travel

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

| Mairead

(This is clematis and it is going to look beautiful soon… possibly)

New experiences continue here and we’re like children (nice children, not cranky children…) as we discover different ways to be in the world together. Denis has returned to the fold and we welcomed him with open mouths as he is cooking again. I can hear him chopping while I type – there isn’t a nicer sound.

(You think you’re missing your hairdresser? Sadie is so concerned she needs Denis to reassure her that Eilish isn’t going to stab her)

Our latest endeavor has kind of snuck up on us. Like everyone else I’ve been doing a bit of Reduce, Reuse, Recycle for years but now I realise I was only playing at it! HaHa, Ha, I laugh in the face of my previous efforts. Here’s what’s happening…

(You can’t eat yarn…)

Yesterday Eilish came in to measure my head. Oh yes, I’ve forgotten to tell you why but first… she arrives over with her knitting, her needles and yarn in a bag. I thought I recognised the bag… And then I thought I’d wet myself with the laughing. You’ll never guess what the bag was? No don’t try, you won’t guess. It was a Tesco Finest Oatmeal and Linseed Loaf bag… (our favourite bread, that we can’t get any more by the way…) Inside you could see the yarn peeping through. Now this is more like it, now we can honestly say we are, REUSING our plastic. Also, every time I look at the bag I remember with affection the bread, oh how we loved you, Tesco Finest Oatmeal and Linseed Loaf, sniff.

(Here are our potatoes, can you see anything? No, me neither but soon…)

So back to the knitting and my head measurements… We are getting all our groceries from click and collect so someone else does our shopping (thank you ❤) and I collect it in the car park of the supermarket. It works well for groceries. Not so well for hairbands. My hair is growing and it’s getting in my face and I find myself swearing and flailing my arms all around the place when I realise I’m about to touch my face to get the stray hairs back. So I thought, wouldn’t a hairband be very useful? And there was a hairband on the supermarket website shop, perfect, right? Alas, no. When the delivery came the hairband was in the Not Available list. 😟 Eilish could see more swearing and flailing in her future so she offered to rip some of my crochet squares ( I have sensed for a long time that she didn’t like my crochet…?) and use the yarn to make a hairband. RECYCLING!

(Hairband doing its job, send Eilish your head measurements if you want one we have 6 stamps left and loads of crochet squares… we’ll happily send you one (free, we’re just having fun here) and then you’ll be recycling too…😁)

We were talking about opening up a website shop because she’s already on the second hairband and I only have one head. But then we realised if the shop was successful we’d never have time to go out in the garden… I can probably wear more than one hairband at a time.

(My favourite gardening tool at the moment, fantastic for management of strong emotions… I hear)

I wish I had a story about how we are REDUCE -ing but with all the baking we’ve been doing nothing’s getting reduced except the contents of the bag of flour. That reminds me… Eilish was telling me that during the war years people used to sew flour bags together to make bed sheets. Yes, I did wonder how comfortable paper sheets could be… turns out the flour bags were made of cotton… oh right.

May you be well, Mairead.

The Journey

| Mairead
(Practicing Garden Therapy)

Today is the day we were booked to travel on the ferry from Rosslare to France ❤️ then onto Spain ❤️ on our journey to Portugal ❤️. Right about now I would be writing my first post from the car park of the services area near Gorey. But everything changed and here we all are on a different kind of journey. Together.

(Watching Eilish playing in the shed)

I’m sitting in my garden and I can tell you one thing I didn’t know before, I am very lucky to have a garden. I have been neglecting her but she waited, hibernated even, let herself go a bit with the grief of missing my care. I’m sorry, garden. I’ll do better. I think that’s one of the things this journey is going to be about – gratitude for the things I didn’t know I had.

(We are collecting sticks… I’ll explain another day)

Another thing about this journey is that there’s three of us. Denis, whom I’m usually living with in close confines, has been self-isolating for the past ten days, we talk on the phone now. I suppose I should add him to the list of things I’m grateful for. I didn’t realise how much I have got used to his presence. I am finding it surprisingly easy to be annoyed by his absence which I find surprisingly easy to turn into annoyance with him but he’s taking it well. I’m obviously not trying hard enough.

