotic orchid in sight.

The details of wills were widely publicized, and it's interesting to see how the Titanic affected estate law.

And it turns out, sometimes the Butler really did do it.

Some of the headlines read like articles from The Onion.

And my favourite:

-- it would make for fine dinner party conversation!

Over the rainbow

2007-09-19T11:08:00.001+01:00

This morning I woke and sat in bed, staring out to sea. And then before my eyes, a rainbow formed...

Strange Days

2007-09-18T10:35:00.000+01:00

In 1959 while Batista was en route to Madeira, Castro was setting up in Cuba, and cheerleading by his side was none other than Errol Flynn.

In articles and interviews, Flynn spread the good word about Castro – talking enthusiastically about the wonderful Castro brothers, what a ‘doll’ their mother was, how happy the Cubans were about the revolution. He also made a short feature, Cuban Rebel Girls.

You can see him on Front Page Challenge here, talking about his experiences and dispelling rumours that he fought alongside the rebels - he "didn't pick up anything more dangerous than a ballpoint pen”.

Flynn later retracted his pro-Castro statements; he died in October of that year.

Tales from Reids

2007-09-17T12:16:00.000+01:00

I dipped into the autobiography of hotelier Jean Burca, who worked his way up from a commis waiter in the Savoy (London) to General Manager of Reid's. It was he who was ferried out to greet the liner carrying General Batista and his family, fleeing from Cuba in 1959.

He has a couple of good stories:

Their (Portuguese) Food & Beverages Manager came highly recommended by the manager of the Connaught Hotel, London. Turned out he borrowed money from the staff, stole the silver, built up a line of credit by pretending to be the manager of Reids, and spread the word that his wife was going to import horses from Ireland. The Governer of Madeira received a letter from the Portuguese Ambassador in Dublin, complaining that he'd lent £300 to "the manager of Reid's" and hadn't seen it again.

You wonder if Mr Connaught was playing a practical joke...

The other good snippet was when a letter arrived from Alessandri Prison, in Italy. A young man had seen a feature on Reids and really wanted to visit. So, he robbed a bank (as you do). Not very sucessfully, as it turned out.

The manager verified his story, then sent him two thousand escudos with a note saying he hoped one day his dreams would come true.

Inviting a robber to stay at your filled-with-wealthy-guests hotel. Hmm...

Pre-Pizza Post

2007-09-15T15:23:00.000+01:00

A quick note, while my just-out-of-the-oven-of-the-restaurant-across-the-road pizza cools a bit: you can see REM's new video 'Leaving New York' here. Worth scrolling down to read the comment on their Dublin gigs.

That's all folks. Pizza is wafting scrummy scents my way...

Smoothing the edges

2007-09-14T12:09:00.000+01:00

I've been delighting in etiquette tips lately - the stuff you never realise is an issue. Like when people say 'cheers' but don't make eye-contact. I'm a big eye-contact person, and never noticed that some people don't do this, but there you go! Apparently it's important, both for alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks.

Anyhoo, I was browsing Tiffany's site (the next book is set in New York, and I've idly browsing, just dabbling with possibilities). Apart from lovely pictures of treaty things, they have a small etiquette section for dinner parties. Some are recognisable: It’s not polite to request the wine that you brought as a gift. Some seem quite American: Stand up when an older person enters the room - how wrong could that go - "Why, how old did you think I was? You didn't stand up for Marlene, and she's a year older than me. Really, how old would you say I am?". Shudder shudder. But this one's my favourite:
Bring a gift. But remember, because the hosts are busy, cut flowers are best sent ahead of time or brought in a vase.
Could you be more thoughtful!

Clash of the titans

2007-09-13T14:12:00.000+01:00

An amazing battle in a rough neighbourhood...

Puzzling crossword

2007-09-12T12:17:00.000+01:00

My treaty start to the morning is to curl up with a mug of coffee and do the crosaire (1). This morning I finished it all, which pleased me greatly. But I don't get my final clue, which was 25 down:

25 down) What one expects to hear from the end of 9 across (6 letters)

The clues are: _ A _ O _ S

Now, 9 across (2) was 'awaits', linked to 11 down (3), which was 'alight'.

I totally guessed 'carols', which is apparently right, but I have no idea why. And that's niggling me...

________
Endnotes
(1) the Irish Times cryptic crossword
(2) 9 across. It's what it is hanging around to make it not 11 down matter, by the sound of it (6)
(3) 11 down. Get down, having been fired (6)

You hear something?

2007-09-11T14:35:00.000+01:00

Mermaid research took a depressing turn. Here's a little snippet...

One of the problems besieging the waters is that seven billion tonnes of stuff are dumped in the oceans each year - most of that is plastic.

There's a thing called polychlorinated biphenyl (PCB) - it's a synthetic chemical used to make plastics and styrofoam.

Which leads me to PCB contamination. It does all kinds of stuff: it's been linked to altered physiology, fall in reproduction, mass die-offs of shellfish. The concentration of PCB in Beluga whales (those little white whales) is so high that their corpses have to be treated as toxic waste.

