This is a terrific shot of the girls combined classes in the national school in Skerries sometine in the late fifties.
A careful search will find;

My wife Sile Dwyer

her sister Maire de Bhaldraithe

And her other sister Una Lyes.

The three beautiful Ronayne Sisters.

Around thirty six years ago, in the summer, when I was supposed to be studying for my college exams, and wasn’t, I headed off on a short camping holiday with some friends to Doolin in County Clare.
It was an anomaly, a beautiful warm June day when we got to Doolin and of course decided to cool down in O’Connors Bar, renowned at the time for the quality of traditional music played there by the Russell brothers.
I don’t think they were present that afternoon because, after a few cooling pints, we then decided to head for the beach, set up the tent and have a swim.

The fact that I had completely forgotten to pack swimming togs mattered not to me. I knew I was wearing a pair of particularly jazzy underpants, a present from my brother-in-law who ran an underwear factory in Dublin and I was confident that no-one could tell them from togs.
We got the tent up and tore down the beach for our swim.
I did notice (the glasses were of course off so I was in my usual state of blind myopia) that the people on the beach were making a lot of noise as I ran obliviously down the beach but, assuming that they were just admiring the unique beauty of the jazzy unders, I think I waved regally and proceeded into the waves.
There I was caught almost immediately by an undertow, dragged under, turned upside down, shook, partially drowned and then spat out on the beach breathless, waterlogged and totally naked.
The undertow had deprived me of my breath, my dignity and my undergarment.
I hadn’t a lot of options but to do the best I could with my hands in the way of modesty and run up the beach, past the now obviously laughing sunbathers, to the tent and privacy.

When I had recovered myself sufficiently to dare to leave the tent, this time wearing both clothes and glasses, I discovered that there were signs on the beach prohibiting swimming due to a dangerous undertow, that had been the message the people on the beach were trying to tell me.
I was I suppose lucky that the only injury was to my modesty.

Towards the end of the holiday we went walking some miles down the beach to the Burren-like rocks on the shoreline.
There a little flash of colour caught my eye.
There, weed encrusted and clung to a rock on the shore were the same, unique, jazzy knickers.
I rescued them and took them home and washed them.
I wore then for many years after.
I would love to say that they reminded me of my near escape and acted as a warning to me to get a little sense.
The truth is I just thought they were groovy.

I have just been adding up excitedly on my fingers and have discovered that the two recipes I have just put up on my recipe page were entries number 580 and 581. My words blog entries stand since this morning’s entry at 418.
Even someone who gave up maths at inter cert can therefore work out that this particular entry is number 1000.
Wow!
I’m impressed with myself.

I can no longer remember when I started putting up the recipes,
(and neither can my present computer) I think in 1999 sometime, the first blog went up just two years ago, in February 2005.

It has all been most enjoyable.
Long may it roll.

Glass is technically a liquid which is why old glass, as it slowly melts its way towards the base of the window, ripples so beautifully.

We have a couple of panes or fairly ancient stuff in the presbytery, this one in the door out to the terrace being a good example.
The tree behind it is our (we think) Indian Lilac Tree, as yet we havn’t see it blossom but its hanging balls seem to identify it as that.

Thank you indeed to Thelma Smith who has tagged me in the Thinking Bloggers Game and has awarded me the Thinking Bloggers Award

I now have to think of five bloggers to pass on the award to.

This may take some time.

I couldn’t supress a small cheer when I read that the new twins born to the Taoiseach’s daughter Georgina were to be called Jay and Rocco.

Rocco is the abbreviation of Roch, and St Roch is my very favourite saint and one whom I have written about already

St Roch is always depicted lifting his skirt to display the scars which were inflicted on him by the plague. As this picture by the 15th century Italian Master Crivelli shows, his various patron sainthoods should perhaps be extended from the Plague, and Dogs etc. to that of the patron saint of Exhibitionists.

In Montpellier(Where we went to escape Ikea and see the excellent, and just newly opened Fabre Museum) we spotted these illusions.

But if fact it was only when we got quite close and I saw Moliere (or is it Rabelais) peering at us out a window that I realised that they were fakes.

In December we noticed this piece of statuary in the little green area by the church which is just opposite our house in the Languedoc.
It is a typical gargoyle monster, complete with wings and scaly skin.
I assumed it had fallen off the church at some time and been preserved.

Last week while strolling through the village we noticed a sculptors studio.
peering into his yard to have a look we came upon these grotesques.
Our “Gargoyle” is obviously a modern sculpture by this man.

This is Aonghus taken about 25 years ago when he had luxurient blond tresses.
Thanks Paul for the picture.

We are blessed in Thèzan with an excellent Boucher.
In fact I had a minor panic in February when they were closed for a week, to my relief it turned out to be just their annual holidays.
This Easter I decided it was time to introduce myself so I told them about my plans to make Le Prèsbytére into a Table d’Hôte and about my history as a chef de cuisine and a restaurateur.
They were delighted because their son is an apprentice chef in the local Relais de Chateau in Lignan.
When I asked Madame how he liked it she shrugged affirmatively (yes, this is possible, it is the expression of the mouth and eyes as the shrug is happening that changes the nuance of meaning. Try it while listening to Piaf, alone, in front of a mirror) and said “Il a Tombé dans la marmite”.

I nodded understandingly (I do this a lot when totally baffled in France) and headed home to find out what she meant.
Obviously no child was small enough to have fallen into a jar of Marmite (available here at huge expense in the “British Food” section in the Super U) and anyway I knew enough culinary French to know the a Marmite is a large stock pot.
It turns out that the expression means that someone is pursuing a career to which they are particularly suited, the dip in the pot having seriously giving them a liking for a certain path.
Obelix, by falling into Getafix’s pot of magic potion is a fairly good example.
I love the expression and recognise how suitably Madame used it.