SALMON FISHING IN THE YEMEN

I loved Paul Torday’s novel Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.  It was a book that was immediately witty, clever, satirical but also gentle, with finely drawn characters whose pursuit of love and the meaning of life was beguiling.  I laughed out loud in places and I cried too. It is a book that remains on my top ten recommended reads

The story is a wild one involving salmon fishing, a multimillionaire sheik with mystical tendencies and Scottish castles, waddis in the Yemen and a thinly disguised Blair like government with its dedication to spin.  Central to the story is the colourless Alfred Jones, a professor of things fishy who works for the Department of Fisheries, Harriet Chetwode Talbot who works for the investment company representing the Sheik and the PM’s Press Secretary, who one would certainly puts me in mind of one Mr Alastair Campbell (or rather how I would imagine said Mr Campbell was during his incarnation in that role).  But running just underneath the improbably and comedic storyline are stories of love – love lost, unrequited love, and the possibility of love.  The novel was a stunning debut by Paul Torday who was in his late 50s when it was published.

So I was very excited to see that it had been made into film but nervous also that the big screen would destroy some of the gentleness of the book.  I need not have worried.  Lasse Halstrom’s Salmon Fishing in the Yemen is as good as a movie based on a book gets.  This is due in no small part to Ewan McGregor’s brilliantly sympathetic and subtle portrayal of the main character of Alfred Jones, Professor of all things fishing.  It is a beautiful performance which doubtless makes this movie.  But McGregor is also aided by strong performances by Amr Waked who plays Sheik with a mytical and philosophical bent and the wonderful Kristin Scott Thomas who plays the PM’s ball breaking Press Secretary, Patricia Maxwell with wild abandon.  Emily Blunts performance as Harriet Chetwode Talbot doesn’t let down either.

In the end, much like the book, this is a feelgood movie.  In these dark days of rescession it is wonderful to be reminded of the fact that a ridiculous idea like that of the Sheik’s Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, almost works.  As he says in the film, “it’s all about faith.”   And he is right, indeed it is.  

ANIMAL MAGIC IN OZ

This is what I hope will be the first in a series of blog posts about our visit to Australia to visit emigrant daughter, Carla. In this first post I focus on Australia's amazing wildlife.

Stepping out of the modest terminal building, into the heat soaked air of late afternoon, on arrival in Perth, the first thing I noticed was the bird sounds. My ears were still tuned to the twittery gentle sounds of our little speckled brown birds but now they were assaulted by loud caws and something that sounded like demented duck quacking. As I looked up towards the trees around the car park there were flashes of blue and green as parrots and cockatoos swooped about conducting their own opera. After 24 hours travelling, this more than anything else brought it home to me that I was somewhere very far from home, somewhere exotic and somewhere with a unique beauty that was very different to Ireland.

I hadn’t expected to find myself in a land where the native animals would be such a huge part of our holiday experience. I dream of some day going on safari to Africa... to wonder at the big cats, elephants, rhinos etc. But I hadn’t expected to find the same thrill down under – naivety and ignorance on my part no doubt.

We always check out the local zoo when abroad and Perth was no different. Like most modern zoos it was committed to animal welfare and conservation. We spend a happy day wandering through the habitats. But a day out to Cavesham Wildlife Park was one of the highlights of our holiday. Dedicated to native Australian animals, it provided us with an opportunity to get up close and personal with Kangaroos.

Being old enough to have fond memories of Skippy, I have a natural affection for roost but hadn’t expected them to feel so soft. They have a casual indifference to us humans and are very Aussie in their laid back, devil may care kind of attitude. We stroked them and talked to them sure they would be captivated by our Irish brog

ue. Nah, they were entirely indifferent. They also walk funny. When bent on where they are going, they zoom along on their back legs with help from their tail. But when just cruising around they kind of crawl – using their ‘hands’ also... making them look fierce awkward. The other weird thing is seeing mammy roos with babies in their pouches... sometimes upside down so it’s just a pair of little roo feet that protrude! I can’t imagine how suffocating it must be to have your little head stuffed into your mammy’s pocket when the temperature is 35 degrees!

But for me the highlight of Cavesham was meeting a Koala. I have always been unmoved by Koalas. They look so cuddly but seem to have no personalities. But when I caught the eye of a keeper and charmed him (yeah – round of applause please for the ole wan still able to occasionally charm someone) into letting me talk to his Koala I was smitten. Her name was Karen and like all Koalas she spends 80% of her time asleep and the rest eating Eucalyptus leaves which seem to induce them into a kind of blissful trance. I stroked Karen’s back and she looked into my eyes and what can I tell you..... we connected..... on some level beyond physical communication. I am sure she still thinks about me! I hope she is well.