Hmm. We're putting so much poison in the waters that it's turning living things to toxic waste?

Talk about moments when alarm bells sound...

Winds of change

2007-09-10T13:53:00.000+01:00

On the site of the Guinness Brewery, there's an odd tower capped by a verdigris onion-shaped dome. When I was researching Dublin last year, I learned it was a remnant from an earlier alcohol-business: Roe's Distillery. In the nineteenth century, George Roe's Old Malt Whiskey was famous, and its premises boasted the largest pot-still in the world. This odd tower was the distillery's windmill.

It was builts in 1805 to grind corn. As windmills go, it's supposed to be one of the tallest in Europe. It was a smock windmill - the copper dome had big sails attached, and both dome and sails rotated in the wind. It kept its sails until the 1860s, when steam took over.

At the end of the century Dublin Distillers' Company took it premises, and then Guinness in the 1950s. It's called St Patrick's Tower these days. Driving through Dublin this summer, I kept a look-out for it among the cityscape, and sure enough - there was the windmill! It was like a tale coming to life.

Nowadays it's in the heart of the Digital Hub, which has a lovely symmetry - the windmill is still at the centre of the city's lifeblood. Thanks to Sean for the photo.

Space and time

2007-09-07T16:39:00.000+01:00

You can imagine my excitement when yesterday's NASA image of the day was called Time Tunnel. I thought it might look like this...

... but they were actually trying to look back in time, to a quasar 12.7 billion light years away.

Anyhoo, the whole stars-and-time thing made me dig out a Louis MacNeice poem called Star-gazer:

Forty-two years ago (to me if to no one else
The number is of some interest) it was a brilliant starry night
And the westward train was empty and had no corridors
So darting from side to side I could catch the unwonted sight
Of those intolerably bright
Holes, punched in the sky, which excited me partly because
Of their Latin names and partly because I had read in the textbooks
How very far off they were, it seemed their light
Had left them (some at least) long years before I was.

And this remembering now I mark that what
Light was leaving some of them at least then,
Forty-two years ago, will never arrive
In time for me to catch it, which light when
It does get here may find that there is not
Anyone left alive
To run from side to side in a late night train
Admiring it and adding noughts in vain.

Women of the water

2007-09-06T14:07:00.000+01:00

I'm unlearning to swim. Well, I'm learning a new way of swimming, which means unlearning the old way. Traditional theory is that your arms heave you along, your kicking legs heft you forward - the Total Immersion method is very different. It's slippery, and fishlike. And way cool.

But speaking of fishlike, I was reading up on mermaids for a short story. It was triggered last year when I came across an article on ama - the japanese free-divers (mostly women) who still dive for abalone and other delicacies. No scuba gear - they just take a deep breath and go. The ama are becoming an endangered species: the age range of the divers in one area was 45-85 years. The young nubile ama that perform for tourists are not representative, it would seem.

Anyhoo, so I've been reading, and I discovered Weeki Wachee, the City of Live Mermaids, an hour north of Tampa. There's a very deep, very strong spring there, filled with turtles and manatee and the odd alligator. In the late 1940s an ex-navy frogman-trainer somehow thought to make a 'theatre' out of it, and trained the local girls to hang out 20-feet underwater, breathing out of an air hose, and make it look natural. They were in the middle of nowhere, and their marketing consisted of running to the highway when they heard cars approaching and luring people in. More nubile young women performing for tourists.

They ate and drank (fizzy drinks) underwater, performed ballets and choreographed pieces - including holding completely still in a 5-mile an hour current. They hold their breath for a long time - the current record is 6 minutes 10 seconds. The lady from The Creature from the Black Lagoon (above) got her start there; Esther Williams hung out there, with a load of celebrities; Elvis (below) was a huge fan.

And these water-women are endangered too - their 'Save our Tails' campaign got a boost a few years back when Supergrass filmed a video there.

Wacky. I think this mermaid research may take a while...

Surrounded by words

2007-09-05T13:56:00.000+01:00

So, I've reached that stage in revising the novel. There is no way out but through.

Busy busy :)

Picture for Richard, who asked for a view of the world around here...

Ashes and Snow

2007-09-04T15:04:00.000+01:00

Pretty pictures today:

I came across Gregory Colbert's Ashes and Snow via Jonathan Carroll's blog - it's a remarkable series of... well, everything really: film, photographs, letters. I watched the youtube clip below, presuming that the images were composite, that the animals and humans occupied the space at different times. I was wrong.

There are some amazing photos on his website - the elephants are probably my favourite.

Enjoy.

PS - if the English-speaking voice sounds familiar, it's because it belongs to Laurence Fishburne.

Sarong Days

2007-09-03T16:59:00.000+01:00

I love Madeira at this time of year. The hot days are filled with fresh pineapple and slabs of watermelon and deliciously refreshing afternoon swims; the ripened vines are being harvested (by the old method, with a barefoot Mr Squodger squodging them in a shallow barrel); in the balmy evenings the dark sea sparkles with the lights of boats out night-fishing; and the stargazing at night is phenomenal.

