The big trill

There's some type of little bird here that chirps and trills endlessly. It's like having twenty miniature R2D2s darting from palm tree to palm tree. And with that many R2D2s, you really miss having a smooth-talking C3PO to cut through the gibberish.

They quieten down about this time of evening, but the weird thing is they start up around 5am, way before the first light of dawn. The other birds, they stay snuggled down until the sun appears. Not our little R2bleedin'D2s. They're the caffeine-fuelled, get-up-and-go kind of birds. Chirpy chirp chirp trill.

In other news, my mobile died, and I had an interesting few moments with its replacement, as the operating system and all the instructions were in Portuguese. Higher powers guided me to >Settings >Language >Set Language. Praise!

Stony inhabitants

With the Super Heat come the lizards. I mean, they're always around, but they're more noticeable at this time of year. You see ten or fifteen laying out on the pavement, then they scurry into crevices when you get close.

But if you're standing by a wall at an (almost imaginary) bus stop, the wall slowly fills up with lizards. Some stretch lengthways in the sun, others poke out their heads, the cutest ones lift up their little alien hands in a stick-em-up position.

If someone else comes along they all scurry at once, and you get a sense of writhing movement, which is weird.

And their name? Well, I'm reliably informed that they're called the Madeiran Wall Lizard. Named by someone with a lofty poetic sensibility, I'm sure...

Burnt Offerings

The other morning the Flat Space was pretty quiet - just Big Smiling Man and Territorial Guy and the lean German dog-walker who calls across 'Hello Ireland!' when he sees me.

A little car pulled up, and a little old man got out slowly. He was in fawn and green, and hunched over. I had seen him a couple of times before: making his way up to the Cristo Rei statue slowly and painfully, one careful step at a time. Somewhere along the way he came to be called Turtle Man.

Anyhoo, my pad-padding around that morning coincided with him getting out of the car. We said good morning, and I saw that he held a night light cupped in the palm of his hand. The atmosphere was suddenly transformed. The rest of us were loitering as guards or jogging or striding along with a dog, but his purpose was somehow sacred.

He set off on the steep path, slowly picking his way between pizza boxes and condoms, holding his candle before him.

Blustery day

Stormy howling winds all day - the shutters are locked down, the building is creaking, and broadband has pretty much died. Before I tuck into pizza and red wine, I' ll just try to heave these few words onto the blog... again!

Have a lovely weekend :)

Surf's up

I am fascinated by the CouchSurfing phenomenon.

In case you haven't come across it, it's a web-based project which allows travellers to network, enrich their lives, expand their horizons (and to stay in someone's home for free). Say you plan to meander through Italy for a week: you check out the registered couchsurfers in various towns, email them to see if they can let you crash on their couch for a night or two, and schedule your trip accordingly. You get to meet a friendly local, and although you don't pay them anything, you try to do something nice for them in return: cook dinner, fix a leaky tap, whatever...

I know, it sounds like it's just waiting for the serial killers to sign up and ruin everything, but it seems to be working. Over a quarter of a million people have signed up so far.

Their mission statement is:

Participate in Creating a Better World, One Couch at a Time

CouchSurfing seeks to internationally network people and places, create educational exchanges, raise collective consciousness, spread tolerance and facilitate cultural understanding.

CouchSurfing is not about the furniture, not just about finding free accommodations around the world; it's about making connections worldwide. We make the world a better place by opening our homes, our hearts, and our lives. We open our minds and welcome the knowledge that cultural exchange makes available. We create deep and meaningful connections that cross oceans, continents and cultures. CouchSurfing wants to change not only the way we travel, but how we relate to the world!

I presume if they have a spare room you could stay there instead. It seems pedantic to make someone sleep on a couch.

One kooky canine

I took Landlady for coffee. She's feeling pretty good today, as it turns out. Her dog, however, is a different story.

She has a dog called something like Koh-koo (in my mind it oscillates between Kooky and Cuckoo - either works just fine). Anyhoo, Cuckoo's been a bit highly strung of late. "She's... what's the word? Very very cray-zee."

That comes as a shock, I'm sure.

The doctor-for-animals was called to the house (Cuckoo doesn't like going to the doctor's - she catches a glimpse of a white coat and frantically tries to hide, so these days the vet comes to her instead). The vet looked her over, assessed her behaviour patterns, commented that the dog appeared to be very spoiled.

Cuckoo's been started on valium.

More tales from the flat space

Now that the Super Heat has arrived, I've been jogging in the evening. The Flat Space is a whole different world then, with different visitors (guys using the space to lay out parachutes and fold them neatly). The security guards even wear a different uniform (the AM uniform is like an old theatre usher - all maroon and buttons).

Anyhoo, yesterday I was pad-padding around (Scented Man was on duty) and noticed that two guys had brought a dog to train. The actual dog from The Omen. I'm just sure of it. Trainer #1 is about 17 stone, and when the dog lunges for me it takes all of his strength to heave the chain back.

So I pad-pad around again, and cautiously approach the end of the Flat Space, where they're working. The dog is now in the care of Trainer #2, a slight man. He has the dog lying down in the car park, watching me approach, and he warns "No... no..."

You know when you're training a dog and you put a treat in front of them but don't let them touch it. And they're salivating and quivering, and you say "No... No... No... Okay take it". It was exactly that kind of moment.