(Aren’t they lovely?)

Eilish is here too, Denis’ Mom (Denis and his five brothers all call their Mam, Mom – might be a Cork thing.) Eleven days ago we gave her an ultimatum and bundled her into the car to come live with us. Right about now I sense she’s ready to bolt. I’m really grateful she’s here though because she’s a huge distraction. You know, like Netflix?

(The description said they were ground cover and seemingly that means less weeds?)

When I’m not watching her we’ve been navigating a way to be two strong women sharing one house… politely. (Politely because Eilish doesn’t use swear words, I love them! I have found a way to make her laugh when I’m swearing though, I love to make her laugh.) She has a very different way of looking at things and she definitely thinks there’s one right way to do stuff. I don’t think there’s one right way… and I know I’m right…

(That’s wild garlic. Liam, one of Eilish’s sons, gave it to me last year and it survived!)

We are very alike in many ways, we like crafting and more recently gardening and Denis, we like Denis, mostly. We are also very different. She likes crafts to be exactly like the pattern intended, I don’t like following the pattern. I think weeds are just flowers planted in the wrong place and she thinks that’s crazy talk. I bet when she reads this she’ll say, Now, don’t mind me, Mairead but maybe just take a few more pictures of the garden and say less?

(Look! Ivy grows in our shed!)

It was my Dad’s birthday yesterday, he’d have been 99. I was thinking of him and the time of the petrol crisis (that was when we thought not having petrol was the worst thing that could happen to us.) He had a petrol station during the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and the petrol crisis was a highpoint for him. He realised that how he behaved then would underscore the rest of his business life. So he was kind. He rationed the petrol so there would be enough for everyone. Even if you weren’t a customer, even if he didn’t know you or would never see you again. Thirty years later people from different parts of Ireland were dropping in to thank him and remind him of how he helped them when they most needed it.

He reminds me that my behaviour now will underscore the rest of my life. I’m negotiating my way through this and it’s not in every moment but most of the time, I try to be kind.

May you be well, Mairead.

I might be hallucinating…

| Mairead

(We found another amazing Beautiful Village of France)

It’s a wee bit dreary today. I’d love to sit by the fire eating some scones just out of the oven. I suppose it had to happen, I’m suffering from scone-sickness. Croissants, even the ones with almonds can only do so much but when it’s cold and wet and the skies are grey there’s nothing like a hot scone.

(This is a classy village)

There’s nothing like a scone in France either. They have no idea what a scone is. That’s probably the reason the French have such amazing pastries, they are searching for the perfection of… the scone. It’s the one recipe I remember all the ingredients for. In fact I could tell you now, sitting here in the bed in my two winter fleeces and my hat, how to make scones.

(Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s called Saint Céneri Le Gérei)

First you’ll need a pound of self raising flour. That is not a metric measurement and I’m sorry about that but it’s how I learned to make scones and it’s part of the mystic place the scone has in my heart. Also, self raising flour might be just in Ireland… sorry about that. Then you’ll need some butter, 2 ounces is perfect. Also, 2 ounces of sugar. Then one or two eggs and enough milk (doesn’t have to be cows milk, almond’s milk or rice’s milk will work too) to bring the eggs up to a mug full. No I don’t know the size of the mug. It’s my favourite mug, if that helps?

(Full of pretty houses)

Now, before you start, feel your feet on the ground and muster up a good strong grateful feeling in your belly because this opportunity to be as one with some scones has arrived in your life. Then… begin. Weigh out the ingredients and break the eggs into your mug and add the milk or milk variant to them. Chop the butter up into little lumps. It would be great if you had one of those old fawn coloured ceramic mixing bowls from the 1960’s but if not any big bowl will do. You’ll also need an oven tray.

I nearly forgot, turn on the oven to very hot, 200 degrees C or whatever that is in your oven.

(And streets…)

Sieve the flour into the big bowl, pour in the sugar, then add the butter. Rub the butter in with your fingers. Now, take your time, this bit is not to be rushed, this is the best bit. You have to take up flour and a bit of butter reverently in each hand, hold your hands over the bowl and rub your thumb against your fingers so the flour and butter can get mixed. Repeat until the mixture in the bowl looks a bit like breadcrumbs.