But if Karen the Koala was the highlight of Cavesham, for me the animal highlight of our trip to Perth was our day spent at Shoalwater Marine Park in Rockingham. Shoalwater is home to dolphins, sea lions, penguins and many seabirds including pelicans and osprey. We began our day with a trip out on a RHIB (rigid inflatable boat) to see dolphins. We cruised out to a couple of coves where we did indeed see dolphins (including a mother with a baby), all of whom were busy feeding and so weren’t up for engaging with us too much. My heart was beginning to sink, thinking ‘sure we’d see better in Killiney Bay any morning’ when our skipper announced that we were going to head out at high speed into open water to see if we could locate some more dolphins who had perhaps finished breakfast.

An exhilarating ride later and sure enough we found a pod of about ten dolphins who were all up for some craic. After watching them swim around and under our boat, Skipper then announces that we are going to see if they really want to play. “Can everyone move to the back of the boat so we can ride really fast and create some waves.” We all hung on as we shot through the water at high speed... “look out the back” the skipper called.

We all turned around and there behind our boat were the dolphins surfing the waves we were creating and jumping out of the water and clearly having a great time. It was sublime joy – for them and for us. “If no one is in a hurry back, let’s do that again” says the captain. Not surprisingly no one objected. It was magical and emotional.... the sheer joy of living that these dolphins exhibited was infectious. The sad fact is that dolphins in captivity – you know the ones in the dolphin shows in theme parks etc - on average live for about ten years. In the wild a dolphin will generally live to be about 45. I ask you to consider this before you visit a dolphin show!

We took our leave of the dolphins and cruised to ‘seal island’ – a colony of rare Australian sea lions. We viewed them from the boat as they sunned themselves on the beach above which was a pelican rookery. A flock of about 6 pelicans swooped low over the water within feet of the boat, as we watched young sea lions play in the shallow water around the boat.

We saw ospreys fishing off rocks, ancient fossilised cliffs and finally paid an onshore visit to Penguin Island where we swam in the clear blue green water of the Indian ocean. Afterwards we sat on the sand as the sun dried us and I felt that old childhood feeling of salt tingling as it dried on my skin.

As the sun sank towards the horizon we took the ferry back to the mainland to our car for our journey back to Perth. It is a day I will remember forever as being as darn near perfect as it is possible to have!

Photos are all, of course by Paul Sherwood. www.sherwood.ie

GRAVE TALES FOR EASTER

Every so often I get to interview someone who really fascinates me with their particular stories or expertise.

Recently I travelled out to Glasnevin Cemetery to talk with historian and chief tour guide, Shane MacThomais who enthralled me with stories and facts about Glasnevin and other graveyards in Dublin.

MacThomais has written a book, called Dead Interesting, describing stories of the rich, famous, infamous and ordinary citizen and which is well worth a read.

He also told me that gravediggers are (to his knowledge) all men - the last bastion of male dominance, perhaps. Gravediggers also "to a man" wish to be cremated!

And did you know, that certainly in Glasnevin buying a plot is all about 'location, location, location'.

My interview with Shane is now up on the writing.ie website and you can read it here.

Normal service shall be resumed if I return from down under!!

GETTING YOUR MACNAS ON

There was a great item on the radio this morning. In the middle of a stressful couple of hours dealing with blocked drains (as in sewage pipes) I retreated to my office and turned on the radio, just in time to hear Ella McSweeney talking about excited cows. Yes – that’s right, excited cows. Ella had recorded a piece yesterday on a farm in Wicklow where she accompanied a farmer to his sheds as he prepared to ‘turn out’ the cows. After four long months spent indoors eating cow food and silage, the cows were about to be released back into the fields and boy were they excited? The mooooed long mooos and they kicked and skipped in a cow fashion as he opened the barn doors. Through the radio I could sense their exhilaration as they gained their freedom and their senses were bombarded by the smell and sight of fresh grass and wide open fields. Apparently it’s called Macnas – the joyful abandon of a cow let loose in a field. It was the kind of radio that made me smile and helped restore my internal equilibrium after a shitty morning (pardon the intended pun).

Internal equilibrium or balance is vital to good mental health. So it is entirely appropriate that today is the Vernal or Spring Equinox when the hours of light and darkness are exactly equal. Balance is something we all need in our lives. It is so easy for things to go out of synch and become polarised. One of my favourite affirmations is “bring all things to balance, harmony will follow.”

