Lust, Guts and Tibetan Bowls in Cloona

          My friend, Deirdre and I are planning our return trip to Cloona.  Last December, we booked into the Cloona Health Retreat in Co. Mayo for a week.  What we really wanted was time together in a pampered environment and this was a compromise between India and no money.

On the Saturday before, I took the train from Cork to Dublin and attended a Blake/McCarthy family re-union in the Carlton Hotel.  I stayed overnight with my cousin, Fiona.  To my surprise Fiona knew about Cloona: she had been there before and her husband had been four times.              
That’s the extraordinary thing about Cloona, it does not advertise:  it’s all word of mouth.  Out of the 12 guests during my week there, nine had been before; they make it part of their annual routine.             
Back to Fiona, “Cloona is a place for reflection,” she said, “you’re not supposed to go with a friend.”  I shrugged.  I asked her what she liked about it, “It’s hard,” she said, “but by the end of the week, I always feel different. I can’t explain it and I don’t want to because your experience will be different from mine.  But I’d be interested to know what you think.
The following day,  Deirdre and I met up at Heuston station and boarded the train to Westport.  The train journey is over four hours yet the train to Cork is two and half; as the crow flies, Westport is closer to Dublin than Cork. 
The train was packed with people returning home from their Christmas shopping; Brown Thomas, Hollister and Abercrombie bags filled the overhead compartment and in between the seats.  The air hummed with chat and laughter and the minute the train set off, the other passengers started to eat.  Everybody seemed to have a picnic.  We hadn’t brought anything and went looking for the dining car.  We met two women standing by one of the exit doors as they waited to disembark at the next station who told us there was a vending machine in the last carriage but to access it you had to wait until the train stopped at the station, get off and hop back on again.  But they warned us it was risky: you could either be stuck in that carriage until the train stopped again or worse, be left behind.  We decided not to bother and were about to turn back when one of them said, “Here, I bought these sandwiches in Heuston but never got around to opening them,” and she handed me a triple decker pack with chicken, mayo and stuffing.  The other woman, immediately the other woman pulled out a bottle of Coke from her shoulder bag, “This hasn’t been opened either, you’re welcome to it.”
             We were met by taxi at Westport station driven by Mary. At Cloona, we made ourselves comfortable in the lounge and as other people arrived, we introduced ourselves.   When we were all present, Dara, the director of the retreat explained, “Life is all about making decisions.  It’s not the big decisions that determine your life but the little ones you make every day.  All decisions are made in your gut.  If your digestion is not working properly then you tend to make poor decisions.  When it is working properly you make the right decisions. Hence the term ‘gut instinct.’” 
             For breakfast we had choice of either apples or oranges or both, lunch was soup and salad and ‘dinner’ consisted of dried figs, kiwis and bananas.  On first rising in the morning, we drank two large glasses of tepid water.  Wait for ten minutes because as Dara explained that is how long it takes for water to pass through your gut, followed by a shot of wheatgrass which is sweet but disgusting, and got more disgusting as the week went on.  Wait a further 20 minutes for the wheatgrass to shuttle through your gut and then you feast on the apples and oranges.
             Breakfast was followed by hour and a half of gentle yoga, so soothing there was always someone snoring at the end of it.   After lunch, it was a walk with Dara in the prettiest countryside I have ever seen, it reminded me of scenes from Postman Pat when he does his rounds.   Dara taught us how to walk.  “Imagine your pelvis is a bowl,” he said, “brimming with water.  When you walk up the hill you tilt your pelvis up as if to keep the bowl level to stop the water spilling and when you walk down you do the opposite.”    It was difficult and it looked strange.  12 high visibility vests following their leader with pelvises tilted, passing motorists gave us wide berth.  
             After dinner, we had the sauna-time, my favourite part of the day.  The idea is to relax in the steaming heat for ten minutes, then hop into the brain-freezing, ice-cold showers for as long as you can stand it – it’s difficult not to scream – but then you have that delicious moment back into the sauna hut as you feel the heat seep into your bones.  
            As the week went on and we all got to know each other, our inhibitions melted away.  Shuffling around in dressing gowns and slippers became the norm.  Deirdre found a weighing scales.  Big excitement.  We lined up to weigh ourselves.  Everyone has gained exactly four lbs.  We asked Dara for an explanation, “You came here dehydrated, now you’re rehydrated.”  It was hard to hide the disappointment.   With all the fruit, salad and water we were consuming, it would have been nice to have lost something!
             To be fair, we were never actually hungry but food fantasies plagued us all. We escaped into Westport for half an hour on Wednesday afternoon; I nearly cried as we passed steamy café windows and saw cosy little pensioners settling down to pots of tea and slices of apple pie.  Deirdre wanted to visit the health food store and as she chatted to the cashier, I spotted chocolate and nut power balls on the counter.  “Would they be allowed?” I ask Deirdre, “they’re only little.”   The cashier looked at me horrified, “If Dara knew I sold you those he’d kill me!”  
             We meditated every morning - before the tepid water and wheatgrass - and evening, right before bed with Guy, the Buddhist.  He taught us laughter yoga.  Completely fake at first but the lunacy of it eventually catches on and the laughter becomes real.  “Your mind does not know that your body is faking it,” he said, “but it releases the happiness hormones anyway.”  Fake it until you become it.”
              Dara brought in therapists and we could sign up to whatever we liked.  Since we paid the therapists directly, they were excellent.  I chose, on Fiona’s recommendation, Declan for the deep tissue massage; he was just what I needed.  Deirdre went for the Tibetan bowls and said it was amazing.  Suzie, from Dublin also tried the bowls and described it “like the best orgasm you ever had multiplied by 100.”  Nuala emerged from the bowls sobbing but smiling and said, “I’ve made my decision.” Gavin read my horoscope; he told me I was leading too comfortable a life and to embrace my fiery side.       
              Fiona was right,  I did feel different. My taste buds sharpened; as the week went on fruit tasted sweeter. My body felt clean and strong; this in turn boosted my confidence and mental clarity.  It was a revelation to me that that fruit could constitute a meal.  I learned that there are other ways to comfort yourself other than food.    After all my lusting after coffee and cake, I felt a disdain for sugary foods and found myself gravitating to the good stuff.  
              Over Christmas I ate what I liked and actually lost 1 lb!!!  On Christmas day, I did make myself a cup of coffee but it tasted toxic and bitter.    It wasn’t until the following April, trying out a new café with my friend, Carmel that I allowed myself a ‘flat white’ coffee.  It was exquisite.  I keep it to one day.  
             Deirdre and I are going back this December.  It’s an odd time to take a break, right before Christmas, but after last year’s experience it works for me.  I sailed through the craziness of Christmas, the January blues didn’t touch me and I still had enough good will to spend a week with my mother in February. 