(Pretty church)

You might need to wash your hands now, although you should have washed your hands in the beginning, to be honest the rubbing gets your nails lovely and clean… Now it’s time to add the egg/milk mixture. Pour half of the egg/milk mixture into the flour/sugar/butter mixture and using a blunt knife mix the liquid into the dry. Add more liquid until the moment when everything seems to gel. There’s no separation, no bits of flour or butter on the edge, instead there’s one big lump of dough.

(Pretty doors…)

Now, hold your horses, just because this is dough doesn’t mean you have to be rough with it. That’s only for bread and pizza. Scone dough is precious, you continue as you started by treating it with reverence. Take a handful of flour from the bag and shake it over the table (or counter) then place the scone dough, gently onto the bed of flour.

(Here’s the end of the 30km speed limit just in time for the narrow bridge…)

The plan here is to gently shape the dough into a ball and then gently flatten the ball so it’s about two inches high. Then you need to cut the dough into squares with a sharp knife or if you have a scone cutter, into circles. When that’s done, get your oven tray and shake a little flour from the bag onto it and then place the dough scones on the tray. Leave some room between each scone because if you’re lucky your scones will get bigger as they cook.

(Where two roads meet in the village)

Now put them into the hot oven, close the door and set a timer for 16 minutes. When the timer goes off, open the door, turn the tray so that the scones near the front are now near the back and the ones near the back are near the front. Close the door again and leave for 5 minutes, they might be done or you might have to leave them for another 10 minutes. No one knows… that’s part of the mystery of the scone. When they look absolutely gorgeous, they’re done. Take them out.

(There’s even some lovely lichen)

Put them on a cooling tray and take a picture, send me the picture. (No, wait… don’t send me the picture, it would be too upsetting.) Now, slice the scone in half, spread butter and jam on each half and eat it… slowly.

I can almost taste them, Mairead.

(There it is, Saint Céneri Le Gérei)

Everyday Fearless

| Mairead

(The Book!)

I did it! I finished writing my book about our journey earlier this year to Portugal and I’m really excited. (I’m sick with anxiety too but as that feels very like excitement I’m grand.) Do you remember I was telling you about the book I was going to write and publish on Kindle in a post in June? At the time I was not feeling very confident that I would finish it. I had a story running – on repeat – through my head. The, You never finish anything, story. Well… that story is gone now and I’m really excited!

Actually, my excitement is a bit boundless at the moment so bear with me I’ll make sense in a minute. Maybe if I make a list? Yes, I like lists. Here goes…

(love this bell!)

Things that are making me feel excited

  1. Finishing. I am completely amazed at what a difference it makes to finish a project but I nearly missed this step – the one where I notice I’m finished.
  2. Getting rid of the, You never finish anything, story. Stories are great because they have a message. When we tell stories to children we are telling them a useful message. For example, The Boy Who Cried Wolf – don’t tell lies. Le Loup qui changer de couleur – accept yourself. But sometimes we hang on to a story with a message that is no longer useful. You never finish anything– don’t try something new you’ll be disappointed.
  3. Telling you! You have no idea how lovely it is to have you on this journey with us and in particular on this journey with me. I love writing and it’s way more pleasing to write to someone. Thank you for being that someone.
  4. The name of the book, Everyday Fearless, came to me after a conversation in Dijon with a friend. Sometimes it takes courage to do ordinary everyday stuff. Like ask for help. Or speak in French. Or find your way in a strange town. Or take a picture. Or start a conversation. Or say, I’m sorry. Or make a phone call. Or run screaming, into the sea at Magheramore Beach. Or do anything that would make me look silly or stupid or flawed. Like telling you before I’m ready that I was going to write a book.
  5. Being alive.
  6. Letting go of waiting to be perfect me, I’m ok with just being me. A few years ago during autumn I went for a walk along the driveway to Powerscourt House in Enniskerry, looking for leaves. I wanted the perfect leaves, the ones that looked symmetrical with no spots or cuts. I couldn’t find one. I searched for a long time. None of the leaves were perfect. Maybe perfect is unnatural?
  7. Imagining myself in twenty years time… at 78. I’m in my art studio. It’s an old run down former car mechanic’s garage with old grease stains on the floor and oil blackened benches but very well insulated so it’s warm and cozy. I make art, I practice Everyday Fearless, I share how to be everyday fearless, I write books (my 16th book was a bestseller) There is laughter all around and I am beyond happy.
  8. Everything starts now….

