A narrow road snakes its way up the hill from the harbour — we’re on St Helena Island, 1690nm from Cape Town —we follow it to the top and stop to catch a glimpse of the cold Atlantic Ocean cradled between her breasts. The swell is gentle and rolls in slowly while a bank of clouds hangs over the water like an albatross.
Everything is still, but we’d rather be back on the boat.
I cracked the shell with the back of the knife, pried the halves apart with my thumbs and dropped the egg into the hot pan. Plop. I signed off with a flick of my left wrist and there it was …
Yang [pronounced yong], a sign.
The sunny side. Up !
Spring can only start her frolic when winter has truly finished his diabolic dance. ”Each season will become the next, when the time is right.”
That’s the cycle of the sun.
I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger, and then it hit me.
Twinkle Toes.The sun’s out, I should be dancing!
You know what I’m saying! - I never got enough of those Atlantic crossing stories.
I hear you .
Just because we live on the west coast and you all live in the future, doesn’t mean that I can’t post a St. Patrick’s Day post today. It’s only been a week. Or seven days. And nights. Oh, OK. I’ll get to the point.
These are pottery coasters that I
took got from my Mom. They look like large green pottery Irish coins, well they are large green pottery Irish coins. We had them at home in the living room that was only used on Sundays or on special occasions like Christmas, or Sundays or when it was really cold and we all wanted to sit by the fire. There were more of them, but they broke. Not then, but after I took got them.
The condensation from my ice cold glass of white wine would trickle down the stem like a raindrop and make the base stick to the coaster. I’d pick up the glass to take a sip and the coaster would follow, but not for long. It would drop like a boxer after a smack to the chin, roll like a penny towards the skirting boards and smash.
They don’t bounce off tiles either.
Spring has sprung, the grass is ris
but I’m still bloody cold, I is.
Ireland, Summer on the Shannon, 1995.
A glorious summer (yes, no rain) with my uncle and aunt on their barge. We sailed from their home in Shannon Harbour, past Clonmacnois to Athlone, on up through Lough Ree and to the north, to Enniskillen. We caused quite a stir along the way and especially through the locks, it was a tight fit.
I can’t remember where we were tied up when I took this photograph, but I can remember the smooth velvety Guinness, the sharp, nutty cheddar we had with lunch, plates of steaming mashed potatoes dotted with butter, asparagus wrapped in ham and the sweet smell of Bushmills as we all kissed goodnight.