Going back is a must: those Tibetan bowls……...   

Turning 50 Shades of Grey

     “I’m turning 50 this year; I just want to put a bag over my head and hide!” wailed my friend, Donna who still looks like 12 years old to me.  What is it about hitting 50 that has us in the horrors and makes us think our lives are going to shudder to a halt?
     In November 2012, I attended my 30 year class reunion, Class of ’82, Regina Mundi.  Thanks to the efforts of Anne Nagle and Cara Murphy, there was an impressive turnout.  I nearly didn’t go.  I did feel a cold coming on but my husband said, “Put on your big girl knickers and get down there.”  I knew my best friend, Caroline couldn’t make it so other than curiosity what incentive was there for me to turn up. I enjoyed my time in Regina Mundi – too much – I spent more time in detention than in the classroom and as a result barely passed my Leaving Cert.  Yet….
     As it turned out I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. Kathy, now a solicitor living in Dublin, told us she drove as far as Limerick and nearly turned back; many others confessed to feeling the same way.    It was a great night.  Some people hadn’t changed at all while others had to declare themselves to us.  I was puzzled; I enjoyed myself and yet felt a little guilty for thinking I wouldn’t.  My former classmates were friendlier than I gave them credit for and as the night went on I realised I had more friends than I thought. Was my memory so wrong?
     Some days later I brought this up with my friend, Susie.  Susie went to school in Dublin and has attended every one of her class reunions from the five year up to twenty five. She explained, “When you are in your 20’s and 30’s your life is on an upward trajectory: everyone talks about how great college is, their great career, great husband, fabulous home, their wonderful children, places they’ve travelled, but once you turn 40 all that peer pressure falls away. You suddenly care less what people think.   When you turn 50, your attitude becomes ‘It’s so lovely to see you, how are you doing, are the kids ok?’”
     What I took away from the re-union apart from an enjoyable evening was a sense of perspective. No-one, not even the brainy ones or the pretty ones or the best dressed ones comes through life unscathed.  Every life is touched by sadness.   I felt a real sense of gratitude for what I had; I am still here and I am loved.
     At the hairdressers in June, a new girl was washing my hair.  We chatted about our plans for the summer.  She told me she was treating her mother to a week in Greece in September for her birthday.  She only looked about seventeen.  I said, “That’s very generous of you.” She replied, “Ah well, she’s turning 50, she won’t be around for ever!”

Katie's Nan

     In November 2012, I was invited by my friend, Mary to her daughter’s 18^th birthday party in The Tavern pub in Passage West.  Fashion is important to Mary so I made the effort to look ‘dressed up’.  I wore the only shoes I had with heels which happened to be black, black tights, black skirt worn below the knee and a black polo neck jumper.  