I did my twenty laps with extreme caution, trying not to look treaty.

Anyone? Anyone?

Aaah, there's nothing like getting acquainted with the A&E système of another country.

A friend had to go in to hospital (suddenly) for a test. We found the A&E entrance (the doors with the big 'no persons allowed' signs on it), registered, got a bar-code sticker each, and waited. After 2 doctors had seen her she was travelling on to other floors - I wasn't allowed to wait with her.

So I headed back to where we started. A guard appeared: I can't wait there! He led me out of the building and pointed to the building opposite. Sure enough, there's a waiting room over there, filled with muted tvs and people waiting with vacant expressions. The only signs of life came from the three receptionists, who moved bits of paper around and tapped at keyboards.

In theory, I thought it was a good system: keep the friends/family from clogging up hospital corridors; the medical staff would log updates on their system, which the receptionists would be able to access.

After an hour, no-one had been given any news. I caught a glance of the reception's PCs on the way to the vending machine.

They were playing solitaire.

I interrupted to ask about my friend. They scribbled her name on a piece of paper. A few other people came forward with other names, which were added to the list. The guy then left our building and went across to the hospital.

When he came back he sat behind his desk and announced the private/sensitive details to the entire room. It was the equivalent of: "Kelly? Yeah he has a problem with his colon; they think it might be cancer. They have to do another test... okay who's next... Bueller?"

I don't know if anyone ever got out of that room. About four hours later, Landlady phoned and bulldozed me into the hospital, saying "Just hand the phone to a doctor". I did. I don't know what she said but they led me straight to my friend and said I could wait with her.

The new waiting area didn't have any tv-zombie people. Instead people were bleeding and being violently ill into plastic bags and moaning in a zombie-like fashion.

By nightfall we got to go home. Remember that wine glass - my going-away present from work? The one that holds an entire bottle of wine...

Did you check the freezer?

I went for coffee with Landlady earlier in the week. In addition to the usual myriad complaints and illnesses, she's now worried for her mental health. She has started taking vitamins for her brain.

The brain-vitamin decision came about like this:

She unpacked shopping the other day (in one of her two kitchens, the one they use for frying, but they don't fry anymore because they're much healthier, they - what's the word for it? Grill? Grill. Anyway...) and she neatly organised all the freezer stuff - meat and ice cream and vegetables - so they were all lined up in rows (obsessive compulsive disorder). Days pass, and she can't find the laundry detergent. She blamed her mother, figuring that she had put it somewhere strange, that she was probably going senile.

Then Landlady went to get something out of the freezer. Lo and behold, there was the box of detergent, neatly lined up with everything else. Time for brain vitamins.

Last night she called for me out of the darkness below the terrace. She came up in a beleaguered state, and we talked for a bit (while I swigged wine). I offered her a glass, but she said she had already taken four pills and they would kick in soon.

I find her loopy in a very endearing way :)

For those who are about to start a bank holiday weekend, enjoy!

Cash potatoes

I came across this while looking for a photo of crisps the other day.


I wonder was it the yogurt maker of its day...

Title revealed

I finally realised that the novel is called Cured with Death, of course. Duh! How did I not see that before now...

There's a graphic novel I haven't even started writing yet, and I know for sure that it's called The Town of Instant Karma. Titles and me, we have an on-off relationship.

The book title is taken from The Duchess of Malfi, "black deeds must be cured with death".

Back to work on that now, before coffee with the Codebreakers.

PS: photo of a 5-week old golden eagle hatched in Donegal. These wild birds have been extinct in Ireland since the 1920s, so this is very good news indeed. And just look at his little scrummy tummy!!

Supersize me

From this Thursday, it will be illegal in Ireland to sell cigarettes in packs of fewer than 20. The theory is that is will cut out the teenage market, who mostly buy packs of 10.

Isn't that like trying to get everyone to lose weight by only selling crisps in bumper 175g packets?

The sale of confectioneries that resemble tobacco products will also be banned. I would love to see some research on shapes of sweets eaten as a child affecting adult patterns: surely if there was a correlation, we'd all be eating huge marshmallow flogs and fizz bombs and enormous white mice.

Although now that I think of it, white mice would explain the 'sweet mice' pizza topping.

Off to ponder that one further...

The Summer Plot Thickens

I'll be doing a reading this July when I'm over in Dublin. The news so far...

Short Stories by Irish Women
Irish Writers' Centre, Dublin
Tuesday 17 July, 7.00pm

A Dublin booklaunch for the 2007 Fish anthology, with readings extracted from prize-winning stories. Orlaith (Fish-Knifey winner) will be reading alongside Kathleen Murray (winner of the Fish Prize) and Lane Ashfeldt (winner of the Short Histories Prize).

It's really great to get the opportunity. Yippee!

Tales from the Flat Space

There are three security guards down at the Flat Space. Each makes a unique contribution to the menagerie of people and animals gathered there on any given morning.

One (Territorial Guy) assumes a soldierly stance, arms folded, one foot planted on the running-around-path that I jog along. The second (Scented Man) ducks into his car to splash on the strongest cologne I have ever experienced. I mean, we're outdoors on a blustery day, and I'm still overwhelmed when I reach the space downwind of him. It's actually easier to breathe when he stands on the path smoking.