It's pretty ideal, as lifestyles go. I feel very lucky indeed.

Mushroom update: first crop has finished, new crop growing slowly further along the ceiling. No sign of builder.

The sheep and the sea, and a dog

2007-09-02T22:28:00.000+01:00

This evening I've been reading about The Sea Ranch, an area in Sonoma County, California where people try 'to live lightly on the land'.

It was developed in the 1960s by a group of architects, and apparently their environmentally-sensitive approach is still drawn on today. The houses are nestled into rather than carved out of the landscape - no manicured lawns or picket fences here, just grasslands, which are kept under control by sheep. Which brings me to their motif...

which reminded me of the sheep's head peninsula logo...

which reminded me of this photo that my brother took on the Sheep's Head...

Awww...

Museum Guards

2007-08-31T15:35:00.001+01:00

For those who've never wandered inside the Museum Building in Trinity College, Dublin, here's a glimpse of one of the guardians inside the door:

Megalocerus Giganteus (aka the Giant Irish Deer) was the largest deer that ever lived - about seven feet high at the shoulder, then add on head, neck and ginormous antlers. They roamed through the Irish forests about eleven thousand years ago.

There's a Mrs Megalocerus too, who stands opposite him -- she's the same except for the antlers.

Now, I'm not a huge Natural History Museum/displays-of-dead-animals/recreations-of-scenes-with-taxidermied-corpses type of person. That said, I adore these skeletons. I drop in to see them whenever I can :)

Turbulent Thursday

2007-08-30T14:01:00.000+01:00

There have been very loud hammering noises going on since early this morning.

Somewhere above me, a super-extended bathroom is being chipped away...

My bathroom ceiling

2007-08-29T14:05:00.000+01:00

This story begins two years ago when the apartment above mine got a new bathroom. The walls that adjoin these apartments are 6 inches thick - each apt gets 3 inches for their wiring, pipes etc. But the folk upstairs coveted those three inches, and wanted them for their new bathroom. So they took down their wall, shoved everything on to their neighbour's side, tiled up against his wall, and luxuriated in their extended bathing space. Naughty.

Earlier this year, their neighbour gutted his place and moved all the rooms around. When his electrician was rewiring, he broke through the three inches, and discovered he'd broken through grout. And he could see through to a bathroom on the other side... Well they couldn't complete their building work; there was danger of flooding/electrocution and lots of arguments, which were still ongoing when I left for Ireland.

So I came back, and had a shower, as you do. And then I looked up - there were long water stains across the whole ceiling, bits of plaster were falling out at the corners, and there were knobbly bits on the ceiling.

At first I thought the plaster was swelling with the water. Then I thought of fungus, of how in House MD when someone's critically ill, they always go and check their home for spores...

And the following morning, all was revealed:

And what's more, if my bathroom's affected, so is German Porn Man's. We're all waiting for him to notice...

Evasions

2007-08-28T15:39:00.000+01:00

In a post last year I mentioned the Cable TV company's innovative method of dealing with bad debt. Truly bizarre, and surely against some EU law or other...

So, the house bills arrived. The Cable bill came late (again), and was already past due on arrival. You can't pay overdue bills in a local post office (well, you can if you fill out extra forms and pay extra charges) - so thousands of people go to the main Cable office instead. I wanted to ask about the bad debt, and Landlady - well, she wanted to have a stand-up row with someone about the bad debt - so off we went.

First we stopped off to pay electricity. As I'm paying, Landlady starts speaking loudly to the two people working in the office, gesturing at me. She's telling the story of me having to pay someone else's bad debt. The man serving me responds - he had the same problem: they tried to get him to pay 1k of someone else's debt. He got a lawyer. Never paid a penny.

Landlady is furious by the time we get to the Cable Folk. She explains the situation, and the woman behind the counter argues, smiling all the time. Landlady becomes very angry indeed. She turns as she's complaining, involving the people queueing behind us. A man steps forward - he has the same problem - 400 euros of debt. He doesn't even have cable, so he's not sure why he's paying.

I wonder if Landlady has any of her dog's valium on her. The arguments continue. Landlady threatens to go the tv, to the radio. The counter lady checks things up, consults some paperwork, goes upstairs, checks my ID. Yes, she finally admits, the people paid their debt in full.

In February.
___

Anyhoo, on to chicken-pictures! Here's the little minx who steals into Maggie's garden in Devon each morning. She pecks around the lawn nonchalantly, takes a furtive look around to see if she's being tailed, then ducks in to the border to lay her egg...

Maggie has two cats - who do absolutely nothing to help.

Miscellany

2007-08-27T16:01:00.000+01:00

Hi all! I'm mentally getting closer to Madeira...

Well it's been a week of stunning weather. Today's cloudy and non-boiling - I might actually get out for a jog (have substituted swimming on the hot days).