“How do I look?” I said to my son.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

     I looked in the mirror.  He was right.  ‘Ah, to hell with it,’ I thought, ‘I’m dressed now.’ I added sparkly earrings to lift the mood.
     I walked in the door of The Tavern, looked around but couldn’t see anyone I knew.  I went up to the barman and asked for Katie’s party.  He replied, “Upstairs.”  As I ran up the stairs I could hear the music pounding through the walls. 
     I opened the door. It was as if I had landed on another planet.  The boys looked normal enough but every girl seemed to be wearing 8 inch heels, had tanned bodies, hair extensions, sparkly stuff on their faces and long, painted nails. They were beautiful. I panicked. Walking through this forest of glittering people I searched desperately for someone I knew.  Finally, I spotted Katie.  I ran over to her. I gave her present, wished her happy birthday and said, “Where’s your mother?”  “Downstairs,” she said.  “Thank God,” and fled back down to the main bar. 
     Mary, her mother, brother, sister, husband Tony and about 12 other friends had taken over the corner of the lounge where a live band played all 70’s and 80’s classics.  We had a great night as we sang and swayed along to the music. At about 11 o’clock, Mary said to me, “Ger, will you give me a hand with the cake?”  “No problem.”
     Katie is a trainee hairdresser with Peter Marks and so the cake was made in the shape of a hair dryer.  Mary carried the cake up the stairs while I followed with the candles, box of matches and a breadknife.  At the top of the stairs, I held the cake while Mary lit the candles. I then flung open the door and Mary walked in with the cake.
     The DJ stopped the music.  Everyone gathered around Katie, Mary and the cake and sang ‘Happy Birthday’.  Katie blew out the candles, made a wish and everyone cheered. 
     The DJ re-started the music and as Katie and Mary danced together, I began to back away towards the door.  But just then, a pretty, blonde girl tottered over to me on her killer heels and catching both my hands started to sway to the music.  I decided to humour her and sway along too. After a minute or two, I looked at her kindly and said, “Are you Katie’s friend?”

She smiled back at me, “Yes,” she said, “are you Katie’s nan?”

My First Job

           My dad loved all things German.  Every second year, he travelled to Germany for a fortnight to practice the language.   In 1979 he decided to bring the family with him.  I was 16 and it was to be my first time abroad.  Because we were ‘doing Europe’ on a shoe string my mother warned us that if we wanted spending money we should save our pocket money.  Later that same day, I was in Douglas Shopping Centre when I spotted a white A4 sheet of paper stuck to the front door of Quinnsworth supermarket looking for part time staff to start immediately.  I filled out an application form and after a ten minute interview with the manager, Tony Keohane I was told to start the following Thursday. 
           My pay was 40 pence an hour.  My hours were 6 – 10 pm Thursday and Friday and all day Saturday.  The uniform was a knee length dirty orange house coat with chocolate brown slacks.  There were two other part-timers, Deirdre and Mary but they wanted nothing to do with me.
            I was paired with Angela Dalton who was in charge of the dairy section and helped her stack the butter cages.  Angela left school at 14.  She was ‘weak’ for Scott the new boy in the butcher’s section and told me to always down a pint of milk before drinking to ‘line your stomach.’   One time as we sat in the refrigerated storerooms surrounded by boxes of Frytex, Flora and Kerrygold she told me she loved poetry.  I looked at her surprised. “Yeah,” she said, and spouted, “I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o’er vale and hill. When all at once I heard a shout, ‘get off me fucking daffodils.”
            I loved the working life.  I got a kick out of walking through the double doors at the back of the shop marked ‘Staff Only.’  I loved having my own money and actually screamed the first time I saw a ten pound note in the little brown envelope that contained our weekly wages.  I thought I could buy up all of Cork.  I loved dealing with the public and being asked questions as if I was somebody who had something worth contributing.  My mother, alarmed at my enthusiasm told me, “In a way I’m glad you’re working there because then you’ll learn that is the kind of job you’ll get if you don’t work at school.”    Yet young as I was I found being ‘on my feet all day’ tiring.  Many a Friday evening I would crawl into my bed aching with tiredness and lie there listening to the balls of my feet throbbing.

One Friday evening at the end of my shift, I was walking slowly down the baby food aisle towards the double doors.  All at once I heard a shout, “Ger, hang on a sec.”  I turned around.  It was Mary, one of the other two part-timers.  She trotted towards me purposefully her thick, dead straight blonde hair flapping about her head in time with her efforts.  I waited, curious to know what she wanted having worked alongside her for six weeks and being completely ignored by her.  When she drew level with me, she swung her arm back and smacked me on the face.  The shock, the pain and the confusion - I never saw it coming.  Turning on her heel Mary ran away shrieking with laughter.      
I hesitated for a few seconds and then ran after her.  I wasn’t angry, I just wanted to know why.   Mary kept running and taking a sharp left by the Cornflakes she took refuge behind Catherine at the Pickn’Mix.  Catherine wore glasses thicker than bottle ends making her heavily mascara’d eyelashes look like smashed spiders. 

Mary shouted, “Don’t touch me, you’re mad.”  
I stopped still and said, “I’m mad?  You’re the one that hit me.”  
Mary laughed and peering over the bewildered Catherine’s shoulder, “Yeah, I know, I just wanted to see how you’d react.” 

It was the start of a beautiful friendship. 
 
