Friends Peter and Siobhan were down over the week end and Peter led me to this amazing juggling display by Chris Bliss who keeps three balls dancing in the air to a track from the Beatle’s Abbey Road.
It wonderfully describes the moment when juggling becomes art as he passes over the line between circus and ballet.

Do download the thing before you watch, otherwise it is full of aggravating pauses as it catches up with itself.

Post Scriptum at 10.45

I have just realised, via Google’s good offices, that only me and Rip Van Winkle didn’t download this in 2006.
Ah Well Rip, this one is for you.

I originally posted this about two years ago but was reminded of it when I saw English Mums request to write about six bizarre occurances in ones life, “the wierder the better”. I was only able to think of four.

Then I remembered this incident which follows but thought it a bit huge for a comment box.
I decided to give it a second airing instead.
I think it deserves it.

Sile and I on the Honda 175 on our honeymoon.

Sile and I got married in 1973, around the time they were just beginning to realise that there might be a relationship between cigarette smoking and cancer and that there also could be a connection between drunkenness and car accidents.
At that time we had a flat in Ailesbury Park, at the very end of Ailesbury road, that road where, just because it was the second dearest in Irish Monopoly, all the Ambassadors had their residences. To get from my place of work, Snaffles on Leeson Street, to our flat I had to drive down Ailesbury road, usually at about midnight.
Because of the ambassadorial residences the road was enormously over populated with bored members of the Garda Siochana.
As I was driving a motor bike, a Honda 175, and therefore suspect, they used to frequently relieve their boredom by stopping me and asking me the usual series of inane questions trying to discover if I was either drunk or a terrorist.
If I had managed to be bought a drink in work I took to taking another route home.
It happened that about a week before the wedding Sile and I decided to make a concession towards tradition by having a drinking session with our friends.
This time was at the height of the women’s liberation movement so to be all emancipated (not to mention self righteous) we decided that rather than give the usual Stag and Hen parties we would hold a combined Cock and Doe (Groan!) party in the Waterloo House at the end of Waterloo Road.
I think it was probably a good night.
With Sile on the back of the bike we headed back to the flat.
I was sufficiently cute to realise that it would not be a good idea to go down Ailesbury Road so I put together a devious itinerary home which I imagined would avoid us having any embarrassing meetings with the Guards.
I failed.
As we came out of Herbert park en route to Ailesbury Park I realised that the American Embassy was directly and unavoidably in front of us.
Furthermore, possibly due to a protest over the Vietnam war, the Embassy was crawling with the men in blue.
I realised immediately that the most important thing was that I keep my head and then we would be fine.
“We’ll be alright Sile” I said with inebriated logic, “so long as I drive really slowly”
I began to crawl past the embassy.
The inevitable occurred.
The speed we were travelling lacked sufficient momentum to maintain our perpendicular position so, slowly and ignominiously, just outside the embassy, we fell over.
We were surrounded immediately by crowds of bored and caring guards, most of them obviously from either Cork or Kerry.
With cries of “Oh you poor unfortunates,God love ye, are ye OK?” and even
“Ups a daisy now” they lifted us both back on the bike and pushed us off in the direction home.

I think it was the following morning before I realised what a lucky escape we had had.

This is Me with Great Nephew Liam, last night at Milo’s birthday

And me with his father, Richard in 1971 (and with niece Ann, now mother of Laura)

Okay maybe I did look a bit younger…, had more hair…, dressed differently, was perhaps even thinner, but the two babies, father and son, are just identical.

I am very much enjoying venividi, the photo blog of a polish architect in Cork (which he has kindly called Rain only makes it better) particularly his recent photos of the undulating Tuscan landscape.
Having commented thus on one of his entries he used my word (and credited it to me ) to title a later posting.
This made me remember where I came across the word for the first time.
It was in the famous storm scene in David Copperfield where Dickens gives us a wonderful tempestuous crescendo to the novel.
Here it is ;

“The tremendous sea itself, when I could find sufficient pause to look at it, in the agitation of the blinding wind, the flying stones and sand, and the awful noise, confounded me. As the high watery walls came rolling in, and, at their highest, tumbled into surf, they looked as if the least would engulf the town. As the receding wave swept back with a hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop out deep caves in the beach, as if its purpose were to undermine the earth. When some white-headed billows thundered on, and dashed themselves to pieces before they reached the land, every fragment of the late whole seemed possessed by the full might of its wrath, rushing to be gathered to the composition of another monster. Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating valleys (with a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming through them) were lifted up to hills; masses of water shivered and shook the beach with a booming sound; every shape tumultuously rolled on, as soon as made, to change its shape and place, and beat another shape and place away; the ideal shore on the horizon, with its towers and buildings, rose and fell; the clouds fell fast and thick; I seemed to see a rending and upheaving of all nature.”

My brother-in-law Milo was eighty last night.
We all celebrated this with some style in Kellys in Rosslare.

I, as is my wont, wrote him a poem, this time a pastiche of his favourite ballad.

I could load you all down with explanations and cross references but I decided to leave that to future scholars to discover.