The third (Big Smiling Man) is the happiest cheerleader ever. He greets me every morning, watches the progress of the first few laps. When I pass him by he jogs on the spot, smiling encouragingly. And when I finish he raises his fists with two thumbs up.

A bizarre coterie.

In other news, you can now get blog entries emailed direct instead of hiking all the way over here. Sign up to FeedBlitz in the right-hand column and you'll receive updates overnight. The result looks something like this...

Beyond the pale

Yep, it's one of those days here where you just can't see the world beyond the white.

Curled up with laptop, typey-scribbling. The writing is going well, despite me wandering off on a tangent of old crime.

You can now read online the trial records of the Old Bailey 1674-1834. You can search the cases by crime (e.g. seducing from allegiance; keeping a brothel; assault with sodomitical intent), verdict & punishment (death: drawn and quartered; branding; pillory). Some of them are fascinating, like this one: lady suspects maid of theft, straps her to bedpost and tortures her to death. The jury issues a death sentence, lady reveals that she's pregnant, sentence is respited. It makes Moll Flanders seem tame.

Time to put on another pot of coffee. Have a good weekend :)

Operation: Walker

I was sent on a mission to get a walker.

It turns out there's a mini-physiotherapy/mobility-gear district in Funchal. The shop I was looking for was long and narrow, and empty except for the saleswoman, who was at the back of the shop on the phone. I smiled, pottered around, waited. For about seven minutes. Then she punched numbers on the phone, and transferred the call to the desk at the front of the shop.

So I loiter, play with the walking canes and crutches, look through catalogues of mobility equipment. By now there are another two people in the shop, waiting. Then saleswoman No.2 appears - No.1 asks her to help me (as she is striding back to the other end of the shop, where she's transferred the call again). No.2 goes to the cash desk at the front of the shop. No.1's call ends, and her phone rings instantly. She looks at the three shoppers, and answers the phone. By the time I turn around, No.2 is also on the phone.

So, I figure out that the walker department is downstairs, and go searching. By the time No.2 finds me there I've chosen a walker. She apologises for the delay, and is about to pick the walker up when her mobile rings. She wanders off, chatting. I bring the walker upstairs, find the price, get the cash ready. I'm close now, I can feel it. No.2 reappears, apologises for the delay, and goes to ring up the sale. She's keyed in two of the four digits when - you guessed it - the mobile goes. She steps away from the cash desk so she can talk and gesture extravagantly without impediment.

This is a shop whose purpose is to make life easier.

Anyhoo, I got out of there eventually. No-one's revamped the world of walkers yet - they're pretty much all grey. I found one with black leather trim, which we've dubbed The Batwalker.

The magic giving bowl

This morning I made some chocolate-chip muffins for the Codebreakers. And lo and behold, the bowl has reappeared, filled with chocolates and treaty things for me.

It's obviously one of those 'energy laws of the universe'.

The resonance of grief

I often think people are at their most unique when they grieve. It's a time when cracks appear in the social training, and the pain spills out (or not) - you can really get a sense of the individual.

Some of my friends had children who died. Each carries the loss in a unique way. Some are cautious about mentioning it, knowing that for anyone who hasn't been through it, mentioning the death of a child will just stop you in your tracks, leaving you clueless as to what you should possibly say. Others are remarkably open: when asked how many kids they have they say "Five. Four are with us, one's up in heaven", or "I had two. One was killed last year". They get the whole gamut of reactions, from people brushing over the subject to those who want to make it all better. And whatever the knee-jerk response - to ignore, to 'fix', to resolve, to pacify - something in turn is revealed about that person.

It becomes a 'window onto the soul' moment for both.

Beyond belief

An unbelievable story from Texas.

I've been trying to imagine someone lifting up a two-month-old baby, resting her inside a microwave, shutting the door and setting the timer for 20 seconds. Do you do something like that in a daze? Are you aware as you close your daughter inside a microwave? Are you feeling anything? It's unfathomable.

I've got to say, the "Satan told me to do it" line is overused these days.

Biscuits of the doggy kind

There's a dog on the way down to the Field of Dreams Flat Space - he's not one of the usual enormous killer dogs that fling themselves at gates as you walk by. He is enormous, but he's doleful. He's the saddest looking-dog ever. He lies curled up on a patch of dusty ground and looks through the fence at the outside world, where there's freedom to play.

As I was passing by I thought, maybe I'll treat him to some dog biscuits. My mind spiralled, and I pictured me in a supermarket queue internally chanting, "Don't eat the biscuits don't eat the biscuits". For I treasure Jonathan Carroll's blog, you see...

CarrollBlog 4.21
Waiting on line at the checkout counter, the woman in front of me is holding only a very large colorful box of dog biscuits. The man in front of her is buying many things. So it takes a while for the cashier to add up the cost of his purchases. In the meantime, the woman opens up the box of biscuits and starts to eat them. She doesn't take out one, nibble a corner to see what a dog biscuit tastes like, and then put the rest back into the box. No, she takes out a handful and eats them as if they were potato chips, one after the other. The biscuits are about mid size and she eats three very quickly. I smile at first but then stop smiling when she sticks her hand back in the box, takes out more, and eats these too. She moves forward in the line. Handing the open box to the cashier, she puts the last biscuit she's holding in her mouth and chews. From the bored look in her eye, the cashier seems unaware that this customer is eating the dog biscuits she's buying. For one second I think I've imagined the whole thing. Maybe I'm going nuts! Turning to the man behind me, I see him smiling. He raises his eyebrows and says quietly "Woof woof."

