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. 

Unexpected Adventure

Summer in Ireland can be so unpredictable. June was gorgeous with the countryside surfing on a clear emerald crest that seemed to ripple on forever. We were looking forward to three full months of great adventures in our rv, the AvantBard. Then July swept in like a tsunami and upset all our plans. Rain Rain Rain… every day, all day! 

We sat mournfully staring out the window like the kids in The Cat in the Hat. “So all we could do was Sit! Sit! Sit! Sit! And we did not like it. Not one little bit.”

For weeks we had been planning to go to the Phil Murphy Weekend at the end of July. It’s another small Irish trad festival in a small town called Carrig on Bannow in the southeast. It seemed like a miracle when the clouds parted mid week and Siobhan, the weather lady, gave a cautious nod. The Bard was so ready to
get out there.

Most of the music took place in Colfers Pub, which I was told is really John Murphys pub. The Bard was parked at the school just across the street which was very convenient. The Thurles group of musicians infiltrated the session around 5 on Friday evening and played straight through until 11 that night. On Saturday, it was 2:30 until 11 with no breaks even for food. The Guinness was filling enough for everyone.

Or so they told me… I wasn’t there! Last week, I woke up with a scratchy throat and by evening I had tested positive for you-know-what… for the third frickin’ time! Feeling fine but still contagious, I insisted Dixie go on without me and take his brother, Paul, in the Bard. 

I would have missed it even if I hadn’t gotten sick. That Tuesday I was scheduled to fly to Atlanta to be with my brother, Hal, in Roswell. This is the bigger story that I’ll share with you because, though it has nothing to do with camping and music festivals, it has everything to do with unexpected journeys and the fragility of our dreams. You’ll remember what Bilbo Baggins said, “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door… there is no telling where you might be swept off to.” (That sorta ties into camping, right?)

Three weeks ago I was Facetiming with Hal. He likes to rise early and start the day with a cup of coffee on his secluded screened porch. We usually don’t talk so early in the day, but this day he was pumped and wanted to chat.

 

Hal is a singer/songwriter/entertainer. He had just played a gig at a local hotspot in our hometown. He had put together a three hour one-man show featuring the songs of the outlaws… you know, “Waylon, Willie and the Boys”. It was a big hit, he was invited to come back often and he was really excited about that and wanted to tell me how it went.

This wasn’t Hal’s first rodeo. He’s been a performer his whole adult life. He’s written songs that have hit the national charts and he’s in the Atlanta Country Music Hall of Fame. I’m just a little bit proud of him.

 

But he was never a full time musician. He owned a small business and still works from his home as a marketing coach. At 73, he’s anticipating his retirement and looking forward to more time spent singing, making people laugh, playing with his grands (and mine) and doing all the other things he enjoys… such as (over the years) fishing, turkey/deer hunting, mushroom foraging, beekeeping, moonshine making (I'm not kidding), historic reenacting, fur tanning, cigar rolling, reptile collecting, exotic plant propagating, hot pepper growing, wild game cooking and golfing. There's probably more but these are the things that come to mind.  

So we’re chatting away when he suddenly winces with pain and says he’s having a back spasm. He says he’ll have to call me back cause it really hurts. I can see that he’s lowered himself to the floor when we disconnect.

I thought about calling Lynn, my sister-in-law, to check on him but I figured she was still asleep and besides, Hal was holding his phone and could call her himself if he needed help. At that moment, Lynn posted to our family Wordle thread. So I knew she was awake and decided to give her a ring.

“Hal’s on the porch wincing in pain from a back spasm. You might want to check on him.” She did immediately and, long story short, it wasn’t a back spasm. He had an abdominal aortic aneurism that had ruptured and he was bleeding out! After all was said and done, the surgeon said five more minutes and he would have been in the boneyard.

He’s home now recovering nicely and I have flown to Georgia to be with him and Lynn, reminding him he doesn’t have to go to such great lengths to be the center of attention. Hitting the stage a few times a month should be enough.

 

The doctors say it will be a while before he charms a crowd or tumbles with the kiddos. But, against all odds, he’s expected to make a full recovery.

It’s these close calls that stop us in our tracks, force us to slam on the brakes and take stock of the sweet mercies in our lives. A part of me would be lost without my big brother, my only sibling. We know someday one of us will bury the other, and we will both embark on new adventures to frontiers that far exceed the boundaries
of the AvantBard. Thankfully, this has not been that day.

 

I’ll be spending most of August in Florida with Ted, Leah and little Carolina, the Scamp (as Dixie calls her). Dixie will be joining us soon.

The southern heat is oppressive but we welcome the saturation of vitamin D. We have decided when we return to Ireland, we’ll no longer be stymied by the dreary forecasts and relentless showers. We won’t Sit! Sit! Sit! Sit! and wait for a sunnier day to pack up and go. We’ll seize the day!!