Like the cows in Wicklow the Spring Equinox is also about moving forward, preferably with joyful abandon. Equinox reminds us to be fully awake and engaged in our world. Spring is here, sap is rising and in the natural world it’s all about fertility, hence the association of Easter with rabbits (ultimate symbol of rampant fertility) and eggs!

It is time to be like the cows and their macnas..... get outdoors, feel the wind in your hair, the gentle rays of the sun on your face and the pulse of new life bursting forth in nature. It is also about creativity, whether that means baking a cake or being a co-creator, with Mother Nature, of abundance in your garden by making ready the soil and planting seeds.

Perhaps it’s my Celtic pagan heritage but I love reflecting on these old ‘wheel of the year’ markers. Awareness of these agricultural and astrological marker days provides us with a pause in our busy lives, even if only to be aware of the turning of the year. I like that.

Photo by Cheeseslave on Flickr

WHAT IT MEANS TO BE IRISH....

I have a love hate relationship with Paddy’s Day for many reasons, not least of which is that I hanker after the simpler way in which we celebrated our national day when I was a child... but that could be just my age. I may be incubating my inner ‘grumpy old woman’.

Given that we are approaching the day of national celebration and the fact that some of my unease stems from disconnect or gap that exists between what is really is to be Irish and how the Irish are portrayed, last night as we sat having dinner we decided to explore this huge question. What does it mean to be Irish?

Taking part in the conversation was husband, who is English and the two youngest daughters aged 13 and 11. We came up with a list of what it really means to be Irish.... This is our family view and I present it for your consideration and entertainment.

Being Irish means you talk a lot... This is something that particularly affects our family but as we regularly compare Irish families we know with British families we know, we think that this is definitely an Irish trait. The gift of the gab is apparently more than just a tired cliché. We see this as a positive.

Being Irish means we are sweary... Yeah, this is fair enough. We are great at swearing and even break up words to stick a swear word in the middle – abso-bleedin-lutely. This is probably neither positive nor negative. But we are kind of proud of this dubious aspect of our Irishness too.

Being Irish means we do a lot of slagging.... This is probably one of the most useful Irish traits and one that often other nationalities don’t get. And the secret of good slagging is that nothing is sacred. Irreverent slagging – brilliant.

Being Irish means we need to know everything about everyone... Again we think it’s the height of bad manners not to be interested in other people. Some nationalities might see this as being nosey but we think it should be taken as a compliment if, when we meet you, we interview you too.

Being Irish means we are loud... Well, we feel there is no point in talking if no one can hear you.. So yeah, loud and proud of it too.

Being Irish means the tricolour... Now this was interesting. I asked my girls if they knew the significance of the Green, White and Orange in our national flag. Oh, they sure did. It is not quite the meaning I was taught but in this era of peace and tolerance perhaps it’s very appropriate. Here is the new meaning of the tricolour.

Green – is for the fields of Ireland

Orange – is for the red heads

White – is the colour of our skin.

Being Irish means drinking... We had a long debate about this one and in the end conceded that yep, Ireland has probably earned her reputation as drinkers although we do feel that the reputation is actually larger than our drinking. But we are proud of Irish pubs which are now found in almost every corner of the world.

Being Irish means ‘the craic’..... We think that only Irish people truly understand what having the craic is about. It’s fun, it’s slagging, it uproarious, and it’s the ultimate feel good. We think it’s one of the best things about being Irish.

Being Irish means we are very connected to our spirituality.. Not all of us of course but these are all generalisations. We think that (in general) Irish people are very spiritual. From the good Catholics and CofI’s to the pagans we think there is a high degree of believing we are part of a bigger picture in Ireland. We also have some wonderful ancient pagan monuments and of course we own Halloween. This is almost as good as the craic. We like this very much.

Being Irish means we are cool... I was so thrilled to hear my children (13 and 11) announce that being Irish meant we are cool. In these days of depression and recession, our children are still proud to be Irish... that’s just bloody great!

Being Irish means (like it or hate it) we have Paddy’s Day... For us the most interesting thing about Paddy’s Day is that it is so widely celebrated all over the world.

Being Irish is all about being a small country with a long reach.... we are all over the world once again.

So wherever you are, whether you are Irish or not can we wish you Happy St Patrick’s Day... curse away, have a jar, plenty of craic and then interview someone you don’t know very well!

With thanks to Roisin, Mia and Paul

IT'S WORLD BOOK DAY

Some of my best friends are books.

Some of the best trips I have ever taken have been within the pages of a good book.

