It was a few years ago while reading through the OED (a nerdish activity I sometimes admit to) when I came across the following entry.

coccagee, n.
Forms: Also cock a gee, cokaghee, cocko-gee, cockygee.

Etymology: modern Irish cac a’ ghéidh: goose dung, from its greenish-yellow (‘goose shit’) colour.

A cider apple formerly in high repute; also, the cider made from it.
In A Treatise on Cyder-making 1753 p. 23 it is said:
‘This fruit is of Irish extraction, the name signifying in that language Goose-turd.
Counsellor Pyne, who resided near Exeter, and who had care of Sir William Courtenay’s estates in Ireland, is said to have brought it into England.’

1727 H. Stafford Cyder-Fruits Devonsh. in Langley Pomona (1729) 149,
I must mention to you another sort [of cider] which hath not been heard of among us more than six or seven years: The name of it is Cockagee, or Cackagee (for the word, as far as I can learn, is Irish).
The fruit is originally from Ireland, and the cyder much valued in that country.

1837 R. Southey Doctor IV. 382 What in his parlance used to be called Stingo; Stire, Cokaghee, or Fox-whelp, a beverage as much better than Champagne, as it is honester, wholesomer and cheaper.

1862 D. T. Ansted & R. G. Latham Channel Islands iv. xxi. 488 The coccagee carries off the palm for cider.

It was a source of infinite pleasure to me that the cider makers of England were awarding the palm to an Irish apple which we called (not to put a tooth in it) Goose Shit.

The good news is that it is just about to make a comeback.
My friend Paul Deegan wrote to me last night and said:

Hello Martin,
You will be happy to hear that Cockagee is about to make a reappearance, in the burgeoning craft cider sector in Ireland. Look out for it at Applest: The Slow Food Apple & Craft Cider Festival on the 21st and 22nd September.

This i want to taste !

It all really started about two years ago when two Collared Doves came and colonised our Chinaberry tree in our garden.
Because we live most of our summer lives on the terrace and the garden is a floor beneath us we do have a true bird’s eye view of the goings- on in the tree. We quickly named the lovers (because they made it very obvious that that is what they were) Columbine and Pierrot after the Commedia Della Arte loving couple.
We had two years when, on most nights, the loving couple used to perform their (ahem) love rituals on the Chinaberry tree right in front of the dinner table on the terrace, usually between the starter and the main course.
I do confess that I have shirked the longer explanation on a couple of occasions and told small children that they were playing.
This year all changed and, having had an early July honeymoon, our Doves decided to settle down. In a part of the tree exactly on the same level as the terrace they built a nest- or at least to my eyes they hurled twigs on a hook on the branches until sufficient of them made a rough platform.
Then Columbine proceeded to sit on this nest for about the next twenty days. Fairly early on she laid two eggs, and then, showing far more maternal maturity than we would have anticipated from her arboreal shenanigans, she hardly budged from her roost for the next two weeks.
Her one daily excursion was around dusk when Pierrot would come and perch on a branch above and bellow a bit when she, without a glance in his direction, would fly off, presumably in search of food, he would then keep the eggs warm until her return.
Towards the end of her time we did began to feel that she was neglecting her appearance somewhat as her feathers began to look very uncombed and she certainly lost weight.
Our first realisation of the happy event was when she seemed to spend more of her time with her head buried in the nest and her tail in the air- then we began to hear some faint chirping and then, after a few days she started to fly off regularly and then return when you began to see two small heads would hungrily disappear into her crop feeding with appetite.
Gradually the two began to leave the nest and stroll about the tree. One appeared much bigger and confident than the other so I called her Pierette and the more hesitant twin I assumed was a male and (sticking to the Commedia Della Arte theme) I christened him Scaramouch.
Several times every day Columbine would come back and feed them from her crop and they thrived and grew in front of our eyes.
Pierette was the first to fly but only from branch to branch, consequentially she was always the first to be fed, flying to Mama as soon as she perched while Scaramouch had to scramble on foot through the branches.
Then, just a few days ago, tragedy struck the family.
Going on to the terrace early one morning Sile found Pierrot dead on the table.
We guessed that he had been clearing up the crumbs around the terrace (as he frequently did) and had knocked himself on one of the supports of the canopy on the way out.
Well we buried him, still feeling quite shocked, and watched to see how the other three members of the family were going to manage without him.
It soon appeared that the babies were fine so long as Mammy came home with the grub- but they were all flying now and one felt this was a supplement rather than basic survival fare.
Columbine though was not fine and obviously missed her Pierrot badly.
Two days ago I came down to the terrace to find her back ensconced in her nest with Scaramouch looking down at her doubtfully from a branch above.
This was the moment when the whole thing became a bit Greek.
Columbine then cocked her tail in the air and started to make very suggestive cooing noises to Scaramouch who turned away in confusion.
She then got very forward and flew onto his branch and began to approach him backwards. This became too much for Scaramouch who flew away in mortification.
And that so far is that. All three remaining members of the family have now deserted the Chinaberry tree, but somehow I think that before too long we will see some more of them.