All broken chocolate and opened bags of sweets had to be taken down the back of the storeroom to be discarded.  Mary and I ‘accidentally’ broke a lot of chocolate which we scoffed later.  On Saturdays we would buy a roast chicken between us and fresh baked bread rolls from the delicatessen and gorge ourselves in the canteen.   The full timers thought we were mad to be spending our hard earned money on food but to us it was a luxury.  For dessert we ate a family sized trifle.
One magical Sunday in June, when shops used to close on a Sunday, almost the entire Douglas branch travelled by bus to Dublin to participate in the Quinnsworth inter-branch football tournament.  The tournament was held in UCD’s playing fields and in my memory it was all blue skies, sun and endless laughter.  We ate our sandwiches sitting under a massive tree and I remember at one point laughing so much I threw up. The only reason I went was because I fancied Dan Harrington.  During the warm up session before a match, Dan was sitting on the ground stretching his ham strings when one of his testicles popped out of his shorts.  He seemed oblivious to the fact because he didn’t pop it back in.  It’s an image I’ll never forget and it put me right off him.      After all the football was over, there was a disco.  I love to dance.  Betty Higgins did this amazing shuffle where she seemed to move without lifting her feet off the floor; it was like Michael Jackson’s moonwalk before he ever made it famous.  I begged her to show me how to do it.  She waved me away, “Go ‘way, I’m scarlet” she said.  
Every Monday afternoon after school I walked to the Post Office in Capwell and lodged my earnings.  I remember one afternoon sitting at the kitchen table doing my homework while my mother washed the dishes in the sink.  She suddenly turned to me and said, “I hope you’re saving your money for Germany.”  “I am,” I said, “I’ve 200 pounds saved.”  She stared at me and it was then I realised I probably had more spending money than she did.
I intended working there forever but in the end I was sacked.  The supervisor, Eileen was regarded by everyone as evil. She was even horrible to her husband.    I somehow managed to evade her radar until Christmas Eve.  The anniversary of my grandfather's passing is Christmas Eve; every year my entire extended family remembered him by attending mass in Glounthaune church.   I was scheduled to be in work that day.  I didn’t know that I could request leave.  It didn’t occur to me that it would be polite to at least let them know I wouldn’t be there and given that it was Christmas Eve – the busiest day of the year I should have known that my absence would be even more noticeable.  The mass was lovely and afterwards I accompanied my mother into Quinnsworth where I was spotted by Eileen.  She stared at me long and hard while I stood next to my mother at the checkout.  I felt uncomfortable and sensed something was wrong.  
I returned to work the first Saturday after Christmas.  Some weeks previously I had written my name in black permanent marker on my locker.  This was apparently the ‘final straw’ for Mr Keohane and he told Eileen to fire me.  Eileen summoned me to the changing rooms and asked me to explain my vandalism.  I apologised. She led me to believe that I could make up for it by cleaning the ladies’ toilets.  I was instructed to clean inside and outside the toilets especially around the back and to scrub the floor by hand. Marie Piper one of the full timers helped me.  She wasn’t asked to help but said, “It’s a disgrace how you’re being treated.”  It took a good three hours but with Marie’s help, we did a great job.  I thought I’m surely back in Eileen’s good books now.  Eileen inspected my work.  She told me I did a good job.  She then told me I was fired.    
A few years ago, I bumped into Tony Keohane at an MBA dinner in Dunboyne House in County Meath.  He said he remembered me but I think he was being polite.  He was now the CEO of Tesco Ireland.  We had a lovely chat but he confided that Douglas was the worst place he had ever worked as the staff were difficult and ‘impossible to work with.’ 

Nobody Knows What I Do Until I Don't Do It

     I stood in my kitchen going through the day’s post. There was only one letter for me; a brown envelope with the Dept. of Education logo over the stamp.  Intrigued I ripped it open to find the transcript of my Leaving Cert results.   I had recently started a new job and during the interview I admitted that I couldn’t remember my exact results.  My new employer told me to write away for the transcript.   

     I smiled as I thought back to 1982 and my final days at school.  My 18 year old son walked into the kitchen.  I didn’t hear him come in.  Curious to see what had me so engrossed he peeked quietly over my shoulder.  He laughed in disbelief.

“I’m not impressed,” he said

“Don’t worry, nobody else is either,” I said smiling at him and quickly folded the letter back into its envelope.

“Can I see?” he asked.  I handed over the envelope and set about getting the dinner ready.

After scrutinising the letter for some minutes, he said, “So how many points did you get?”

“None.”

“But that’s impossible.  You can’t pass AND get no points.”

“I managed.  Anyway, it was a different system back then.”

“That’s no excuse.”

Just then my other two sons, aged 15 and 12 walked into the kitchen. 

“Mum got no points in her Leaving Cert,” said son aged 18, “can you believe that?”

Son aged 12 said, “What are points?”  I explained the points system to him.  When I finished, there was a short pause after which son aged 15 smiled and said, “Well that certainly takes the pressure off us then.”