Graiguenamanagh

Two weeks ago we were raring to go again. Now that the sun is nudging its way into the wee hours of the morning we are more anxious than ever to explore new places and find some right adventures. (In Ireland, “right” means good or great. I first heard it when someone said, “Those are right lads” in describing a group of teenagers.)

We have mostly been set on wild camping and can easily endure a few nights in the wilderness although there is very little wilderness in Ireland. You’ve noticed it isn’t featured on any survival reality shows.

 

But we had heard rumors of a motorhome site called the Barrow Valley Activities Hub (or “The Hub” for short) that campers were raving about. An “activities hub” did not sound like what we were looking for in a camping experience, but it was just over an hour away, and we thought maybe we should see just what all the “hubbub” was about. We could then check it off our list of places never to return to.

It was with this sense of impending disappointment that I clumsily knocked my phone into the toilet as I was packing my things. Now I was really losing my enthusiasm for the trip. I was thinking, let’s just get this over with.

No site complete without a castle

 

The Hub is on the banks of the river Barrow just at the edge of the small town of Graiguenamanagh (graig-nah-manna in English and I don’t recommend you try to say it in Irish). We
found it is indeed a hub for nearby swimming, boating, kayaking, fishing, hiking, history indulging and dining. A right little spot!

Since it was Monday, it wasn’t crowded but we were told you have to book way in advance for a pitch on the weekend. I was delighted to have an electric hookup for the luxuries of the microwave and hair
dryer.

 

After we got settled we strolled the two minutes into town to have a look. We were no sooner on the main street than we heard the faint sound of a choir from somewhere indistinct. 13th century Duiske (meaning black water) Abbey, at the center of town, seems to hover over and cradle the surrounding shops like a giant protective beast from middle earth. We read that it was the largest Cistercian abbey in Ireland. The church is still intact and in use, while the other medieval remains radiate through the town like fossilized tentacles, mostly taking the shape of fragmented walls here and there.

Duiske Abbey from the back 

As we neared the angelic voices, they began to sound less like heavenly choristers and more like a boisterous band of inebriated crooners.

 

Wait….aren’t they singing Wild Mountain Thyme??? We entered Doyle’s pub in front of the church and were instantly assimilated into a circle of robust revelers with lifted pints. A friendly nod indicated we should join right in… which I did but Dixie was reluctant. When the last strains of “Will ye go lassie go” ended, we were told this was the “afters" of a funeral.

Inside Doyle's

I

Should have guessed. It’s not uncommon for friends and family to gather at the favorite “local” of the deceased and celebrate a life well lived (or not) with whiskey and song. We offered our sincere condolences, apologized for intruding and went on our way…. but not until we were told that there is a trad session held in the pub the last Monday of every month. Dang, we were just one week too early! 

The pub was a real charmer, with one side being a hardware/staples store and the other side a bar. This is the traditional layout of an Irish pub and there are few left in the country. We came back in the evening and, though the "afters" were ongoing, we enjoyed a couple of pints.

Inside Doyle's, store and pub

Back at the campsite we relaxed, had some late lunch and met the neighbors. Throughout our two days we met the nicest people ever. Right folks! Several were newbies like us and we shared stories and insights and personal aspirations.

 

I was especially touched by one woman who began by talking about buying the camper, but became more open as the conversation went on and the men walked away. She was fearful of becoming invisible to her children and grandchildren as she aged. It felt good to be a stranger’s confidant if but for a few moments. I knew there was much more to her story and I wished we could have spent more time together. I hope our paths will cross again.

I want to live in this house please.

There’s a section of the Columban Way hiking circuit along the edges of Graiguenamanagh right beside the river and we found ourselves walking along it throughout the day. The weather was spectacular and the scenery was stunning and private. 

There is a series of weirs and locks (I learned about weirs and locks) on the path between Graiguenamanagh and St Mullins, five miles away. We walked halfway there (where we were told there was a fabulous cafe by the river) but then turned back, because I knew I’d be “knackered” if I tried to walk the whole way and back.

Lock keeper's house

In Graiguenamanagh we found three historic, attractive little pubs that we loved and a nice cafe on the waterfront. There were three river walks as well as a scenic, refreshing woodland path. Between the eating, drinking, socializing and exploring, it was a right two days. We said we’d come back.

And we did! The next Monday! Knowing there would be a trad session at Doyle’s, and armed with the fiddle and the guitar, we decided to spend another relaxing couple of days at the Hub. When we arrived we went straight to the pub to find out what time the music would begin.

“Oh sorry, the music session has been cancelled tonight. There’s a funeral.” Wuuut???!!!