This morning we had our breakfast on the terrace in warm sunshine, reading todays Sunday Times (French Edition) and eating fresh croissants from the boulanger.

Yes we are back in France.

We nearly didn’t make it though.

Last Tuesday evening, on its way back to Rosslare after a re-fitting the Irish Ferries vessel, Oscar Wilde, caught fire and is out off action for the moment.

My immediate plans for the following fortnight involved two trips on the Oscar so I was on tenterhooks to see what Irish Ferries were going to do for me.

I am delighted to report that they have turned up trumps.

They gave us the option of a complete refund or of booking alternate landbridge routes for us and giving us €150 to pay for expenses through England.
And so we sailed Irish Ferries Rosslare to Pembroke on Friday morning, drove to Poole in Dorset and (after a delicious dinner in Poole, to which I will return) sailed over night to Cherbourg on Brittany Ferries and landed in Cherbourg at 6.30 in the morning, 12 hours ahead of schedule.

Admittedly the sleep time on the Brittany Ferry was a mere 5 hours, one was woken up at 4.30 by Alan Stival playing his harp in the cabin, and so we did find the long (nearly 12 hour) journey hard work- especially as it rained most of the time- but eventually got here at about 8.30 having taken a long reviving lunch in Niort en route.

Returning to a house which one has closed up for the two coldest months of the year is an intimidating experience, and our first action, backing our laden car into the storm gully outside the front door, didn’t help much.
We surmised that we would drive out easily once we had unpacked the weighty load from the car, this proved the case and were just extracted successfully when a neighbour, whose wife had seen our predicament, arrived down with a jack to haul us out. A really good omen for our future here.

The house was in totally perfect nick, cold doesn’t do anything like the damage damp does and it is dry here.
We got our beautiful Godin humming with heat after an hour and even though our bedroom up under the eaves in the attic was chilly the bed was sufficiently cosy to give us the best possible nights sleep.

I have been allowed a mere sixty minutes by Sile to blog this before before we take a contstiutional around the vines, (our habitual and most enjoyable viewing of the French seasons.) and to be honest I can’t wait to set out.

It is great to be home.

In Diarmaid Ó Muirithe’s always interesting column- The Words we Use– in todays Irish Times he talks about some words which had their origins in cookery.
It appears that liason, that terrific word for sexual shenanigins- particularly outside the nuptial bed- owes its origins to the Latin word for To Bind and refers to eggs used in thickening a sauce.
I had of course often read of liasons in cookery books but had no idea that the cookery term gave birth to the one for sexual hanky panky.

It somehow gives a whole new interpretation to Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Les Liaisons dangereuses.
Instead of being about aristocrats bonking each other in pre revolutionary France the novel is of course about early cutting edge cookery classes.

I am sure that there are some other classic books which should not necessarily be judged by (the titles written on) their covers.
If I think of any I will certainly share them with you.

Oops just thought of one !

The Postman Always Rings Twice
is of course about ;

Dealing with deafness in middle age.

Anyone with any more?

From a postcard sent to me years ago by my friend Siobhan Ni Fhoghlu

I notice that CIE (or what ever they call themselves today) have decided to cut some bus routes to economise and, as my eye glanced down the list I saw that one of the casualties was the Ballyvourney bus.

In the late sixties I was a student in UCC and had (and still have) a great friend, Jim Flanagan, who came from Ballyvourney, a tiny village about 10 miles out on the Kilarney road from Macroom.

Travelling to ‘Vourney was simplicity itself, you just got the bus from Cork and the terminus was directly outside the shop where Jim lived with his family.
Now this bus was way more than just a method of going from Cork to ‘Vourney.
The driver was a fellow called Dennis who, as he lived in the village himself knew every single passenger by name.

Anyone who wanted something special from the metropolis just had to organise it to be delivered to Dennis in the Bus office in Cork and it would arrive down that evening.
The bus was also timed to bring and collect the local secondary children from their school in Macroom.

If a child was not at the appropiate bend of the road Dennis would patiently wait the bus until a flustered child, breakfast in hand, tumbled down the road.
If by chance the student was poorly it was common to find a mother standing in his place and she then would give his excuses to Dennis “Ah I couldn’t leave him out this morning Dennis, sure he’s smothered with a cold.” and then Dennis could proceed.

Bus services were so much more than paid conveyances at that time in rural Ireland.
I wonder how the people of Ballyvourney will replace Dennis now that CIE have axed him.

Such a great author of cult books of the sixties and seventies, Catcher in the Rye,Franny and Zooey, Raise High the Roofbeams et cetera.
I was passionate about them when I was twenty but I wonder if I could still read them now ?

He has published nothing for fifty years but according to his neighbour he never stopped writing;

In 1999, New Hampshire neighbour Jerry Burt said the author had told him years earlier that he had written at least 15 unpublished books kept locked in a safe at his home.

I wonder if the safe will now be opened and will we see these books ?

Fascinating thought…………….

And so he gets to blow out his candle (or his Dad does)
(Note his Auntie D’s excellent home made cake stand.)

And more restrained colours within the cake (but which did taste of true orange)

(photo by Caitriona)

Fionn was one last week so Caitriona and Aonghus threw him a party.
As you can see Caitriona favours the more muted colours with which
to decorate her cupcakes (they tasted great though)

Eoin Mc Veigh at seven weeks- one of his first smiles.

I have written before of that marvellous d’Antin Manuscript of French Rhymes ;
Mots d’Heures : Gousses, Rames which was produced first in 1966.

I have long ago lost my original copy but was lucky enough to get another for Christmas from friend Sue as it has just been reissued.

The Rhymes communicate deeply with my nerdish wordish soul but the edition itself with its marvellous footnotes and translations worthy of the great De Selby himself also bear scrutiny.
To that end I have scanned in one rhyme particulary apposite to our new existence in Languedoc and reproduce it here.
(If there is anyone out there having some difficulty with the rhyme I suggest you read it aloud to a friend who may help with the interpretation)

Adieu Kate Mc Garrigle, yourself and Anna helped me through the Seventies.

Anyone who only knows her as Rufus and Martha’s mother watch here