I haven't dared to go shopping. It would just end up with someone blogging about the crazy lady guffawing as she bought dog biscuits.

PS - for the long-overdue revamped website, see here.

Stops and starts

Madeiran buses are so humane.

We've already covered imaginary bus stops, which take the pressure off getting to a real stop if you see the bus hurtling down the road.

However, the very best thing about buses here is their pulling-away practice. This morning a little old lady got on the bus, and she had real trouble walking. The driver watched her in the mirror, waited until she had made her way to the back of the bus to find a seat. Only then did he pull away (and drive around corkscrew bends at high speed). So humane. And that's the normal practice - not just for the elderly and infirm.

You can always spot tourists because after the 'next stop please' button has been pressed, they cling to the poles by the doors, hoping the driver slows down enough for them to be able to fling themselves off. Madeirans, they stay seated until the bus comes to a full stop.

So very civilised.

I want this to go smooth and by the numbers...

Getting the summer plans sorted means that I now have a strict deadline(1) for finishing the book: 3 July.

My sunshiney nap this afternoon was scheduled. Yep, that's how organised I've become.

I see that the sands of my blog-time are just running out, so must dash on to the next thing on the list: pre-dinner drink.

Excellent.
----------
(1) strict means that I have a little bit of research to do in Dublin, for fine-tuning, but that's it.

Focus on travel

I've almost sorted out my plans for the summer. If all goes well, I'll be in West Cork (picking up the Fish Knife award), Dublin, London and Devon.

I also get to nip over to France, where I'll spend a week in, er, a monastery.

A zen buddhist monastery.

Where there's no alcohol at all.

I get jittery thinking about that.

Anyhoo, following will be four days of wine-guzzling somewhere around Bordeaux. Heaven :)

Off to book some more train tickets and have a sunshiney nap. Busy busy...

Tangent Travel

I wonder what the word is for 'scribbling but using a keyboard not a pen'. Someone should probably invent that.

Anyhoo, that's what I'm doing. I'm typey-scribbling away, with tangential trips online to read about nineteenth-century fevers (relapsing, enteric - lots of fun symptoms there), eighteenth-century dresses (they were just heavy. Very very heavy) and the history of rabies (goes all the way back to the year Dot, but Captain Clever Louis Pasteur came up with a vaccine. Typical).

And speaking of tangents, this little guy swam off on a 3000-mile one...

Googlefear

In case anyone is worrying that Google might be cooking up plans for world domination...

Fancy feathers

Thanks to Sara for sending over this photo: white peacocks strutting their stuff at the Botanical Gardens here.

Al Pacino spoke at Trinity College a few months back, and part of the interview was broadcast. He recited - quite beautifully - this speech from Oscar Wilde's Salome. Salome has demanded the head of John the Baptist, and Herod is trying to wriggle out of his promise...

Salome, thou knowest my white peacocks, my beautiful white peacocks, that walk in the garden between the myrtles and the tall cypress-trees. Their beaks are gilded with gold and the grains that they eat are smeared with gold, and their feet are stained with purple. When they cry out the rain comes, and the moon shows herself in the heavens when they spread their tails.

Two by two they walk between the cypress-trees and the black myrtles, and each has a slave to tend it. Sometimes they fly across the trees, and anon they couch in the grass, and round the pools of the water. There are not in all the world birds so wonderful.

I know that Caesar himself has no birds so fair as my birds.

I will give thee fifty of my peacocks.

They will follow thee whithersoever thou goest, and in the midst of them thou wilt be like unto the moon in the midst of a great white cloud . . .

I will give them to thee, all.

I have but a hundred, and in the whole world there is no king who has peacocks like unto my peacocks.

But I will give them all to thee.

Only thou must loose me from my oath, and must not ask of me that which thy lips have asked of me.

Quite doomed.

Cloud fields

Today is even cloudier. I was down at the Field of Dreams flat space this morning, and the whole sea was covered in banks of white fluffy cloud. The usual suspects were hanging out there; it's a friendly atmosphere - we may start a bowling team or something...

Anyhoo, the writing is going well, so I'm getting stuck back in to that now. I have an episode of House downloaded, and have resolved not to watch it until this evening. That's right, my will is adamantine.

Upside-down weather

It's a little cloudy today, but the sunshine is unaffected since the clouds are er... rolling along the sea rather than floating up in the sky.

A bizarre sight to see.

If you build it, they will come

Back to the subject of the new beach: the other cool thing about the development is that because it needed a car park, we now have a local flat space.

I realise that may not sound like a big deal. It really is. I stood looking at the smallish car park, with its little pavement along its perimeter, and immediately wanted to walk around it. I don't get many opportunities to walk quickly here - going downhill trashes your knees, uphill is reserved for wheezing, but here was flat space. Practically an expanse, except, you know, littler.

So I walked around it (at Malahide walking speed, for those from Malahide). Several times. Then the following morning I went back and jogged around it. Heaven. Already the news of the flat space is spreading: this morning there were people walking their dogs around it, enjoying the horizontalness of it all.