I am immersed in Cured with Death, but only recently - I spent most of last week writing two short stories, which was great fun, but unplanned...

Website update: there's footage of me reading at the Irish Writers' Centre up now.

Snaps of Bordeaux (from top left):
> the Saint-Michel bell-tower, locally called "The Arrow". 114 metres high
> cloister we passed somewhere along the way
> the wine we didn't buy. That's right, 1350 euros
> purdy stained-glass colours in the Saint-Michel church
> sea horsies
> the sea horsies' cool flipper-hooves
> little bit of the Monument aux Girondins
> purdy latch (in a vineyard where the wine was gakky)
> new oak barrels. Man, they smelled good!

Transitions

2007-08-25T09:42:00.000+01:00

Today is Departure day at Plum Village. I’m leaving shortly after breakfast; I’m one of the first to go. I take a final look around the Lower Hamlet. Someone said that a day here feels like two days – they’re so rich, so filled (and you get up at 5.30am). It feels longer than a week, longer than a fortnight.

My biggest surprise was the people. I thought they'd be super-people - the most advanced, enlightened folk around. But they were as flawed and as remarkable as everyone else on the planet. People skipped queues, elbowed in front to catch a glimpse of Thay, talked loudly through films - even stole meditation mats! The environment here supports you in handling difficulty, which is great, but you also experience people at their best – generous and kind and thoughtful. It's like the Gardener - outside I'd have only ever heard her complain and get angry; in here I get to know her as a person. And she amazes me.

It was a privilege to see Thay and his community in practice, to see his teachings brought to life. Sometimes people harden with age, becoming more adamant in their beliefs. Thay’s the opposite. He says to wear his teachings like a loose-fitting robe. Don’t cling to anything, he says, don't get caught up in words - the point is where the teachings take you, not how you get there.

I nip down to the meditation hall one last time, then take my luggage outside. The nuns will drop me over to station. All of the Potwashers appear to say goodbye. As a group, we’ve got along extraordinarily well – it’s an unusual, precious dynamic. We share bountiful, long-lasting hugs. This kind of group doesn’t happen often.

I return to Bordeaux, meet up with Sara. In the afternoon we’re walking around the town when church bells ring out in the distance. I stop automatically, and then laugh. And we walk across the sunshiney square, and I’m smiling. I hope this lasts.

Plum Friday

2007-08-24T16:23:00.001+01:00

It was Q&A with Thay this morning, in English. We go to the meditation hall straight from potwashing. The hall quickly fills to capacity - all of the hamlets are here. Thay arrives and sits down. A fellow potwasher leans over, “See the flowers?”

There’s an arrangement before Thay’s chair. It’s ours, from last night. It’s been upgraded from tin can to proper vase, but it’s ours. I am thrilled.

The first part of the morning is all about the kids.

Now, at times this week they've driven us crazy. The teenagers often ignore 'noble silence', and they chat noisily in the bathroom, putting on make-up and straightening their hair - while the rest of us are getting ready for bed. I’ve had no contact with them, and I wonder: did any of the teachings sink in? Was their sole purpose to help us practice patience? At times, the younger children have run riot as well, unsupervised by parents. And they've been asking for money: my first day I met boys at a table by the bamboo grove - selling rocks. To help the hungry children, they say. I’m fresh from Dublin, hyper-suspicious. I give them money, but figure I’ve been scammed.

First the kids come up to Thay. They’ve raised 701 euros this week - for the Hungry Children's Charity, in Vietnam. They had a sale of work – things they’d made and painted and drawn - and they sold those rocks all week long…
The teenagers follow: they’ve raised nearly 1500 euros from a sponsored 26-km walk. They perform for Thay - an original composition. I recognise it from the Peace Festival. It’s funny and fast, and the teachings of the week are all squodged into it. Thay is so pleased, he asks them to sing it again.

Both groups blew me away. I was suffering from a wrong perception, as Thay would say.

Then the questions started. The youngest went first:
> You do so much - how do you not get tired?
> How did it feel to not be allowed to go home?
> Why can’t the Dalai Lama go home, like you did?
> Why do monks not make children?

The adult questions were as eclectic:
> I work with people who hate homosexuals, who think violence against them is a good thing. How can I help to change their perception?
> If we have past lives, why can't we remember them?
> If I just had 5 minutes to speak with you, I feel I would be a better person. How do I leave Plum Village without feeling that I’ve missed out.

> What is the nature of dreaming?
> Is there a conflict between Christianity and Buddhism?
> My friend’s daughter has committed suicide. She was 35 years old. She’s left a small son. What can I say to her? How can I help?
A woman comes and sits in the question-chair. She’s clearly petrified.
> What advice would you give to a mother whose child has not met his father because he is at war?
She’s American, and heavily pregnant. The room holds its breath.

Thay pauses before each answer. For some he takes ten or twenty seconds before speaking. And then he speaks carefully, thoughtfully, compassionately.

