What was I looking forward to most, on my holidays? What was I thinking about most in the weeks beforehand, in the days getting stuff ready, on the drive to the airport, in the plane, on the drive out to Gruissan Plage? On those succulent days before a holiday?
Was it the sunshine, the warmth, the sound of the waves wafting up from the beach? Bare feet and sandals, no socks? The beach, stretching itself out long and lovely, exotic in sunshine? Non, monsieur. Non, madame. Continue reading “On Gruissan Plage. 2: Bonjour, une Baguette S’il Vous Plaît”
It is evening. I am writing on the balcony. The sun is slanting across the chalets. Its light is softening, running to red.
The chalets are mostly white, white legs, white bodies, their gables ends pristine and clear.
Shadows rise. The shadows of electrical wires rise on walls. Continue reading “On Gruissan Plage. 1: The Evening.”
Reader, I cried.
Cop yourself on, says I, it’s only a bloody a match and it’s only a quarter-final, we won nothing. Then I looked over at Martin and a fine big tear dropped out of his eye onto his cheek and I thought, yes, why not? Why not cry after that experience, that communion, that transportation. Continue reading “Cork v Tipperary Part 2 We kept the faith.”
The morning sun talks about today. The evening sun talks about tomorrow.
I love the evening sun the best.
The morning light’s a wonder, and it’s fresh. And whiter than the evening light, and pristine cool. It floats up over the hedge, bundled with optimism and energy, rising, encouraging something meaningful from the day. Expectant with significance, the morning sun. Continue reading “The morning sun, the evening sun”
I’m a rook, like, and I mainly hang around Rory Gallagher Square in Cork. I pecks away around the square, getting the odd bits and pieces that people drop on the ground.
I’m what you call a polyglot. That means I speak a lot of languages. I mean a lot of languages. It comes easy to birds, us rooks especially. Continue reading “The Hipster and the Rory Gallagher Square Rook “
The first thing Dermot and I noticed was the early evening drifting of seabirds, as the winter sun set over Ringaskiggy behind us. They looked like black-headed gulls but we couldn’t see, from the distance. What was most striking was the silence, as they flew in Vs of eight or ten or twelve. Seaward, over the narrow channel of water at East Ferry. They flew effortlessly, in precise lines, rotating to take the point of the V. Purposefully; a low white script against the background browns and blacks of the water and the far shore. Continue reading “Crow Time, Crow Space”
I’m the Echo Boy on Patrick’s Street. No, not that one, I’m the one across the road, outside the old Examiner Offices. I’m the statue.
I didn’t know I was a statue for a long time, actually. I used to be over on Cook Street and one day I heard a woman tell her daughter what I was, so that’s how I found out. Continue reading “The Echo Boy”