Sniffly Spidey

I went to see Spidey 3 today (6 other people in the cinema). Oh dear, the cast of Schindler's List cried less. Even the closing credits had Snow Patrol singing some tearful number. There's only so much footage of huge watery eyes that you can take (I'm sure we all remember the hobbits climbing up that bleedin' mountain in the last LOTR; hour after hour of Elijah Wood's big blinkey teary eyes). The special effects were great, as was the camera-work, but the film was poorly-executed. Shame.

And here's a photo for Sara, who may be missing the flowers of the island...

Snorkelling season open

When I moved here last year there was loads of building work going on around Cristo Rei - a new beach was being created. Building anything here is a big deal, but particularly a beach: blast away part of the cliff, pour out some concrete plateaux, get a load of stones to make a pebble beach (no sand on Madeira), deck some areas, build some buildings (which will need water and electricity), oh and build a road to get there in the first place.

It's finally open! Well, kind of open: there's nothing inside any of the buildings yet, but the beach and the sea are there. And there is a cool cable car that makes a super-steep descent down from Cristo Rei to the beach.

I went down there yesterday, which was my first time in the sea since New Year's Eve (when there was, er, an incident involving an unobserved red flag. Anyhoo the point is everybody got out alright). The new beach is in the middle of the protected sea reserve, so there's plenty of stuff to see. There were no dolphins around yesterday, but a big boat has just breezed past my place with dolphins jumping in its wake. It crossed my mind to rush down and get snorkelling, but this key lime cocktail juice is so cooling...

Tales from Orvis

[Blog road trip: back to Devon. Orvis is an olde worlde shop in Exeter that sells waders and stretch tweed shooting jackets and squeaky dog toys that look like mallards. You know, the basic essentials. The other Saturday night, Jenny wrote...]

So am at home today with a bad throat, the kind that feels like I’m trying to swallow razor blades. Watched Midsomer Murders this afternoon as my attempt at culture.

Unfortunately, my being ill meant that I was unable to help Andy out with the first Orvis Open Day of 2007. We were both a bit gutted; him because he’d been relying on me to meet and greet folk, and for my part, because I always find it such a lovely and relaxing place to work – the building is very old and the shop has a lovely feel to it, and also the customers are all so ‘kooky’! Usually these open days consist of cheese, wine and nibbles, but this one was whiskey tasting, so Andy brought home a full bottle of The Balvenie Doublewood, a life saver for me in my current weakened state…

But on to some classic tales about the kooky customers:

Beans
Lady walks into the shop and announces in an extremely loud voice “I bought a new skirt in here last week! I’ve spilt baked beans down it, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it!”

Boots
Lady customer asks to see the Orvis collection of walking boots. Andy explains that they don’t sell walking boots, and the conversation proceeds thus;
“We don’t sell walking boots madam.”
“Why not?”
“We sell clothing and accessories for fishing and hunting madam, we don’t sell walking boots”.
“You sell walking sticks don’t you, why don’t you sell walking boots?”
“If you require walking boots madam I would suggest you try Blacks, or Taunton Leisure.”
“Well you should sell walking boots!”
“Well I’m afraid we don’t madam.”
“Well why not?”
Needless to say, this continues in much the same vein until Andy loses patience and tells her to leave.

Barmy
At the Orvis Celebration Day last year the first 20 customers were presented with a ‘goody bag’, which contained among other items a free watch. One Orvis customer - let’s call him Major Barmy - was one of the lucky customers who won. After being in possession of said watch for a year, and which had now sadly stopped working, Major Barmy demanded free repair, free replacement or a full refund… can you believe it?

The Raw Sewage Story
A most unfortunate incident occurred during one Friday night of last year, which consisted of a flood of raw sewerage into the basement of the shop. I arrived that Saturday afternoon just in time to see the council shit wagon parked outside, and the driver feeding the pipes through the shop down into the basement to extract said fragrant fluids, and an exasperated Andy who had just had cause to practically forcibly remove a lady customer from the shop.
She came in, despite the fact that 1) large notices were displayed outside to explain the reason the shop was closed, 2) the lights were off, 3) a standing ‘closed’ sign was placed right in the shop doorway (the woman had moved the sign so that she could walk into the shop), 4) there was a large Exeter City Council shit lorry parked outside, with large shitty pipes leading through the shop. Not to mention the extremely fragrant odour, which had completed bypassed her senses.

However, when challenged she refused to leave, complaining that she couldn’t see the merchandise as the lights were turned off. When Andy explained that the shop was actually closed, due to the fact that the basement had been flooded with sewerage, and that she was contravening Health & Safety rules by treading human excrement across the carpet, she exclaimed loudly that this was “typical of Orvis, never considering its customers” by which time he lost all reason and told her in no uncertain terms to get out.

[Brilliant Jen! So many of Andy's stories end with him turfing out the customers, I'm surprised Orvis has any left! Thank you SO much for the glimpse of Devon :) ]

All in the mind

This morning I was thinking "must nip over to Canico and pay that electricity bill" when Landlady appeared. We caught up (on ailments, stresses) for a bit, then she said they were off to pay their electricity bill - would I like them to pay my bill as well.

So I've been sitting here thinking "must go and get a salad, and perhaps some vinho verde". It's been ten minutes now and nothing.

I'm getting hungry.

How does Devon make it so creamy?