Books have a gentle power to raise your spirit, open your mind, and touch your heart.

There are few pleasures more sublime that starting a new book which holds the promise of a great escape into another world.

Being an enthusiastic reader, with ambitions to one day write a book, I love going to hear established favourite authors doing readings and being interviewed. I love to hear how they write, where they write, what inspires them and how they started. Not surprisingly good writers often are great talkers. I have been enthralled by Alexander McCall Smith (wonderful raconteur), Melvyn Bragg (oh the intellect), Patrick Gale (who lives what seems like an idyllic life) and our own Maeve Binchey (master storyteller). These evenings have all been interesting, amusing and inspiring, not to mention a cheap night out.

Dun Laoghaire is probably one of the best places in the country to live if you like books and writing. Dun Laoghaire Rathdown Library Service runs the wonderful Library Voices series of talks by writers, along with the annual ‘Mountains to Sea Dun Laoghaire Book Festival’. And down the road is Dalkey which now also holds an annual Book Festival.

Of my three daughters, two have been reading since they were first able to make sense of words on a page – which is just as well as I was an awful reader of bedtime stories. Tucking my babies into bed and settling myself beside them to read, usually resulted in my snoring gently long before they did. My dear eldest, who is now living in Perth, never read despite my regular encouragements. But (and listen up all you parents who fret about your children reading) when she began to commute into town, as the ripe old age of 23 she discovered the joy of books. Once again, the sight of any of my girls with their head in a book never fails to make me smile. It’s as joyous as watching a line of washing blowing around in the spring breeze. And I love hearing the regular cries of “mom, I’ve nothing to read.”

When I think of children and books I always think of Gaybo on the Late Late Toy Show who always began the book segment by saying that giving the gift of a book to a child is to give for life... how right he was. Santa always brings books to this house.

Like most readers I also love a good bookshop. To wander around shelves crammed with wonderful characters, tales from all around the globe and from all periods of history including the future is truly magical. The air is heavy with possibilities. Libraries offer similar promise coupled with wonderfully eclectic noticeboards offering local courses and services. When my girls were younger the local library was a great way to pass the afternoon and again cost nothing.

The only thing, associated with reading and books that I don’t really like is book clubs, which surprised me. I did join one for a while but it brought out the worst in me (she says honestly). I realised how much I don’t like being told what to do – as in ‘this is the book we are all reading this month.’ I cheated when it was my turn by suggesting books that I had already read so I could have a month off to read my own books. Whatever personality fault I have, meant that I couldn’t take the talking and debating the book seriously. I reverted to my teenage schoolgirl self, messing, making facetious remarks and disagreeing just for the sake of it. I decided to leave the club (although some of my best pals are in it), before I was asked to behave which would have been the ultimate humiliation. I suppose my ideal book club would be where each person would bring a good book they had read on the basis of ‘bring a book, take a book.’ But then again I do this with my bookish friends informally anyway.

I have a rule which says that life is too short and too full of good books to spend time reading a book you are not enjoying. You know that feeling when you go to bed and remember the book you are reading is not doing it for you. That’s a sign to abandon book and pick up another. It’s the reverse response to a good book – which you dread finishing, because you don’t want it to end.

Finally – books are meant to be shared. Don’t clutter your home by hanging onto every book you have ever read. Swop them, donate them to your local charity shop or take them to a second hand bookshop where you will get credit you can use to get more!

I am about to start the latest book by one of my favourite authors (Dun Laoghaire Library Service take note) – The Legacy of Hartlepool Hall by Paul Torday. Paul’s first novel Salmon Fishing in the Yemen remains one of my all time favourites and it has recently been made into a movie which will be released here just after Easter. I have seen it and it’s a gem. I will post a review in due course!

So if you have time today pop by your local bookstore and pick up a book – it’s World Book Day and you’re worth it!

Happy Reading....

Photo of my 'To Be Read' book shelf where my books are minded by my owls!

BE SPECIFIC ABOUT WHAT YOU WISH FOR

Do you believe in the power of prayer? Or as it is more trendily called lately – cosmic ordering? Do you think that our thoughts carry power? Can our minds influence our future?

At the risk of losing any bit of street cred I may have, I do believe that we are powerful beyond our belief. I do believe in the power of positive thinking. I believe in the power of visualisation. I do believe that our thoughts carry power. And ergo as I believe there is a higher power I believe in the power of prayer or cosmic ordering.