A few minutes later, Son aged 12 asked, “So, how did you get Dad then?” 

“What do you mean ‘get’ him?”

“Dad went to college, you didn’t. Dad has a proper job, you don’t.”

“First of all, I didn’t ‘get’ him.  I didn’t set out to trap him like a butterfly in a net.”

“It’s really hard to catch butterflies.”

“You know what I mean.  I didn’t get him, I didn’t set out to get him.  It is a relationship.  You meet someone, you find you like each other and it grows from there.” 

“Yeah, well you got lucky.”

     I was disturbed by my sons’ attitude.   I told my husband but he didn’t see what all the fuss was about.  “Why don’t you tell them that it bothers you and tell them the contribution you do make,” he said.  But I didn’t see the point: either you value something or you don’t. 

     A few weeks later on a beautiful Sunday evening, I set out for Dingle to spend a week with my sister in her mobile home. 

I left the fridge empty.

Biddies on Whiddy - West Cork Literary Festival 2016

I am the last to arrive at the pier. The first thing I see is Horace soaking wet. He has just emerged from the sea and the saturated jeans clinging to his legs make look like a seal. My heart swells with pride; our tutor is a free spirit and having a few minutes to spare before the ferry leaves for Whiddy Island he spontaneously jumped into the sea to experience the ice-cold, soul cleansing, brain freezing waters of Bantry Bay.
I climb into the ferry. Paolo, the ferry driver switches on the engine. Horace is still on the pier talking to a large, bearded man. 

“Wait, Paulo,” I said, “we’re missing our tutor.” 

“That’s not all you’re missing,” said Paulo and he revved up the engine.
To my relief, Horace climbs on board, and so does the fat man. I look at him with curiosity. Gillian, who had done the travel writing workshop last year, told me one of their assignments then was to study Paulo and to write a story about him. Was this man to be our 'Paolo'?

In the marquee which serves as our classroom for the week, Horace introduces us to Max. He has a surname but even though he spelt it out three times for us, we couldn’t spell it or pronounce it. Max’s physique and manner reminded me of Peter Ustinov as he used to be interviewed on television shows in the early ‘80s.
“You’re all women,” said Max looking around at the eight women seated in a circle around him. He seemed surprised.
“Now, Max, these women have all paid through the nose to be here so I expect you to be on your best behaviour,” warned Horace. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”
Max did so and Horace suggested we introduce ourselves “briefly” in return. We did as we were told but the mood was too sombre for me. When it came to my turn I said, “Hi, I’m Geraldine, I’m an alcoholic.” I said.

That broke the ice. Max took the floor. “I was arrested by one of your gardai, you know,” he said looking around at us wide-eyed at the injustice of his story, “for something I didn’t do but it went all the way to court and I got done for it. Then the Daily Mail wrote about it because the garda knew someone in there and they printed an article about me that’s entirely untrue.” “Is your name Ian Bailey by any chance,” asked Gillian. We laughed. Horace and Max looked puzzled.


“Do you want to hear a joke?” said Max. I was the only one to answer, “Yeah, go on,” I said. I was fascinated by this man with his naked, bulging belly overhanging his still wet pants, his bare feet, and his black jacket tied with one button and could barely contain him.

Max rolled up his sleeves. “A man goes for a sex change. After the operation, he meets a friend. The man said to his friend, “Do you know what is the most painful part of becoming a woman?”

“Is it when they gave you breasts?” asked the friend.


“No.” “Is it when they cut off your reproductive parts?”


“No.” “No, what could be more painful than having your penis cut off?”


“It’s when they stuck a straw in my ear and sucked my brain out.” I sniggered. My classmates did not react.

Horace took back control, “Is everybody ready to read their homework?”


No-one spoke up so I offered to go first. After I finished reading Max looked around and said, “Is this a writing group?” Horace clapped his hands together, “It’s almost time for coffee so I’ll give you your next writing assignment now.” Horace went on to explain how a sense of place is very important in travel writing. “For instance in describing my childhood growing up on a sheep farm in South Wales, I could write about a clump of nettles growing out of the bottom of the barn door and that would sum up my childhood perfectly. My mother, on the other hand, was a complete stranger to Wales and knew nothing about sheep farming when she married my dad. She called her sheepdog ‘Toss’ because a neighbour told her it was the Welsh word for sheep and she named two of her sheep ‘Prolapse’ and ‘Uterus.’

We all laugh except Max. “Sorry, Horace, what’s a prolapse?”


“You’ll know when you have your sex change,” said Ellen. “Ssssh,” hissed Gillian, “Don’t encourage him.”


Horace looked at Max in surprise, “Are you serious, you don’t know? A prolapse is when a woman’s womb collapses.” Max closed his eyes and shuddered.