And he gives us enough to think about for a lifetime.

Plum Thursday

2007-08-23T17:41:00.001+01:00

This morning some of the Sisters shared – they spoke about their practice, their difficulties, their successes. The Abbess is Dutch-Irish – she talks about her (Irish) mother’s affinity with the sea, how during storms her mum would gather the children together, and they would pray for those out at sea. She feels she still draws on her mother's strength.

The sister in charge of the garden speaks about her work this year. Her New Year’s resolution was to complain less - she hadn’t realised until recently that she complains all the time. In January she started a list of everything she complains about. She’s still writing. Thay had a meditation to help, but she wasn’t getting anywhere with it. And one day in a magazine she saw the words “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness”. She cut out the quote, and has it up on her shelf in her room. And it's helping.

She talks about the shelf – how she has it organised neatly. You can see the pleasure she takes in things being orderly. Her garden tools are the same: for years, each day after use she oils them and replaces them in her shed. But other people come in, people who don’t return things to their rightful place… when she leads the Gardening Family out to work, half of the tools are missing. She feels very angry, and she can’t even walk away to calm herself because her Family is waiting for guidance.

She’s been working on the anger this year. Now she always has a Plan B or Plan C for the Gardening Family – she has other things they can do without the missing tools. And she breathes as she gardens. And that's helping too.

I adore her. I feel I’ve met her a hundred times: the person in the office who reddens with anger because no-one’s reordered paperclips, or someone’s swapped meetings without updating the Big Central Chart, or left their dirty coffee cup in the sink - again. I adore her, and through her I adore all these people.

At dinner we’re planning the events of the next two days. All the hamlets are descending on us tomorrow, and there’ll be a formal lunch. One of our leaders asks for volunteers to pick flowers. My hand shoots up. I am super-keen. “I need you to wash pots, Orlaith”, a friend explains patiently.

It turns out the flowers are for tonight, there’ll be a ceremony right after potwashing. My hand slinks back down. It makes no odds – there are already two volunteers from the lunchtime shift. The leader thinks carefully, then says, “I would like you to pick flowers Orlaith. I will wash pots in your place”.

I am mortified. I mumble thanks but really, I’ll wash the pots. “I would like you to pick flowers. Would you like to pick flowers?” she asks. I hold up my palms, like the Egyptian weighing of souls –scrub pots? – pick flowers? – which to choose…

And off we go, to pick flowers. I’m pretty racked with guilt. And I’m feeling the pressure, because if someone’s scrubbing pots to let me do this, then that flower arrangement had better be something. We cover Lower Hamlet, loading up on wildflowers, adding some blossoms from the garden (I’ve borrowed the Gardener’s secateurs, and am paranoid in case I forget to return them). We pick ripening blackberries and plums and I lean, teetering, over the lotus pond to reach a couple of the big round leaves.

We run out of time. Other potwashers come and help us tidy up, get pebbles to hold the flowers in the tin can (a great trick). I look at the final arrangement; if I only had more time, I think...

The rest of the Family join us. And they love it, genuinely – they marvel over it and make a big fuss. At the ceremony, we talk about our experiences here. One person opens her arms, encompassing the flower arrangement. “This really sums up the week.”

And so this blog is humbly dedicated to Cecilia, the lady who washed pots so that I could pick flowers. Thank you.

Plum Tales will be now interrupted...

2007-08-23T09:36:00.000+01:00

..for a brief announcement:

Regular service will resume shortly.

Lazy Day

2007-08-22T12:52:00.000+01:00

All families were invited to bring something to the Peace Festival last night – a poem or a song or I dunno… piece of interpretative dance. En route, I wondered how many would be taking part. Would they be any good? Would it be like sitting through a very long school concert?

The Constellation of Stars Meditation Hall was beautifully decorated. The children kicked off the performances, and the other families followed. The teenagers introduced each act with a peace-quote, dressed up as Jim Morrison or Ghandi or John Lennon or the Virgin Mary (who looked to be having twins).

Despite misgivings, The Potwashers had put together a quick song. Very quick. We brought our cooking pots and utensils from the kitchen. We wore aprons and massive yellow rubber gloves. We sang with gusto. And we killed it! We did our exit-conga through the crowd to rapturous applause (okay, there’s no actual applause in the Hall, instead people raise their arms and wiggle their hands. There was much wiggling. People wiggled with gusto). “Next year, I want to be a Potwasher!!”, one man says.

The festival ended with a procession. We leave the Hall to put on our shoes. Outside are hundreds of origami flower night-light holders. Through random shoe placement, I end up at the front – walking with the children and the abbess. We process in silence to the bell tower, and we set down the first lights. I turn to look back – a line of hundreds of people is approaching us.

A nun begins to sing the evening chant. The children crowd together beneath the bell, waiting for its next booming vibration.

When the ceremony has ended, I walk to the edge of Plum Village with a fellow Potwasher. We watch in silence as an enormous harvest moon rises over the vineyards. Then we bow to each other and say goodnight.