It therefore goes without saying that my children think I am bats.. well except for the eldest one, now living in Perth, Western Australia where she is making her dreams come true. But my 13year old and my 11 year old definitely do not value my wisdom at all and much to my delight consider me an awful embarrassment. Although recently the universe (or God or whatever) decided to show my 13 year old how visualisation and prayer or cosmic ordering works with amazing results. And I think it might have changed her mind.

Regular readers will remember that over the summer and autumn we fostered kittens for the DSPCA. It was hard work and great fun. The last fostering we did was a mammy cat and her 4 black kittens. 13 year old fell in love with one who she was convinced loved her. “He sits on my lap and he loves me” she reported regularly, followed by “can we keep him, pleeeeease”. Now we already have four resident cats – which is loads, so my standard response to her plaintiff cries was “no, we are not going to be a five cat household”.

But she went on and on and on... for weeks, for months. Her argument was that none of our resident cats loved her specifically. Kitty (our youngest cat) loves the 11 year old, basically sharing her bedroom day and night. I stood my ground.

But one evening at dinner, when I must have been in a particularly mellow mood, she quietly once again made her case for getting her own cat. She described how he would be a gentle, playful cat, black and white and he would love her. She had that distant look in her eyes as she daydreamed about her imaginary cat.

“Listen” I said, putting down my knife and fork, “if this is really important to you and something you really want, just carry on visualising it. In your mind see exactly what your cat looks like, see him sleeping on your bed and sitting on your knee.”

“But Mom, you said that we can’t have more than four cats so how would we get this new cat?”

“You don’t worry about that at all. Leave all the details to God. You just put your wish to have a cat to call your own out there and then forget about it.”

She looked at me dubiously but she did shut up. We had about ten days free of her moaning about getting a new cat.

Then one afternoon I was coming home town when my phone rang. It was the girls excitedly telling me that a stray cat had appeared in the front garden and wouldn’t go away. This happens occasionally with dogs and cats but usually an owner is found pretty quickly. “Can we let him in the house, it’s really cold out” they implored. “No way” was my answer, with visions of how quickly our house could be destroyed by fighting cats and our dog thrown into the mix for good measure. I told them they could give him some food in the garden but that was it.

When I pulled up in the driveway about half an hour later, there he was. A black and white young cat sitting on the window sill as if waiting for me to arrive. I addressed him immediately “you needn’t get any ideas buster... you are going home”. He looked very like a neighbour’s cat. Girls were dispatched to check that out. But no, he wasn’t theirs. By now it was dark and it was very cold and cat had stubbornly stayed by our front door. “Ok, I said we will let him in carefully and see what happens.”

Amazingly nothing much happened. The other cats were mildly curious but not that bothered. Dylan our daft dog got madly over excited like he does about everything but even that was short lived. So cat was allowed to stay the night. He found one of our cat beds under a radiator and slept for hours.

Next morning common sense was again employed. “We must find his owners” I lectured the girls. “We will drive around to see if there are any notices up on nearby estates and then we will take him to the vet to see if he is micro chipped.” There were no notices and there was no micro chip. The vet confirmed that he was about a year old, intact (not been spayed) and in good condition.

“What am I going to do?” I asked, “I have already have 4 cats... I don’t want another.”

“He belongs to someone,” the vet said “I think you should let him out and he may just go home.”

This seemed like sage advice which we followed. Cat immediately set off at a stately pace down the road. “See”, I said to 13 year old “he has remembered where he lives and he has gone home. Somewhere his family will be very happy to see him.”

That was Saturday.

On Monday in the early afternoon I got a call from the vets.

“You don’t still have that black and white cat do you” she asked.

“No”, I said proudly “we took your advice, let him out and off he went. I presume he’s gone home.”

“Em, no he didn’t. He was picked up yesterday by a lady who found him on the central reservation of the N11. She couldn’t keep him, he’s back here."

At 4pm that day I picked up 13 year old from school and instead of driving home, headed for the vets. When we pulled up outside, she looked at me quizzically.

“There is someone here waiting for you,” I said.

Sometimes I can be a bit slow on the uptake, even with my own wisdom. The universe had sent my 13 year old her cat, exactly as she had visualised; black and white and full of personality and affection. And yes, he does love her. He sits on her knee and sleeps on her bed. Most of all though he knows that he is where he is meant to be.

So now – I want a weekly newspaper column; one where I can write about anything that tickles my fancy or moves me or annoys me. I also want a regular radio gig....reviewing the morning’s newspapers where I could focus on the positive and off beat stories to help cheer us all up?

Right – got that Universe? Watch this space!!!

Photo of Felix relaxing (yep, he does sleep that way sometimes) by 11year old!