[Blog Road Trip time: we're off to Devon, to see what Jenny's up to]

I’m alternating work between Topsham and Bovey Tracey markets on Saturday mornings. I enjoy going to Bovey Tracey as I do this on my own, and only sell cheese.

The customers are the funniest.

I smile and nod when faced with the sweet old dear who says, “Ooh yes my dear, I comes all the way from Exmouth, there’s nothin’ like your pasties you know, ooh yes…”

Folks come in and buy the butter because it’s labelled Farmhouse Butter, and it’s “the best we’ve ever tasted”. It’s the same with the eggs. “Are they free-range?” No (apparently you can’t get free-range at the moment because all the hens have to be kept indoors due to the threat of bird flu) but they’re eggs from barn hens. It’s amazing how many people have a problem with this…

Then some smart-alec points out the small paragraph on the side of the box which states ‘Eggs from caged birds’.

The pies originate from varying locations around Devon or Cornwall. It just gets a bit tricky when folk start asking the really awkward questions like, “What’s in the pie?” One of our regular customers, a lovely lady (luckily) who had purchased a supposedly chicken and ham pie, informed us that when they cut it up for dinner it contained beef. Oh well… life is strange.

[Thanks hon - mystery pies? Let it be said that the cheese from your stall is the best ever. More Devon Tales from Jenny later this week.]

In the name of the Father

Among last week's photos is this tiled panel from Monte Palace gardens.

We figured it was supposed to represent the Annunciation, but it's the most suggestive rendering ever.



If Mary wasn't pregnant before that angel appeared, she certainly was after...

Music to our ears

Well, for Sara's last day we decided on a levada walk. We started at Camacha - the land of wicker. Apart from a zillion baskety-type things, they also have a selection of animals and, er, a rather large boat (upper right photo).

When we were all wickered out, we set off. Lovely countryside, pretty flowers, easy levada walk. Until the levada disappeared. We retraced our steps oh, two or three times and kept coming back to the same abandoned creepy house in the forest. Very Blair Witchy.

And so we took to the roads and began heading down the mountain. We found a few levadas along the way, met some locals and more dogs (Sara's dulcid tones can soothe the most rabid hound), and walked down a steep travessa to find ourselves in a lettuce field, having to heave ourselves back up the hill. Three hours passed.

And then we heard it: the strain of music.

Music celebrating onions.

We made it to Canico for the big prizegiving ceremony: young dance groups were entertaining the crowds, the bars were heaving, and yet more onions had appeared overnight.

Beer and Bolo de Caco has never been so welcome. All praise the onion!

Onion Festival

The Feast of the Onion is here!!

Well the little town of Canico is heaving with all things oniony. Here's a little flavour...

Things have been busy busy. Two of the laydees go home tomorrow, so we're out on the town tonight. With my mom's advice ringing in my ears - "Don't give it out cheap" - what could possibly go wrong?

Low visibility

Just about to go and lounge by a pool; if cocktails should appear then so be it.

I think Sara will post at some point. Until then, let me say that we did an eight-hour tour yesterday and saw loads of the island. It was stunning weather on the south coast; rainy and cloudy on the north.

The bit that I was all excited about was the plateau in the mid-west of the island. This is what we saw...

Flora Madeira

In between key lime cocktails and a whole lotta red wine. Busy busy.

In the meanwhile, we got to see the tail end of the flower festival...

Having a ball!

Before we frolic in Funchal...

Yesterday was a fabulous catch-up day, despite various flights being delayed/rerouted.

Off to Funchal now. And if I should happen upon some glasses that might be appropriate for my new cocktail juice, so be it...

Talk about the perfect present :)

We are go for launch

Surprise visitor morning - Landlady and Mrs C have already been in, bearing duvet cover (another story) and flowers respectively.

I should be meeting up with the expected visitors within an hour or so (one is staying with me; two are staying in a nearby hotel). Everything sees reasonably organised, and I even have muffins made. Heart-shaped muffins :)

Flower Parade Anyone?

It's been a glorious weekend - real vodka & tonic weather.

Just in from a sunshiney nap. The big finale of the flower festival should be on at the moment - a parade with lots of floral floats. Yesterday oodles of kidlets brought a single flower to build a 'wall of hope' in Funchal.

Anyhoo, so I figured I'd catch some footage on Madeiran TV.

They appear to be showing a U2 concert.

Hmmm. The guys seem to be winding up the show now, so I'll wait and see what comes next...

Flower Power

Yes it's Flower Festival time! Madeirans seem to be able to whip up a carpet of semi-tropical flowers at the drop of a hat.

Coming from a place like Dublin, where pot plants are stolen from your front garden, it's amazing to see carpets of unguarded orchids on the streets. Amazing, and very beautiful. Funchal smells gorgeous!

There's only one week to go until The Festival of the Onion...

What sea?

There goes the rest of the known world again...

I've come to like the floaty feeling of days like these. I'm tapping away at the novel, there is ample wine in the vicinity, and I've downloaded a few episodes of House for later.

There's even a tray of apple muffins in the oven. Almost done. Heaven.

Bone-turning

A few months back Mr C described the bone-turning ceremony of the Imerina people in Malagasy. It's been playing around in my mind since.

Basically, once a year the family tomb is opened and the bones of the dead are brought out. Each set of bones is unwrapped from a silk shroud, wrapped in a new shroud, and treated to a day of feasting, singing and drinking. The bones get to catch up on the news of the previous year. If there has been a wedding, the bones are 'introduced' to the new family members; if a new house has been built, the bones are given a tour.

