Dick's Field

Florida was hot… very hot! We loved every minute of time spent with family, but when the day came for our flight back to Ireland, visions of cool breezes danced in our heads. We were also anxious to get back to our Irish friends and family.

 

We were sadly informed that one of our dear friends, Christy Shortt, age 92, had passed away just days earlier. He always said if he got Covid his days on earth would be over. He was an amazing musician and a true gentleman. He would always greet me on Wednesday nights at the Monks pub with a hearty handshake and a sincere “God bless”.

 

Christy always read and praised my blogs. He was a natural encourager. I hope he’s showing this post to Jesus and putting in a good word for me. Thank you, Christy, for everything.

We would be back in Ireland just in time to share grief with our community and offer condolences to Christy’s family. You might recall a post from my Suirly Goodness blog describing an Irish funeral. They are often multi-day affairs and involve much music and merriment as fitting sendoffs for the deceased. This one would be especially poignant.

Also, Dixie’s brother’s much anticipated retirement party was scheduled for the weekend. More music planned at the Monks celebrating the end of an era for Raz. Ireland was calling.

But so was Hurricane Idalia! She blew into Florida just in time to foil all our plans. The Tampa airport closed and our flight was delayed three days. By the time we got back to Thurles, all was quiet. We could only hang our heads and apologize for our absence.

It took longer to get over jet lag this time. I felt so tired and even wondered if maybe I had developed long covid. I had flown to America one week after a positive test in July and had been on the go constantly for five weeks. Now I was really feeling knackered.

So we decided it was time to take the AvantBard for another spin. Neither of us cared where we went, we just wanted to take off again. I needed an excuse to get active for a couple of days, renew my energy and chase away the blues.

There’s a field in County Waterford, less than a two hour drive, simply and fittingly called Dick’s Field. It’s an RV park that has few amenities. A few pitches have electric hookups and there’s waste disposal, but otherwise… it’s just Dick’s Field. You can’t reserve a space, it’s first come first served.

I heard about it from my motorhome Facebook group. We decided to “give it a lash”. It looked to be near the village of Ardmore where we’d been a couple of years ago, and I remembered the cliff walk and the beach. I think I even blogged about it. But all the fields looked alike so finding and staying in Dick’s Field would be a new experience, although staying in a field didn’t sound particularly appealing.

It was easy to find and, being a Monday, there was plenty of space. Dick himself greeted us at the gate and told us to just park anywhere we liked. It was actually a beautiful field, deep emerald Irish green and right on the water. We found a spot overlooking the surf and in a corner of the field, so no one would box us in.

Getting settled always involves two rituals: driving the Bard’s front wheels up on chocks to get properly leveled and then having a cuppa tea. When all was done, we made a plan. We would stroll on the beach toward the village, (me looking for treasures and Dixie basking in the salty mist), buy a few groceries, check out the coffee shops, have dinner back in the Bard, then go back to the village for a drink. Good plan.

I was never much of a drinker. I’m still not. They tease me in the Monks when I start the Wednesday music sessions with a glass (not a pint) of Guinness and take my last sip just before leaving three or four hours later. What can I say?

My parents stopped drinking when I was a teenager. I remember as a child they would host dinner parties and our kitchen table would become a well stocked bar. But then my mother’s best friend, Sara, went on a binge and never recovered. Long about that time my Uncle Hobo, Daddy’s brother, died of liver disease. They were both in their thirties and hopeless alcoholics. I saw my parents deeply grieve. After that, our kitchen table just held place mats and tea lights.

Irishmen love their pints. Dixie prefers “large bottles” as opposed to the tap. I don’t know why. And “large bottles” are apparently rare so he was happy the pub we chose in Ardmore had them in stock. I had a Baileys which seems more like a liquid dessert than a beverage.

When we left the pub around 11:00 (early), we stepped out under a magical canopy of starlight. I can’t remember when the Milky Way shone so clearly. I felt wrapped in a veil of glitter. Walking back along the beach I almost stumbled several times because I couldn’t stop looking up. I sat outside a while and tried to identify constellations but it was like trying to find Waldo… just too much going on.  

The next morning we walked the opposite direction on the beach until it ended in uneven rocky outcrops. A very narrow path divided the rocks from the adjacent field and led onto another beach. 

We could see a series of little sandy/grassy patches among the boulders that seemed like separate rooms designed specifically for picnics sheltered from the wind. We said we’d come back another day and bring sandwiches.

After a delicious lunch in the village we strolled up the hill to the cliff walk. The views were magnificent and there were historic stops along the way including two holy wells, cathedral ruins complete with three ogham stones, a round tower and of course, a delightful cemetery (I'm probably the only person who delights in cemeteries).

That night I texted my kids and sent a photo I’d taken of the Big Dipper (or The Plough as it’s called here) with my iphone. It was bright enough to show up. Thomas asked if I’d seen the new comet. Wuuuttt… a new comet??? How could I have missed the news. In August an amateur astronomer in Japan had discovered a blurry intruder that would not return for 400 years.

I decided not to wait that long. The conditions were so perfect I knew I could find it. Google told me exactly where to look and when… an hour before sunrise. Ugh! I set the alarm for 5 AM and crawled out of bed, threw on clothes over my pajamas and donned my heavy coat. Then I laid back in my camping chair wishing I’d brought gloves. I stared into space with and without my binoculars until the sun rose two hours later. No comet! Apparently I had missed it by a few days. I had to settle for the Great Nebula in Orion and a stunning waning crescent moon nudging towards Venus. I didn’t complain… much.

Our camping excursions remain brief

because we have weekly commitments on Wednesdays and the weekend. But we found our stay in Dick’s Field to be nothing short of... heavenly. We'll be back for more stargazing and that picnic.