Horace continues, “I want you to imagine an empty space of someone you know very well. Describe that space and from your description, we should be able to visualise the owner of that space. For instance, I could describe my mother’s armchair in such a way that you’ll know instantly that she was elderly, faded in places and a woman,” and peering out the opening of the Marquee, “since it’s still such a lovely morning, you can write it outside. Go!” Max stood, "Could I possibly borrow a pen?' he asked. I grabbed up my pencil case and zipping it open said, "Would you like a fat one?" He took the pen and then said, "Now I need some paper." Elaine ripped a sheet from her notebook and handed it over.

We scuttle out of the marque and emerge into the brilliant sunshine. I sat at one of the picnic tables with my back to the sun and facing the door of the ‘Bank’ which is actually a pub/café. After 20 minutes, Horace announces ‘time up’. I duck into the pub for a pint of water. I spot Max with a pint of cider chatting to a blonde lady.

“I think we’ve seen the last of Max,” I whisper to Ellen as we headed back to the marquee.


“Thank God,” she said. Max did not return. We read our pieces. The morning ran late but since the ferry was assigned especially to our group, it would not leave without us. However, Gillian had a business appointment at 2.30 pm and was anxious to get home.


It was 1.30pm. Everybody in the the class was on board, Gillian asked the Paolo, “Can’t we just leave?” “No,” said Paulo, “I am scheduled to leave at 1.45 pm. I am not allowed to leave sooner.”

Gillian was fidgeted and twisted in her seat.


“Text them that you’ll be late,” said Ellen. “I’m old, I don’t do technology,” said Gillian sighing and glanced again at Paolo.

“Ring your husband.”

“He’s in Cork this morning.”


Finally, at 1.45 pm. Paolo starts the engine but just then three ladies appeared at the top of the gangway. One of the ladies was elderly and so Paolo waited as she painfully inched her way down to the boat. Finally, the women were on board. Then Max appeared on the horizon. He seems surprised to see the ferry still there and starts to amble down the gangway. Paolo waited. Gillian tutted loudly and squirming in her seat she twisted the watch on her wrist. With Max safely on aboard, we headed back to Bantry harbour.

 

The Epiphany

The Epiphany

Monday, 7^th March 2011. 9 o’clock. It’s our weekly staff meeting and Colin, Head of Credit Control is in a bad mood.   “Deirdre, I want all the Cork suppliers invoiced this week.  Do you think you could have them done by Friday?”

“No problem, Colin."

Thursday, 10^th March 2011. It’s some-time after 4 o’clock.  Mary, my boss approaches my desk, “Geraldine could you give Deirdre a hand, I’m worried she won’t have the invoices finished by tomorrow?” 

“No problem but can check with her first if she's ok it?”

Mary agrees to that and walked away looking for Deirdre.  In less than a minute she was back, “Deirdre is ok with it.”

“Grand, I’ll finish up here and start on them in the morning.”

Deirdre and I are not just work colleagues, we are friends and writing buddies.  We’re in the same writer’s group and we attended the Listowel Writers Festival in 2010 together.  We had such a good time there; we booked the same B&B for the festival for 2011.  I was more than happy to help my friend. 

8 o’clock the next morning, I arrived into work, checked my emails, listened to my voicemail and cleared my desk of all but the absolutely essential items: clear desk, clear mind.  I took down the ring binder from the shelf above Deirdre's desk marked 'Cork Suppliers’ and took out the index with the list of suppliers - 60 in total – and made a photocopy of it.  When Deirdre arrived into work at 9 o’clock, I slapped my hands together with relish and said, “We’re going to do this, Deirdre, how many have you done so far?”

“Six.”

“Ok,” I said, thinking aloud, “Six from sixty leaves fifty four, cut them in half and that gives us each twenty seven each.”  With a ruler I drew a line under West Cork Meat Supplies and turning back to Deirdre, said, “It’s do-able.  If you continue to work from the top down, I’ll work from the bottom up, we’ll have them done by the end of the day.”

“Grand.” 

 I had covered Deirdre’s sick leave when she was out for three months last year and so I was familiar with her particular invoicing process.  I settled down to hammer through my list of twenty seven.  I worked through my coffee break.  Deirdre took hers.  At 11 o’clock, I asked her how she was doing.  

“Grand,” she said.

 “We’ll beat this deadline yet, Deirdre.” I said.  Deirdre smiled.

I worked through my lunch break.  Deirdre took hers.  When she got back, I was twelve invoices short of my target.  At 3 o’clock, I called out to her, “Only six more, Deirdre how’re you doing?” 

“Grand,” she said. 

By 4 o'clock I had a splitting headache but was on course to be finished by 5 o’clock.  Pride flooded through my veins as I galloped onwards and upwards.  Knight Geraldine on her white stallion rides in and saves the day.  I did not even stop to make a cup of tea.  We were going to make it: I could feel it in my bones.    I called out, “How many have you got now, Deirdre?”

“Six,” she replied.  

At 5 o'clock on the dot, Deirdre stood up, snapped off her computer, picked up her hand bag and with a breezy, “Enjoy the rugby” to all she walked out. 