If it's your first year to be bone-turned, the initial part of the day is spent with your relatives picking away your putrid flesh. Then you can catch up with the rest of the dead in their escapades.

There's a really practical interpretation of life as super-transient, and death as a permanent (much better) state. So what if you live in a mud hut wearing raffia clothes, because life will soon be over, and when you're dead you will get to live in a stone house, and wear silk.

The ancestors protect the land, so if someone dies away from home they need to be brought back to 'live' in the family tomb. As a result, you get some kooky lists of taxi fares:

• Journeys up to 2km - 50 francs
• Journeys over 2km - 100 francs
• Weddings, funerals, exhumations - Price to be agreed

At the end of the day of celebration, the bones are taken for a final dance around the land, to bring fertility. Then they're brought back to the darkness to rest for another year. Remarkable.

There's an account of a bone-turning from earlier this year here.

It's cake Jim, but not as know it

You can't get madeira cake on Madeira. That's the short version.

There is a traditional madeiran cake, which is called 'Bolo de Mel' - honey cake.

There's no honey in it. Well, no bee-honey, but it contains sugar-cane 'honey'. The cake isn't golden and light, but dark and heavy. Worst of all, it has nuts in it. Gakkarama.

Other people like it though.

As for what the rest of the world calls madeira cake: they've never heard of it here. Now there's a niche market waiting to be exploited: sell tourists the cake that they expect to find. I can see it now: the madeira cake wars...

Singing like a canary

There are birds that trill around during the day, and I finally figured out what they are.

Canaries. I should have figured.

So, the wild canary is indigenous to the islands in the vicinity: the Azores, Madeira, and you guessed it - the Canary Islands. The birdies are named after the islands, but it turns out the islands are named after dogs. Folks there kept a load of dogs, and the Romans took to calling it canaria - of the dogs.

Lots of people here keep pet canaries out on their terraces. It must be strange, being locked up in a little cage and hearing the wild version of you twittering around. Quite tormenting...

Anne-Flore's Morning

One of my friends is running the Paris Marathon today (along with 34,999 other people that I don't know).

I went to check on the race, and saw that it was won ages ago. They start the marathon at 8.45am - sheesh! I toodled around a map of the course while curled up with coffee and muffins.

My friend is running for Médecins Sans Frontières. Yep, not only is she super-fit, makes the best chocolate cake ever (recipe from French grandmother), but she would spend four hours running for a Nobel-prize-winning charity. Quite a lady.

Well done Anne-Flore! Just amazing.

Time to put on another pot of coffee, and get back to my cryptic crossword. Busy busy...

Friday 13th

Gagging for a glass of wine so will keep this short:

I went to see 300 today. It's difficult to make a classical film without constantly evoking Gladiator or (shudder) Troy or (shudder shudder) Alexander, particularly if you include 1) wheat fields and 2) yer woman from Gladiator. I think they succeeded through omitting 1) the Peter O'Toole/Richard Harris character and 2) Sean Bean.

Anyhoo, I loved it: fabulous cinematography, spectacular story, the best fiery sparks ever, and the end credits are a blood-splattered treat.

And now for wine. I go through phases with (red) wine. At the moment it's one called Periquita, which is scrummy and oaky and whose only disadvantage is that a little Elton John voice in my head sings "Periquita is it cold, in your little corner of the world..."

I see that I haven't managed to keep this short after all. But then I did pour a glass of wine as I was checking the spelling of periquita, so it all evens out.

It's a small world after all

The world just keeps shrinking.

I met a Madeiran woman who said "You're from Ireland? I love Ireland."

Now, when people say this it can mean many things. It certainly does not imply that they've ever visited Ireland, or could find it on a map.

But in this case she had. She'd lived there for twenty years, and used to love going down to Kinsale to stay at Actons and go shark-fishing.

Which I used to do.

Around the same time, as it turned out.

She asked if I was writing about Madeira. I said not really, but that I was curious about George Bernard Shaw learning to tango here. I thought it might make an interesting short story. It turned out she used to live in Shaw's house in Dalkey.

At that point I figured I could have said anything and there'd have been a link.

I should have said 'Armadillo' just to see what happened. Or 'Elvis Costello'. Darn.

The dawn chorus

This morning I was woken by Landlady calling for me from below the terrace. I decided to ignore her (and fought the guilt) and a minute later she was buzzing away on the doorbell. So I gave in, and opened the door to a frantic Landlady with Landlord in tow.

The apartment with the bathroom-sans-one-wall had got water damage because of the building work, and they were worried it would trickle down to mine. So they raced through every room while I stood very still, deciding between Lady Grey or coffee (the latter won).

Then they apologised, a lot.

A sedate haircut

An epic morning.

So, Landlady was raving about her hairdresser, and I mused "I must give her a go next time". I presumed she'd just give me the name & salon, but no. She booked an appointment, and she was taking me personally. Her husband was driving us - heaven forfend we should take a bus. And because her husband was actually busy, we met at 8am outside the apartment, two hours before the appointment (yep, that bit I only discovered en route).

Landlady wasn't her normal hyper self; it turned out she'd taken a 'calming pill' last night. It was like when pets come back from the vet - all dopey and floppy. It wore off quickly, but it was a treat first thing.