(Magheramore Beach in Co. Wicklow)

So off you go, click or tap anywhere here and have a look at the book that made me realize that feeling sick with anxiety is just another kind of excited! Mairead.

Ps. If that link doesn’t work for you, go to Amazon and search for Everyday Fearless Mairead Hennessy. Thank you!

The town of Buxy

| Mairead

(An old tin sign on the former train station wall)

We arrived in Buxy this morning and went for a walk to the town to get our bearings. We’d stopped off here briefly last year but never got as far as the town. It’s very pretty and very old.

(This tower reminded me of Reginald’s tower in Waterford)

Delivery trucks were competing with buses and pedestrians on the narrow streets and the locals were buying their baguettes by the armful.

(That’s the post office clinging to the edge of the hill and that second tower belongs to the church)

We spotted the butcher delivering meat so you might need to avert your eyes for the next photo… That’s the butcher and the baker covered, I’m on the lookout for a candlestick maker. It was uphill all the way to town which meant it was a grand downhill walk back. We are parked near the old station on the Voie Verte and when we got back I headed out for a walk. The weather was cool with some sunshine, with plenty of shade on the path – optimum.

(Just in case you were wondering where meat comes from…)

I’ve been reading a book on Audible (well, listening to the author read his book on the Audible app, might be more accurate) called Effortless Success by Michael Neill, did I already tell you? Maybe I did. Anyway, he’s lovely and he tells nice little stories to make you feel like you could really do things. He’s all about flowing, not pushing. There’s a bit in the book I was thinking about this morning, on my walk along the greenway: Where there’s a way, there’s a will.

(The long road)

We all know the other version, where there’s a will there’s a way but he says that’s a bit pushy and often invokes resistance. The other one is more flowy. I got an example of it this morning, as I rounded a bend and could see a long straight path ahead of me. The thought came to me, gosh that’s long. A moment later, I shouldn’t go too far. Then, I wonder how long I’ve been walking? I checked my phone… ten minutes. No way! I thought I’d been walking for at least 35 minutes, maybe even 45… but no.

(There would have been a barrier across the road here, when the greenway was a train track)

And didn’t my friend, Michael (you know, the guy from the book? He does feel like my friend) pop into my head and his idea about where’s there a way, there’s a will. I really had no idea where I was going and that was making it feel longer. How could I make it feel doable.

(Noticed this hanging on a tree on my way back. You are the master of your life and whatever the prison you have the keys. The Dalai Lama)

I had noticed there were benches every 500 meters or so. I could use them as a way to keep myself going. I’d just go to the next bench. So I went to the next bench and the next bench. I walked for an hour and it was so much easier and the return journey felt like ten minutes!

Even more interesting, this works with projects, Mairead.

The Baker, Le Boulanger

| Mairead

(La boulangerie)

I slept really well last night after our long walk yesterday. Now we’re on the road again heading for the Voie Verte – the greenway that used to be a train line. It’s a path for walkers and cyclists, we found it last year. First though, we needed to stop off at the bakery, la boulangerie.

(Not Brennan’s but sure we’ll be grand…)

Our Brennan’s Wholemeal Chia, Pumpkin and Poppyseed bread has run out so from now on we will be eating French bread. I think we’ll manage. We spotted the bakery as we were leaving Dijon. It was open, not a given as today is Sunday and opening times are very restricted. Not this bakery, they open from early until late.