I heard her but when I tried to stand up I fell back again into my seat.  Stiff from sitting in the same position for eight hours, I was barely able to support my own weight.

“Where’s she going?” I said

“Let it go,” said Maria who worked alongside me.   

“Let what go? Where is she?”

“It’s not your problem.”

“I know it’s not my problem. It’s her problem so where the fuck is she?”

At that moment, Mary came out of her office and hurried towards us, “What’s the matter?”

“Deirdre has still six invoices to do and she’s gone.”

Mary nodded sympathetically, “That’s Deirdre for you, she’ll let you down every-time.”

“But that’s not good enough,” I cried.   

 I didn't understand.  Deirdre was my friend. I was helping her but she walked out on me.  We were working on her deadline not mine and yet she was gone.  My mind reeled with confusion.  

“Did you get all your invoices done?” asked Mary timidly.

“Yes,” I said, “I just need to post them out.”

“Let me check them first,” said Maria “in case there are any errors.” 

I wanted to stab her.  She wants to check me for errors.  Why didn't she stop Deirdre, the butterfly, the person responsible for these invoices, from flitting?  I handed over the invoices in sullen obedience.  I was in a daze.  It all felt so utterly wrong. 

That evening I collected my husband from work, “You wouldn’t believe what happened to me today,” I said. 

He waved me away, “I’ve had a shit week; I don’t want to hear it.”

I had to work this one out on my own.  I didn't sleep that night.  I meditated. I went for a run.  I poured it all out on paper.  None of the usual methods worked: self-righteousness burned through my body.   By Sunday evening I was exhausted.  I asked myself over and over again, ‘what would a wise man or woman do?’ and finally I got an answer.  First of all, the wise man or woman would calm down.  I calmed down.  I let all the rage and hurt drain out of me.  It was then I had an epiphany; what Deirdre did was not personal.  She didn’t do anything to me. Deirdre’s behaviour on Friday was simply how she operates in the world and this is why she gets sick.  I decided to forgive her.  I had learned - the hard way - that holding a grudge is hard work: first of all you have to remember that you have the grudge and then you have to constantly stoke it to keep it alive and relevant.  I just didn’t have the energy anymore.   On a practical level, I will probably be sharing an office with Deirdre for at least the next five years and choosing to resent her would me my working life toxic

Monday, 14^th March 2011. 9 o’clock. Colin was on a day's leave; Mary chaired the staff meeting. 

“Deirdre, how are the invoices going?” asked Mary.

“Grand,” said Deirdre, “With Geraldine’s help they’re nearly all done.”

“How many have you done, Deirdre?”

“Twenty-one.”

“And how many have you done, Geraldine?” said Mary turning to me. 

“Twenty seven.” I said quietly.

Mary turned back to Deirdre, “So Deirdre, between Monday and Friday you did twenty one invoices and Geraldine does twenty seven in one day.  Do you think you could finish the rest today?”

Deirdre nodded. She didn’t say anything. 

After the meeting, Deirdre stood up quickly and walked over to me.  She stooped down to whisper in my ear, “Some friend you are, you really showed me up today.” 

I was stunned and outraged all over again.  Deirdre ignored me all that day.  After work I collected my boys from their child-minder, Bridget who is also a very good friend to me.  I told Bridget everything.  “And now SHE’s sulking with me AND she’s been blanking me all day, what do I do?” I said.

“Blank her back,” said Bridget.

I slept badly that night but the next morning I decided to follow Bridget’s advice.  All day Tuesday, I ignored Deirdre.  It was pathetic behaviour on both our parts but I found it peaceful.

The following morning, Wednesday, I arrived into the office just after 8 o’clock; Deirdre was already there.  She was waiting for me.

“Could I have a hug?” she asked. 

Caught completely off guard I whimpered,  “OK.”

We hugged.

Deirdre then stood back and tilting her head gently to one side said, “Could we forget about Friday?”

I struggled to understand what was happening but again I just said, “Ok.”

Talking to Bridget again that evening, we tried to fathom Deirdre's behaviour.  “Who knows how her mind works,” said Bridget “but you did the right thing.  By not getting angry with her you gave her the space to step forward and make amends.”

Five years later, I appreciate now that the entire incident with Deirdre in March 2011 was a tidy little nutshell in which I experienced pride, betrayal, disappointment and hurt but I also got to practice compassion, forgiveness and detachment.  I ought to thank Deirdre for this lesson but she has since moved office but also, because of the nature of her illness, I don’t think she would see it the way I do. 

 

Barter in Bantry - West Cork Literary Festival 2016

“Today’s exercise is bartering,” said Horatio. “You can barter whatever you like but you must bring back an object, the name of the person you interacted with and a story.    Meet you all back here under Wolfe Tone in 40 minutes.

We scatter like sheep across Bantry Square.  It’s Friday, Market day in Bantry.  I walk past a jewellery stand and stop to admire a pair of drop earrings made of green glass.     “Bartering in Ireland, he must be mad; we’re not in China,” I muttered to myself. “I’ll buy something: he’ll never know.” I was completely out of cash and needed to use the AIB ATM across the street.