She needed to take the pill because of building-work-related stress. The lady in the apartment adjacent was taking a bath and noticed a drill hole in the wall (very Porkys). She got in a strop, but it transpired that when her bathroom was redone last year, the workmen pulled down a wall and didn't bother putting it up again; they just shoved a new bath against the wall of the other apartment!

All is quiet today as they discuss the next steps.

Whan that Aprille, with his shoures soote

I swear, every year it's the same routine. In April I tend to get stuck into some bit of Chaucer (The Canterbury Tales are set in April), which leads me to some books with pretty manuscripty pictures, and then I start into calligraphy.

I've spent seven or eight hours writing out the same words: The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

It might as well read All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I adore calligraphy, but man its brain-frazzling powers are mighty. Time for a vodka and some fruit-juicy-type-stuff.

In other news, the sun is just starting to fade, and the sky is all lilacy. Heaven.

Easter Sunday

Just in from a sunshiney nap. It's a glorious day here: had a great lunch with the Codebreakers, which was a smidge boozy (I know, shock horror).

I was responsible for dessert: the original plan was to make brandy truffles, but I opted for something non-alcoholic, which was like a mini-trip to a detox clinic.

Or it would have been if we hadn't been drinking at the time. Or eating a buttery-sugary cake. Okay maybe the detox analogy doesn't work.

In other news: for Lois and the guys still shovelling snow in Michigan, here's some sunshine :)

Propitious timing

I just realised that my next visitor is going to be here for the Onion Festival at Canico.

What fun we'll have!

Now is the winter of our discontent

All the clouds that loured upon our house are about to be in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

And there's a misty bank of clouds rolling down from the mountain. The world will be snowy white in about twenty minutes.

When clichés take form

The guys I worked with in Michigan owned a place in Herefordshire called Hampton Court, and we held annual academic conferences there. So ensued much high jinks and hilarity, especially when the American flag was hoisted over the castle: the guys from the local RAF base would buzz the castle in their Harrier jets. Try listening to a paper on the Dead Sea Scrolls while the chandeliers are tinkling overhead...

Anyhoo, in scanning photos I came across one of the non-crystal chandeliers from the place. The castle is fifteenth-century, but pictured above is a spanky new chandelier, made with freshly-culled deer.

You know the cliché of the eccentric English gent? Well the owners bumped into him, larger than life: some bat-crazy oddball who looked at a deer and thought: light fixture!

His chandeliers also came sans animal heads, for the zen minimalist downsizers among us.

There's no place like home

This morning over madeira wine with the Codebreakers I learned about the early life of Mrs Beeton. (Total aside: I can't get the image of her as a matronly Victorian Martha Stewart out of my head, despite the fact that she died at the grand old age of 28.)

When her father died, her mother (who had 5 or 6 kids) married her dad's friend (who had 5 or 6 kids). Then they some kids of their own, which brought the grand total of children in the house to 23 (apparently one prankster son posted the dad a condom, which was the equivalent of calling him one who frequents prostitutes. Cue: one unimpressed father).

Anyhoo, so the bizarre bit is this: the stepdad happened to own the Epsom Racecourse - yes the Epsom Derby place - and since it was only used on a single day each year, he moved the family in there. Moved the family into the racecourse.

I imagine a few throw cushions, some nightlights, and any stadium becomes cosy.

That is some family. I see now why Mrs Beeton's recipes nonchalantly call for 12 dozen eggs.

Too many bits to count

Okay, me getting a bittorrent client may not have been the best idea. There's so very much out there to watch, and the temptation to download an afternoon's worth and relax in a cafe with laptop and headphones is pretty tempting indeed.

In other news, I'm back scanning all my pre-digital photos. I keep coming across shots of gargoyles: from Antwerp, Oxford, and these little guys from Exeter Cathedral.

Juicy Days

The nice thing about Monday is because it's one of the flaffier weekdays, it's only reasonable to expect an afternoon tipple.

I was going to blend some pineapple and do something rum-my, but the fruit needs another couple of days to ripen. And so instead Absolut Raspberri shall be served with freshly squeezed orange juice.

Speaking of which, this morning I juiced the most enormous pomegranate. There's probably a knack to doing it in such a way that the kitchen doesn't end up looking completely blood-splattered. It tasted great though :)

Tum de dum. Busy busy...

Travelling Tales

Some of my family should be in Singapore by now, en route to Australia. And with that in mind...

Mrs C lived in Singapore for several years when she was a child. She faced almost daily air raids from the Japanese in early 1942; then the Japanese landed on the island in overpowering force. Churchill gave the okay to surrender on 14 February.

While her mother packed a single suitcase for the family, Mrs C and her sister were allowed to choose one thing to take with them. Mrs C decided on her stamp collection; her baby sister was desperate to take her white mouse, but couldn't. She spent her time setting out food and water for the mouse.

The family made it to the harbour safely, to the evacuation boats. Before he boarded, her father drove their gorgeous car into the sea rather than let the Japanese get it. Mrs C was twelve. They got onto one of the last ships, which made its way through the Battle of Pacific and beyond.

Mrs C visited Singapore decades later. When she was a child, Orchard Road had shops on both sides of the street. These days it has the world's largest concentration of shopping malls.

So enjoy the shopping guys, and safe travelling.