The Bold Milo Lynch

CHORUS:

For rugby, for tennis, for dance or romancin’
For drinkin’ black porter or Scotch at a pinch.
You could search Cork and Clare, but there’s none will compare.
To that cultured all rounder, the Bold Milo Lynch

1
Men of Graiguenamanagh who’re anxious for learnin’
A word of advice I will give unto ye,
Don’t go near the schools or the GAA sports grounds
Just queue up at the house owned by Milo and D.
Then gather yourselves at the feet of the master
And learning will drop in you ear inch by inch.
You’ll learn all about life (and you will learn it much faster)
From the Man for all Seasons, the Bold Milo Lynch.

CHORUS:
For rugby, for tennis, for dance or romancin’
For drinkin’ black porter or Scotch at a pinch.
You could search Cork and Clare, but there’s none will compare.
To the Man for all Seasons, the Bold Milo Lynch

2
And it is not just in learnin’ that Milo is master
He was light on his feet and could run with the ball
In the park known as Musgrave there was none could run faster,
Or score better tries and then convert them all.
But twas not just the skill on the pitch he lays claim to.
He could soar through the air like a blackbird or finch
For when not scoring tries against Con and for Dolphin
He was Lord of the Dance was the Bold Milo Lynch.

CHORUS:

For rugby, for tennis, for dance or romancin’
For drinkin’ black porter or Scotch at a pinch.
You could search Cork and Clare, but there’s none will compare.
To the Lord of the Dancing ; the Bold Milo Lynch.

3
Twas at Kelly’s in Rosslare he met a young widow
Who was rearing four children the same as himself
Milo took one hard look and then he was bowled over
There was no way he’d lave her alone on the shelf.
‘Ah Deirdre’, says he, ‘I know you have four childer,
And sure I have four too and I’m doing fine.
Surely no-one would notice if we both got together
To shnake in another and get the score up to nine.’

CHORUS:

For rugby, for tennis, for dance or romancin’
For drinkin’ black porter or Scotch at a pinch.
You could search Cork and Clare, but there’s none will compare.
To the cultured allrounder ; the Bold Milo Lynch.

REPEAT CHORUS:

For rugby, for tennis, for dance or romancin’
For drinkin’ black porter or Scotch at a pinch.
You could search Cork and Clare, but there’s none will compare.
To the cultured allrounder;
The Man for all Seasons;
The Lord of the Dancing:

The Bold Milo Lynch !

The Mary Dorgan and the Siobhán Ní Fhoghlú.

When I said on my blog a few weeks ago that “The Woodford River Disaster” was my first poem my friend Isabel informed me that I had written one for her 19 years ago (on this week) when she achieved a certain significant birthday.

She also kindly mentioned that she thought I had improved since
(I’m not so sure of that!)

She sent a copy of the first Oeuvre and here for your delight it is:

“To Isabel on her Birthday

To 40 years a growing
(We’ve been friends for 24)
I can’t wish you any better
But to wish for 40 more.”

Having witnessed the family home in Cork razed to the ground last week I noticed this week another piece of my past is soon to go under the hammer.
Number 8 Mary Street, in Waterford which we ran as “Dwyers Restaurant” for fifteen years and sold just four years ago is for sale again.
It operated for a couple of years as Brasserie Orange and for them last two as the Savannah Steak House.
I have no idea whether they made money in either venture but while we had it we really had no option but to.
Not only was it our business but, as the family lived upstairs, it was also our family home.
While we had it, we always felt fortunate to own such a venerable old building (The council reckoned it was built in the 1790’s and it had been an Royal Irish Constabulary barracks for most of that time) and we were prepared to work long days and weeks to ensure our survival.
Not only was I the chef but also the restaurant manager, relief waiter, book keeper and occasional cleaner, Sile my wife who was a full time primary teacher, became the Maitre D’ at weekends and as long as we were in control I became a shameless self publicist, prepared to appear on the paper or on the local radio for the slightest of excuses.
Desperation and success often make good bedfellows!
I hope whoever buys it next is also prepared to live over the shop like we did.
It is a beautiful old building and could again be a roaring success.

The restaurant when we had it , painted by Eorna Walton

You can buy ground Hazelnuts in any supermarket in France and in some speciality shops here.
Today I decided to try substituting them for almonds in my favourite biscuit recipe (favourite because it is foolproof, simple and delicious).

They taste fantastic, might even be worth skinning and grinding hazelnuts especially to make them up.

Hazelnut Macaroons
(Will give you about 36 little biscuits)

200g (7 oz.) Ground Hazelnuts (or Almonds)
200g (7 oz.) Caster Sugar
2 Egg Whites
Some Pistachios or split Almonds to garnish.

Mix the sugar and ground nuts well together.
Add in the egg whites and mix to a stiff dough.
Set the oven to Gas 4, 175C, 350F.

Line two baking sheets with non-stick paper.
(I find if you sprinkle a little water on the baking sheet it helps to get the paper to lie down flat and then it is easier to work)
With dampened hands (or 2 teaspoons) make walnut sized balls of the dough and lay these out in rows (not too close) on the sheets.

Flatten these slightly with a damp fork.
Press a Pistachio, or a half Almond into each one.
Bake these at the set temperature for about 15 mts or until nicely browned.
Take off the paper gently (they will still be soft) and leave to cool and crisp up on a wire rack.