(Can you make out their opening times? 6.30am to 7.30pm every day, exceptions: closed all day Tuesday and closed thirty minutes early on Sunday)

We decided to have a coffee since we were here and that’s when I spotted the baker preparing his bread. He had a huge rectangular fabric mat, the size of a narrow single bed. It was laid out on top of a trolley and on top of the mat there was the uncooked dough. When we first walked in he was busy snipping the baguettes with a scissors. Then he rolled the trolley to one of eight ovens and raised the trolley bed (like you see paramedics do when they take a stretcher out of an ambulance?) making it level with one of the upper ovens. Then he opened the oven door and slid the fabric mat and the baguette dough into the oven. And then he went on to the next batch and I saw the way he transferred the soft baguette dough onto the fabric mat with a wooden paddle.

(Can you see the way the trolley might elevate to the height of the upper oven? And that he’s holding the wooden paddle? And that there are 8 ovens!)

I wanted to take a photo to show you but it seemed rude. I should ask, right? So I did, I went up to the lady on the counter and stumbled through the French for, can I take a picture? She understood and gave a wicked grin saying, you want a picture of the baker? Of course! The next customer joined in with something that made her laugh out loud. Probably rude…

I don’t care I got my picture. Mairead

Ten thousand meters to Dijon

| Mairead

(Place Notre Dame, Dijon. Even in this small section can you see two church towers?)

We walked to Dijon today, a ten kilometer round trip. The weather was perfect – overcast with one heavy rain shower but otherwise dry and cool. We remembered the umbrella.

(This was the huge door to the art gallery)

Our plan was to wander into the center of the city, check out a church (there were at least six to choose from) visit a museum and an art gallery, have lunch and fit in a coffee break. We didn’t go to a museum but we did visit the art gallery, a tea shop and a very pretty little park.

(These three were portraits of the artist’s mother, they are huge, he must use scaffolding)

There was a temporary exhibit at the gallery that I really liked. I think it’s because I prefer more modern art. Normally, at this point, I’d tell you who the artist was… but I asked Denis to carry the brochures and he seems to have mislaid them. I will google the gallery and it’s temporary exhibit in a minute but it just won’t be the same. So disappointing.

(The tea shop had cake…)

Ok I googled. His name was Yan Pei-Ming and he was born in Shanghai in 1960 (a contemporary of myself, as it happens…) He came to Dijon to study art in 1981 and this exhibition is called The Man Who Cried. He’d definitely understand my disappointment.

(And another church)

The art gallery stretches over three storeys and around three sides of a courtyard and after an hour I started to wane and began searching for the exit. I have a habit of ignoring signs that I can’t understand and found myself at a locked exit with a security guard asking me what I wanted. Exit, please, didn’t make sense to her. Meanwhile Denis who had not ignored the sign was mouthing Sortie at me from behind the barrier while trying to keep a straight face. The guard escorted both of us to a different door and let us out with her secret code. I said, Merci! and gave her a big smile. She didn’t smile. Denis couldn’t stop smiling.

(Don’t go in when it’s windy…)

On the way home we passed a very unusual park called Jardin de L’Arquebuse. Flowers (including wild flowers) and plants were laid out in rows and signs pointed out what soil they were growing in. If only our French was better we would have learned a lot about what plants need for healthy growth. Nonetheless it was very pleasant.

(This bee may have come from the hives they had in the park)

We are staying in the municipal campsite tonight and when we arrived back tired and footsore from the city we were thrilled to see a pizza van beside reception. Yes we had pizza, it was very nice.

I’m over my disappointment now, Mairead.

In the poet’s footsteps…

| Mairead

(The alleyway to a side entrance. Can you see the little door cut into the big door on the left?)

We are on our way to Dijon (thanks to a recommendation from Cormac) but I went to visit one of the cathedrals in Auxerre before we left, Saint-Etienne Cathedrale. Turns out there’s a slight Irish connection. I bought the little guide leaflet to get the details, short as they are.

(Yes, you, come on it!)

The cathedral nestles among houses and gardens built around it. It was definitely here first – the guide says there was a cathedral here in 400AD. Then you might expect a respectable building distance to be observed all around but maybe this is more healthy, everyone snuggled in together. As I rounded the last corner I could see I had come to a dead end but there was a door. I wasn’t sure if I should go on until I noticed a small sign.. Entree, Entrance. Come on in!

(The back of the door)

The surprise after that little door is the internal space is very impressive. It’s still in use on Sundays for mass but today there were groups of French tourists having a guided tour.

