A trip to Grannys

Just got back from a trip to my grandmothers in the far northwest of Ireland. It's a trek that I've done many times before but I thought you all might enjoy some of my experiences in the slightly sureal world of that part of Ireland.

Lisfannon is the name of the farm my grandmother and uncle live on. I'm not sure who named it (possibly my grandfather) and it doesn't have a post code. When your in the area and you want to tell someone where you are staying you say 'Lisfannon' and they knowingly knod their head. Sometimes they say "Yourdorothyssonthen?" and I say "yes" because I think they just asked me a question. These people are Irish farmers and they have a language all their own. Statements can be questions and questions can be statements - always pay attention to ramblings because they can end in a "?" and you don't want to have continualy say "pardon?".

When I was living in Ireland I used to catch the bus up to the farm from Dublin but this time I decided I'd go a bit up market and hire a car for the weekend. I've never driven in Ireland and getting out Dublin airport on rainy night is a baptism of fire. Indicators, lane markings and speed limits could best be considered as suggestions to your average Irish driver. Best to stay to near the left hand side mostly in the lane and somewhere near the speed limit - just as long the car isn't in the hedge then you're doing well. I'm glad I took the automatic option on the car -navigating and changing gear at 110km would have had me in enraged tears. There are enourmas complicated roundabouts getting out of Dublin and after the third one I just put the foot down, hoped for the best and dared not look in the rear veiw mirror to see what carnidge that lay behind me. Baring cross country course corrections I got on my way and found myself at the farm about 4 hours later.

The farm. Sitting on the gentle slope of a huge valley the farm looks over a broad inland water chanel. With rolling green fields and golden barely at the hight of the summer. The back of the house is surrounded by a lush garden and edged by accient oaks. The front looks over the yard and fields to a patch work hillside of properties and farms. The view is only slightly mared by Johns concrete mannure catchment bin installed two years ago. John is Grandmas son (my uncle) and owns and runs the farm origianlly run by my grandfather. He was born and brought up on the farm along with my mother and aunt. I think, perhaps, that working on the farm for more than 50 years creates a very practical approach to questions of form verse function.

I usually turn up on weekends so, by tradition, I join one of them on a trip to the church. I'm not a religous person and I would best describe myself as agnostic - I'll place a bet both ways till I know better. The church is protestant so it's no messing about with bread, insence and whatnot - get in, sing a few songs, listen to the minister and get out. Practical - no fuss. People don't tend to get all wishy-washy about the love of god etc etc up that way. I suspect that living a life between two (or more) parties each trying to blow the other up in the name of political and religious beliefe has people playing their cards very close to their chests. So anyway a visit to the church is very briefe with John - get in a minute before start and out the door as soon as it finishes. I'd like to hang around - sometime I meet relatives etc but Johns already off around the corner to the car and if I don't catch up I'll be walking home.

This particular weekend I decided that I wanted to drive up the mountain behind the house in my shiny new hire car. This mountain has tempted me many times before but I've never had the means to get up it. John tried to take me one day but the roads where closed. There is an intricate set of roadways that leads up the mountain and only sesoned locals who know these hidden paths can provide reasonable directions. Upon the dubious directions of my grandmer (take the first right after the bridge in the town up the road and then just follow that road) I ended up back where I started. I did try twice but without success - I shall ask my uncle to take me next time. He may tell me there is nothing to see up there but, dam it, I shall try.

So instead I went to Malin Head, the most northerly and bitterly cold point in Ireland. Here they grow sheep and grannit. The North Atlantic relentlesly grinds away at the farms which perch themselves as close as possible to the churing ocean. I got my car as far north as possible (to a little lookout) and walked around for as long as I could bare the wind chill. It is, however, a wild and beautiful place and in the middle of summer the tough grass sends forth wild flowers that make the place truly unique.