Chips, mustard and pints
The tent is still up in the garden and is now full of rainwater and a few soggy teddies. Despite multiple reminders to keep it zipped up, the children do not pay heed to such boring instruction when there’s far more interesting distraction. I understand, I can be guilty of not listening to myself when there’s fun to be had elsewhere. I repeat in my head, ‘don’t forget to water the polytunnel’. I wonder should I bring in the washing or risk it? Is it wise to have two cocktails? In my internal conversations I can be right and wrong, I can be glad and I can be humbled. Surely it’s good to be challenged. It’s always good to be open to a change of mind or opinion, otherwise you’re at risk of losing your humanity, your empathy, your connection.Yehuda Amichai portrays this sentiment much more beautifully in this poem.
I base dinner proudly around my new mustard- grabbed from the Eastern European section of the Supervalu in Carn; which when empty, will serve as a cute mini glass tankard such is the design. My favourite use of my current top condiment is in a super zingy salad dressing and I look at my garden harvest of beans, tomatoes, lettuce and courgette only seeing the possibility of the deliciousness of slurpy spiciness ahead. I feel a bit forlorn when my companions admit they don’t like mustard at all, sadly this happens frequently being a lover of the sometimes divisive; olives, fennel, blue cheese etc.
This one has a gentler quality than some mustards, like the first ‘senf’ I tried atop würsts at the Münsterplatz market in Ülm on a school trip. ‘Not that much better’, we all agreed at the time, than the mustard on a Micky D’s Big Mac, oh such wise and clever teenagers as we were. Of course, now having developed an appreciation of taste and disregarded being cool amongst my peers I can tell you that is not true. The reminiscing about that German adventure reminds me to use the last of the cherries in a reproduction of the magnificent BFG; the excellently named Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte.
I bumped into an old friend this week from those formative school days, at the horrendously overwhelming soft play on a rainy Sunday morning when I thought naively that we might be the only ones there. We greeted each other the way old friends do wondering where to pick up from all the lost years of friendship, our once easy conversation erratic as we try and smooth it out with certainties. I felt so happy to see her and when I joked about the disaster of my moving schools for sixth year, I thought I noticed a tiny hint of a sadness that I’d left her there at the school we insisted we hated. I often think it might’ve been better to have stayed.
She used to holiday up on Fanad in Donegal, a headland over from Melmore where I preferred at the time, though I didn’t know about the winding coast road where the Knockalla bends twist down from the top of the hill and Ballymastocker Bay opens up below in a view so unbelievable it takes your breath away. I didn’t know about the romantic wildness of the lighthouse right at the edge of our land where we saw the Minkie whale once or the village and beach at beautiful Rathmullan where now we go every year in winter.
Our favourite summer spot is Inishowen and we were back there last week.
After dinner I sat out on the little bench in front of the pebble dashed cottage. The pebbles are mixed with odd bit of cobalt blue glass, shell and tiny smooth white stones. The high hedge on the other side of the road lessens the impact of north westerlies and as the sun descends on it’s journey westwards towards Malin head I watch the birds. The swallows are busy here, zipping up and down the road, low to the tarmac, feasting. One startles a blackbird, it’s sudden outburst makes me laugh and I wonder if there is an understanding between them, an angry exchange. The garden of the house is bordered with bright pink and purple hydrangea, fuscia and a clump of gooseberry, long picked but turned into jam. Margaret has kindly left a little jar of it in the fridge for us, as she does every year. With a Kinnegar in hand I feel as calm as can be looking out at the dull Atlantic waves. I wonder if the weather will dampen the holiday mood.
For four days we go out adventuring from late morning to early evening, exploring Moville to Ballyliffin and instead of cooking at the cottage we enjoy chowder, crab claws and chips and the kids dig into multiple bags of Tayto crisps and cheese toasties. In the dunes we duck out of the way of the slow and low flying six spot burnet moths and I show the children how the cinnabar moth caterpillar completely devour the ragwort where they’ve emerged, warning them not to touch the stripy creatures who cleverly soak up the toxins of the plant becoming poisonous to predators. It’s a lovely luxury to move around the peninsula with no plans, ambling along in no hurry to gorgeous quiet beaches and playparks, searching for cowries, swimming at Kinnego and Culdaff (the water can be up to 2 degrees warmer than home!) and always restored with a pint in the pub, armed with a deck of cards and this great game for entertainment . On the way back on the short ferry crossing the eldest spots dolphins in the waves and a small pod joins us for the journey; somersaulting out of the water beside us, making everyone squeal with delight. Magical holiday memories and an excellent mustard, perfect.
Looking forward to this gorgeous event with our friends at Yarn in a couple of weeks, would love to see you there! A delicious welcome cocktail, a feast of local harvest, fascinating chats from incredible folk Dr Máirtín Mac Con Iomaire and Kris Platt, whiskey round the fire and dancing into the late night! Get tickets here
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I enjoy reading all your writings Ciara, you write very well. C k
Those loaded fries look like a heart attack waiting to happen further down the road. I would opt for your tomato toast 😜 We might be heading to Donegal mid August for few days to explore the beaches. Would love to see Fanad area. It's a long drive from North Kerry 🙄