I shimmy my way through the traffic moving at snail pace circling the one way system around the square. I paused on the traffic island and waited for the lights to change. I meet Paul who was staying at the same B&B. I tell him my mission.

“Did you know that bartering is officially illegal in Ireland?” he said.

“That can’t be right,” I said, “If I give you something and you give me something of equal value back that’s fair exchange.”

“I don’t know, I think it’s something to do with the items being a gift and that’s taxable. But if you throw in a euro, that might make it alright,” he said with a wink.

I queue up the ATM and armed with cash I dash back to the market; I had only 20 minutes left. I dodge tourists dawdling at the jewellery stall, stride past nylon Indian rugs, plastic guns, and girl’s bracelets for a Euro each. The bracelets are nice actually, brilliant greens and reds strung on elastic thread. I try them on. They are a little tight and I chat to the owner while I try on one then three. Three look good. The owner’s name is Chung, he is from North West China and he has been in Ireland eight years. All the while that I’m talking, I sizing him up: he might be open to bartering but what can I give back. I leave the bracelets and walk on.

I am nearly at the end of the square when I came across a stall selling plants. On an upturned Coca-Cola crate I see a tray of seedlings marked ‘Tobacco’. Sitting next to the tray in the open door of her van is the owner. Long, blonde hair cut Joni Mitchell style under a scarecrow hat and skin-tight denim jeans. I recognise her immediately.

“I met you at the Mallow Garden Festival, you sold me a gorgeous tree peony,” I said. She nodded and smiled at me.   “Are they actually tobacco?” I said pointing at the seedlings.

“Yes, they have a lovely flower. In a few weeks the leaves will grow to about five times that size. You cut the leaves right back to the base. Hang them up to dry. When they are fully brown you crumble them up into small pieces and you smoke them.”

“You actually smoke them?”

“Yes.”

I sighed and told her that I was on a writing course and our assignment was to barter.

“I barter all the time,” she said.

“You do?”

 “Yes, these tobacco plants I exchanged for some raspberry canes and those pansies over there, I gave fuchsias cuttings which I rooted myself.”

I couldn’t believe my luck, “Will you barter with me?”

“I will. What do you have?”

I held open my bag and listed the contents; “I have a lap top, a packet of tissues never used,” and pointing to my head, “how about these sunglasses?”

She looked me into my eyes and said gently, “You know you can barter for services too. If you get me a cup of coffee, I’ll give you any plant you want.” My eyes looked around greedily, she had some lovely plants.

“Done, where do I go?”

“There’s a red van over on the far side of the square, he sells coffee out of the back.”

“How do you like it?”

“Black, no sugar, no milk.”

I was about to shoot off when I stopped, “what’s your name?’

“Kathy.”

“Hi Kathy, I’m Geraldine, I’ll be right back with your coffee.”

I took off across the square.  I scan the row of vans are selling waffles, pizza, burgers: this must be the food section. The coffee van is the last one before a stall selling cheeses. A bearded man is playing a ukulele and singing ‘When I’m 64.’ I stand next to an elderly lady. It turns out I am on the wrong side of her. When the coffee man asks, “‘who’s next” he can’t tell if it is her or me. “Are we going to have a fight about it?” he laughed. The lady ordered an espresso, poured in a pinch of milk, knocked it back and moved onto the cheese. I order a large black.  Carefully sealing the lid on the cup as if my life depended it I thread my way slowly back across the square.

The coffee was hot and I had to keep switching it from hand to hand. I passed an old lady leaning on a ‘Supervalu’ trolley for support while her grandson carried a large cardboard box filled with primroses. The boy accidentally dropped the box and the soil spilled under the wheels of a parked car. Any other day I would have stopped to help but I kept going.

Kathy gratefully relieved me of the coffee.    “Now,” she said, “how it works is that I pay you for the coffee and you, for your services of bringing me the coffee, get to pick a plant.”

“Oh no,” I said, “Don’t do that, let’s do the coffee for a plant.”

“Ok, which plant would you like?”

I looked around. She had racks of bigger, healthy, colourful plants in full bloom but I dragged my eyes back to the tray of seedlings on the crate.

“I think for the sake of purity, it ought to be the tobacco,” I said.

Kathy picked up the tray and handed it to me. There were at least 8 plants in it.

“Oh no,” I said, “I don’t need all of them, just one will do.”

 “You can have them.”

“They’ll be dead by the time I get back to Cork. Really, I only need one.”

Kathy inserted her forefinger and thumb into the first pot hole and gently pinched out the baby plant. It emerged from its home, snug and root-bound, perfectly intact: not a crumb of soil spilled. She looked around, what to put it into. She climbed into the van to look for a spare pot. I spot a used coffee cup just inside the door. I pick it up, “How about this?” I said. Kathy plopped the plant into the cup.

Perfect.