At the Tunnel de Malpas on the Canal de Midi yesterday

This was our family beach as kids and it was great to introduce the grandchildren to it. It has everytinng, rockpools teeming with life and a divertable, dammable stream.

Two intrepid (but properly attired) scootists explore the park in Cabinteeley last week.

The two Dotey Pets spent last week in a mobile home in Fountainstown with their French Grandparents . The Irish weather was wonderful.

This morning is one of the very few mornings we have woken up to an guest free house this summer and I imagined I would luxuriate in the bed until a sinful 8 or 9 o clock before going to the kitchen, in the dressing gown, for coffee.
I woke however at 6.45 as usual, just before the bells start ringing in at seven, and the thought of drinking coffee in the cool of the terrace before the sun warmed it from the east seemed far more attractive than another snooze.
It was, and furthermore nature conspired to reward me for my early rising.
There is so much happening now in the garden and beyond.
Our grapes are now ripe, overripe in fact and if I am just too lazy to bother picking them, not so for the sparrows. If I stay very still they will come right in under the canopy of the vine and gorge on the grapes- one small movement from me and they are gone in a flash.
Columbine our resident Mother Dove, is still sitting and looking remarkably dishevelled on her nest. She now flutters off every so often and then sticks her head down into the nest where I can only assume she is disgorging the contents of her crop to the open beaks below. So far, even with the aid of a pair of binoculars, I haven’t spotted any sign of the young.
Beyond Columbine Canigou is a dark grey silhouette against the horizon, she has been visible now for the last few days, this, the locals tell us is a sign of rain.
Closer than Canigou and in the foothills of the Corbieres is Le Mont d’Alairic, just south of Carcassonne, which we can always see, and which at one time, and quite lately, was home to one of the bears which they had re-introduced to the Pyrenees. This particular young male had, to the consternation of the sheep farmers on Alairic, decided that the living was easier on the Corbieres.
Also from the terrace can be seen the small hill on which is the Oppidum of Ensurune, a settlement originially colonized by the Greeks and then the Romans which now houses a wonderful museum of Greek and Roman pottery.
This I know I can see from the terrace as from the same Oppidum, with a friends powerful binoculars, we were able to pick out our tree in the centre of Thezan.
We got a letter from a lovely American lady last night who stayed here with her husband last year. Her first sentence was “How are you two getting on in your little piece of Heaven?”
Very well thanks.

Seven years ago, on this day, we saw this building for the first time. This is Síle going towards the building on 13th August 2006.

French chef Arnaud Mary who runs l’Atmosphere in Waterford visits Irish Chef who runs Le Presbytere in France.

Amazing moment this morning as La Soeur Chantal, who had lived here in the house duting the seventies and eighties and taught Catechism to half the village, arrived with her brother to take a look at the house where she had spent so much time.

Wonderful for us to have another contact with its history.

She noted the changes without approving or disapproving with one exception; she loved what had been done to the garden. and yes she also liked that we had left the cross above the door.