Today is Lazy Day - no scheduled activities. After breakfast I watched a great documentary about Thay’s return to Vietnam this Spring. The media-controlled government didn’t advertise the trip, but word spread - crowds of 5,000-10,000 people came out to meet him wherever he went. Thay travelled the country for 11 weeks, held 50 major ceremonies and a zillion retreats. Did I mention he was 81 years old?

Lazy Day is also No-Car day for Plum Village. Everyone’s doing their own thing across the hamlet. As for me, I’m off to play in the sunflowers…

Plum Tuesday

2007-08-21T14:54:00.001+01:00

I thought a lot about fame this morning. Celebrity status is strange thing. For spiritual leaders, it must be even stranger.

The dawn meditation session was brilliant, and a scrummy breakfast followed. Then we travelled to New Hamlet, where we met up people from the other three hamlets. Thay gave a phenomenal talk, and off we went for some walking meditation.

The children of Plum Village always walk beside Thay, followed by some of the monks and nuns. We started moving through lines of vines stretching up a hillside. Some people trot quickly past me -- trying to catch up with Thay, I guess, to get a glimpse of him.

When he reaches the top of the hill, Thay sits down under a plum tree and looks down onto the Bordeaux landscape, meditating. We all sit too, but we’re not watching what he’s watching. We’re not meditating at all. We’re watching him. And we're taking pictures: with phones, cameras, dvd camcorders...

He glances around at us, gives a little laugh. I realise how stupid it is to sit watching someone else meditate. I turn to the landscape and relax. Some others do the same. Thay takes a little bell and rings it, and gradually the people settle down, looking over occasionally in case they’re missing something - in case he’s started glowing, or juggling or something. The woman in front of me doesn’t sit down at all. She stays up on her knees, gazing intently at Thay the entire time.

After 10 or 15 minutes we’re on the move again. Two children take Thay’s hands, the rest move around him, and we walk back to New Hamlet. He walks up the steps of the belltower and turns to the long line of people. We wait. He bows deeply to us. We bow to him. We wait. He pauses for a moment, then gives a little wave. I imagine subtitles for him: Seriously folks - we are done here. Please disperse. No-one moves. He smiles again, then turns and walks away from us.

“Did you see?” says a voice to my right, “He came around the tree the other way -- I got really close!!”

Of the visitors, the children are the ones who treat Thay normally - they’re not in awe of him, and they’re not nervous around him. He’s like a favourite teacher, but they’re still kids: they get bored and a bit restless. And they’re always happy to run off and play in the sunshine.

We're having a Festival for Peace tonight - part of it is to mark the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings (their anniversaries are on 6th and 9th August). Each of the hamlets are having their own festival, so Thay won't be joining us. Which bizarrely, will mean that we're more mindful.

And that's a shame.

Plum Monday

2007-08-20T16:04:00.000+01:00

We handled this morning's dharma talk better. Sitting outside in the fresh air helped (the hall is packed out), but we've caught up on sleep, and we're getting used to sitting, observing 'noble silence' at certain times, pausing when the bell rings. In fact, we pause whenever we hear a clangy sound - sometimes it's just someone dropping a big ladle. Then we giggle.

Thay's talk is brilliant: he moves effortlessly from buddhist tales to Jean Paul Sartre to neuroscience. "Can you believe he's 81?", someone murmurs.

Afterwards, they have Q&A in Vietnamese. There are a bunch of difficulties for our English translator (equipment acting up, remembering to speak in English and not French or Vietnamese). When it's over, I watch him stand up with relief - I am the only one in the English section - everyone else has left during the session. "That was the worst job ever", says the Vietnamese monk. We laugh.

The day is really enjoyable. Walking meditation feels easier. The fear of hunger has lifted. In the afternoon, we walk around the vineyards and orchards, and even fit in a nap (or two). In the meditation hall we do an exercise called 'total relaxation'. Pretty much everyone falls asleep.

Stalls of Vietnamese treaty things appear at random intervals: spring rolls and dumplings and pastries shaped like lotus flowers. The Potwashers are getting on brilliantly. After dinner we wash our own plates, then take care of the giant pots. I'm stacking the last of the plates in the dining hall. "The plates will be taken to be sanitized", someone tells me."In the dishwasher."

There's a dishwasher???

Plum Sunday

2007-08-19T15:02:00.000+01:00

We’re supposed to wake at 5.30am. In Full Moon, someone’s alarm goes off an hour early – "So sorry", she whispers, "I am in the Breakfast Family".

I dress and go outside into the darkness. Someone is singing. By moonlight, I follow the sound – it’s coming from the belltower. A nun is standing by the enormous bell, singing and ringing in the first glimpses of light. I stay with her until she finishes. Then we make our way to the meditation hall, lit by candles. A voice murmurs in the darkness. I sit and follow her voice. When the session is over, I open my eyes and see that dawn has arrived.