(Makes you look up)

There was a railing running around the back of the altar with posters commemorating a famous French poet who lived in Auxerre. Her name was Marie Noël (1883-1967). There was a lovely picture of her walking up the narrow alleyway outside the cathedral towards the little door. She looks like any little old lady you’d see walking up to mass but now here she was up on a poster inside the cathedral. Very surreal. I bought a booklet about her in the tiny book shop there. Google translate and I are working our way through it.

(That’s one of the Marie Noël posters in the cathedral)

It’s hard going so maybe I’ll just enjoy the pictures of her. I nearly forgot about the connection with Ireland – it’s St. Patrick! It seems he was here and was trained by Saint Germain who was bishop in Auxerre in 418 AD. Hang on, why didn’t St. Patrick bring French to Ireland?

We’d all be fluent, Mairead.

(There we are on our way to Dijon)

The ten year old book

| Mairead

(The boats and one of the cathedrals at Auxerre)

We’re in the town (could be a city) of Auxerre, it’s really lovely. The camper parking is just basic but the location is brilliant! Out the front window at the moment I can see narrowboats on the river. If I step outside I can hear horse chestnuts falling from the trees. Then there’s the cathedrals – four I can see across the river and they’re not small, they look to me like they could rival Notre Dame in Paris. This town must have been very important, maybe it still is.

(Still some left on the tree)

We got here around 10am, we had been on our way to a small village but I had a document to sign and post to the accountant. When I took down the printer I realised someone (that would be me…) hadn’t brought the power lead.. Big town might have a print shop or a library and that’s why we’re here.

(Love this house)

Off I went to the tourist off to inquire, it’s just across the river. There was a very helpful sign in the window saying it was closed, permanently. Right. There was an address for the new location, though. I set off for that.

(The games shop)

I was busy taking pictures of the beautiful old half-timbered buildings when I noticed a board game shop. I think to myself, Denis will be delighted! But even more amazing right beside it a craft shop with crafting sessions! It was closed… don’t worry it’ll be open later, I’ll be back.

(Very fancy clock tower)

More pictures and I’m now standing outside a book shop. Normally I’d be straight in as I love book shops but as I have the reading ability of a disinterested 4 year old (in French I mean) I resist. But there’s an adorable window display for a children’s book. It’s celebrating the fact that the book is 10 years old. Interesting.

(That’s the craft shop)

Very interesting. Children’s books are very interesting. To me, anyway. There are children’s books that never seem to go out of fashion. I’m thinking of the Hungry Caterpillar written and illustrated by Eric Carle, first published in 1969 and still selling all over the world. And there’s the French Little Prince written and illustrated by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, first published in 1943. There’s something about those books in their simplicity that makes them popular.

(That’s the book shop, the golden boot must mean something?)

I have to go in. Here’s a chance to see what a child of France in the 21st century cherishes, I feel like David Attenborough. There were a few customers in the shop, mostly under 5, so I fit right in. I spot our section, down low near the window. It takes me a while to locate the correct shelf because now I’m on all fours. Although there a big splash in the window, inside the shop the book is very discreet. And complicated…. there’s other books. It seems the author and the illustrator have published many, many other books about the same character in the ten years since they started but I feel I need to get to the source. To the one that started everything.

(Strange carving)

There’s no escape I have to find some French words to ask the lady behind the counter what was the first book but even in English that might be hard to explain. I give it a try. At first she seems confused but like all book shopkeepers she can read minds (try asking one for the new book they talked about on the radio about coffee and money – I bet they’ll know) and she searches for the colour change book. Just when it seems she can’t find it and I’ll never know, she takes apart the front window and gives me the shop’s only copy. All book shopkeepers are heroes!

(The 10 year old book!)

The book is called Le Loup qui changer de couleur by Orianne Lallemande and Éléanore Thuillier and it’s about a wolf who didn’t like his colour so he changed it, lots of times but in the end… I don’t want to spoil it for you so I’ll say no more. All I will say is the future of France is in good hands, the children are reading a beautiful book.

From Auxerre, Mairead.

(There’s Auxerre!)