Last night we joined our ‘families’ – I’m in the Fragrant Breath Family. It’s also known as the Pot Washers. Being assigned to the gardening/flower-picking family would have been my first preference, but I was just glad I wasn’t on Toilet duty. The Pot Washers is a catch-all group of about 20 people. We’re mostly American, English, French, Scottish, Swedish and Irish (5 people!) – we live in Prague, Laos, New York, Cambridge, Madeira…

Everyone in Plum Village washes up after themselves, but we’ll take care of the big pots. I’m on the breakfast/dinner shift, which means I get the whole afternoon to myself. Naptime.

After breakfast we go to Upper Hamlet, to hear Thay speak. Having read his books for years, it's a thrill to see him in real life. The children sit closest to him. He talks about monsters – the real monsters, like despair and anger. Every day, 35 children in France die because of these monsters. He talks about grief and love and suicide and impermanence. After an hour, he lets the children go outside and play in the sunshine. He is a wonderful speaker, and his talk is funny, insightful, thought-provoking. But we’re new to this. We’re exhausted; we’ve been a day without coffee or alcohol - headaches abound. He runs over time. We’re fading fast. Across the room, heads droop and jerk awake. His talk lasts nearly three hours.

The schedule is tweaked to catch up: we’ll do walking meditation to a nearby temple and have a picnic there. Walking meditation is slow. Really slow. About the speed of shopper’s shuffle, that most exhausting of paces. And we’re all starving now.

Last night the bookstore opened up after dinner. I noticed a crowd milling around, imagined everyone eager to buy Thay’s teachings, posters, bookmarks.
It turns out the bookshop sells Magnum ice creams.

I walk along, worrying about food. The bookshop also sells chocolate biscuits. Maybe I’ll get some, to have something nibble-able in silent emergencies.

We get to the temple and have our picnic. Back in the Lower Hamlet, I sleep all afternoon. When I wander outside, it's dinner time.

I meet a fellow Potwasher and we join the queue, scrutinising the pots and baking trays - checking how much work lies ahead of us. Dinner is eaten in family groups – the Potwashers eat by the Lotus Pond. As we head down, I realise I'm humming Amy Winehouse "They tried to make me go to Rehab but I said no, no, no...". It's been stuck in my head for a day now. We're just tucking in when a third arrives. "No eating yet," she explains with kindness. "We wait until the whole family is here." The two of us nod. We swallow self-consciously.

Later that evening, we meet for a family discussion about Thay’s talk this morning. I’m interested to see how it will work – he hit all the main pressure points: love, parents, death, children, infidelity, paralysing sorrow.

People speak slowly and thoughtfully about the subjects. They share eloquently, profoundly. I feel privileged. It’s an extraordinary evening.

I came here thinking that the week would revolve around Thay – that he would be the person I learned from. I am very surprised, and very pleased.

Plum Tales

2007-08-18T09:47:00.000+01:00

Alright, let's presume that I spend the next week engrossed in revising Cured with Death. Every day, that's what I'll be doing. Okay, I may do a teeny bit of snorkelling, but apart from that, it's editing all the way. Which makes this an ideal time to share my week at Plum Village.

The Saturday

The train from Bordeaux is packed - with Plum Village folk, as it turns out. We're an eclectic bunch, coming from all over the world. For many (like me) it's their first visit; others look like old-timers. The man sitting opposite me was referred by his yoga instructor. Another is coming because he read an interview with Thich Nhat Hanh in National Geographic. Someone else was at the Neuroscience Retreat held in Plum Village last year. That's right, neuroscience.

I've been wanting to come here for years. Thich Nhat Hanh (pronounced Tick Nought Han - but he's called Thay, mostly pronounced Thai) is like the Dalai Lama of Vietnamese Buddhism. During the Vietnam War he travelled to America to raise awareness about the devastation being caused. Martin Luther King nominated him for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1967. When the war was ended and Thay tried to go home, the government refused him entry. It was 39 years before he was allowed to set foot inside Vietnam.

In exile, he set up a monastic community east of Bordeaux, called Plum Village. There Thay spends his days writing and offering teachings on peace activism, mindful living and buddhism. He's also a poet. And a Zen Master. And he likes to garden as well.

Saturday is arrival/departure day. There are about 1300 people checking in and out across four hamlets. The nuns in my hamlet look entirely unphased.

I’ll be staying in the Full Moon room, sharing with four other people. Over my bed hangs a piece of calligraphy: The ceaseless sweep of time is forever renewing the face of eternity. I don’t know what it means, but it’s beautifully drawn, and I smile when I see it.

Orientation isn’t until 8pm. I wander outside into the sunshine. By my house, two people stand opposite each other, holding long Little John poles. They raise them, sweeping to the side and gracefully stretch alongside them. Tents are set up in the fields around - families with children of all ages are playing games, reading, sunbathing, napping.

Several hundred people are dotted across the hamlet. Some are dressed like children’s TV presenters. Others are wearing what they imagined people on Buddhists retreats wear (Birkenstocks, long Indian skirts, cut-off tops, hand-dyed pashminas). But most people just look normal. Everyone's chatting, laughing, recounting. It’s more animated than I expected. Not monastic at all.

I wander over to a lotus pond and walk along the edge of a large plum orchard – I don’t want to stray too far. I’m starving. Fear of missing lunch is strong in me.

A bell rings, and people move slowly towards a building. I follow, trying not to look desperate. Inside the Dining Hall, we queue up before an array of delicious-smelling Vietnamese dishes. I’m doling out noodles when a clock chimes, and everyone freezes. I halt in mid-noodle-scoop. I remember one of Thay’s books: it talks about how the sound of a bell calls us back to the present moment. It's an opportunity to breathe, to realise that you're alive. But my brain doesn't do that. Instead an image of my sister pops into my head. She's driving me to the airport. She's singing with gusto a 'musical statues' song by Jo Jo the Clown: “Wiggle… wiggle… statues!”

I make a mental note to lynch her when next we meet.

People start moving again and I pile my plate high - for fear that dinner is really ‘supper’, which barely counts as food. I try to chew my food 40 times. That’s what Thay does. After 9 chews my mouth is empty. I take a bigger mouthful to see if that lasts longer. 12 chews. By the end of the meal I make it to 30.

I find a schedule for the week ahead. Thay will give 3 talks, 2 of them in English (the community speaks French, English and Vietnamese). On Tuesday we’ll have the Festival of Peace. The schedule mentions ‘Dinner with family’. I ponder this, then see a note for the ‘Pot Washing-Up Family’.

At dinner (which is full-sized), two French ladies sit with me. I asked if they’d had a nice day. They shrug, “Okay. We’re waiting for tomorrow”.

Bear in mind: this place is all about living in the present moment. Spending a day here waiting for tomorrow… well it’s kind of missing the point.

A lifetime of moments

2007-08-17T12:04:00.000+01:00

"You get what anyone gets - you get a lifetime."

So this all started with a birthday present - an iPod. The (Neil Gaiman) quote was what Sean & Shona had engraved on it. I was blown away by the quote (as Shona said - they could have just written it on a post-it for my birthday and I'd have been as happy). Anyhoo, it was mentioned often during the week, and played on my mind.

Then off I went to Plum Village, the monastic community led by Thich Nhat Hanh. His big teaching is about living 'mindfully' in the present moment; being aware of what you're doing, or at the very least noticing that you're alive and breathing. I bought a piece of calligraphy by him, which is simple in that profound way of Zen folk (and vice versa).

"This is it."

The present moment is what you get. This moment is all you have, and this is the only place where you can touch joy. So enjoy.

I love the telescoping symmetry of that week.

** Photos especially for Maggie, who asked :)

You say carottes, I say cenouras...

2007-08-16T17:32:00.000+01:00

I think my brain's foreign language section can only give easy access to one language at a time. My first few days in France I kept starting sentences in Portuguese, and here I'm doing the reverse. Today I stared at the salad counter in the local take-away, totally unable to remember the Portuguese for carrots.

Luckily, going to the framing shop (I had bought a piece of calligraphy at Plum Village) does not require much eloquence; basic pointing skills are all you need. The nice Framing Shop Lady consulted a zillion price lists, but this time I wasn't worried. She totted it up, then gave me a 15% reduction for no particular reason (unless I'm now a regular customer since I shopped there - you know - that one time). She phoned me a couple of hours later to let me know it was ready. When I went to pay, I was charged even less...

It's been a quiet, settling-back-down-to-work kind of day. Weather is lovely - just the type of evening for a big bowl of home-made salsa and a V&T. I am soooo easily pleased.

Talk about smooth landings

2007-08-15T12:05:00.000+01:00

Landing in Madeira is a little tricky, and can be a good laugh.

Sometimes planes fly past the airport so that everyone gets to view the little runway balancing on the coast edge. It appears smaller than other runways, and it ends in the sea - there's no buffer zone here. Once the passengers have reached the optimum level of anxiety and anticipation, the plane swings round at a 60-degree angle and heads in.

Last night the flight was packed with first-time holiday folk. The kids screamed like they were on a rollercoaster. When we touched down (safely) everyone whooped and cheered, drowning out the "please keep your safety belts on" announcement. The passengers were still wired when they arrived in passport control.

Landlady and Landlord met me at the airport, and we babbled away for the journey, catching up on news. (By the way, she says 'hi' to... well, everyone). Back in the apartment I looked around. Something wasn't quite right...

It was clean.

Spanky clean.

Now, I'd left it in a reasonable state, but it had that just-cleaned look about it. The bathroom gleamed, the whole place was dust-free and lemony fresh. Yes, Landlady had been cleaning. Broom and swiffer were reorganised, the kitchen scrubbies and cloths neatly folded, she had even plumped up the pillows on my bed...

I know there may be folk out there who would see this as an infringement. Not me, no sireee. I say: God bless her obsessive-compulsive disorder!