unironedman

There is not much to report from unironedmanland. Although, on the plus side, there has been some progress in terms of rehab. I am happy to report that I can now put on both shoes AND socks without the aid of another human being. It’s a form of elevated/single leg squat/lunge that I think I will not carry into my gym programme when I do get back to that level of activity. Let’s just say it won’t feature in the rhythm gymnastics at the next Olympics.

I also returned to hospital (finally; the ED had neglected to transfer my medical notes to the orthopaedic department) and had a new set of scans and a full cast. You can pick from a range of funky colours, too. Everything seems to be healing up as expected. All I can do is wait, and avoid any further stupidity. In fairness, that’s actually quite a big ask for me…

I have another appointment on the 5th March, and with any luck, we can dispose of the back brace entirely and get some sort of physio underway. The cast will continue to preclude a whole range of things I have missed this last month, including a decent bath, a sneaky sauna, a swim, the gym (or anything that gets me too sweaty), and of course, running. But I have been out walking with the dogs. The sunset up above is from yesterday up at the dog park with Tamsyn and the hounds.

And above is our favourite pony from another one of our walks. Saoirse likes to bring up carrots or apples as a treat, and now Gigi recognises her and runs over to greet her.

And would you like a little history detour, dear reader? Why, of course you would! In the background is a rather modest little Palladian-style house called St. Catherine’s, or Leixlip Manor, as it currently stands. It has been a hotel for a number of years, but was originally the home of Sir Cecil William Francis Stafford-King-Harman, 2nd Baronet (6 December 1895–1987), who was an Anglo-Irish landowner and soldier (according to his Wikipedia entry). Landowner, hey? I would have said ‘thief’, but then let’s not be churlish, shall we? The King’s Royal Rifle Corps, Council of State in Ireland, two daughters: one was an artist, the other in MI6, and a member of the Turf Club. The Baronet title died with him. He certainly had some history!

This little bijou residence was not his main house. That was Rockingham Estate in Co. Roscommon, which was a rather fabulous pile designed by renowned architect du-jour, John Nash. One of Nash’s other modest constructions is of course, Buckingham Palace. Rockingham burned to the ground in 1957 and the family sold up the remains of the estate to the Irish government. It is now the rather wonderful Lough Key forest park, and where I did my second ever triathlon in 2014. The Rockingham name is still remembered in Leixlip, due to the connection with the family: there is a housing estate (one with notions, as they are detached, I recall, and very expensive) on the west-side of town, and the original gates from the Rockingham estate in Roscommon are said to now adorn the entrance to a hotel on Captain’s Hill near the Main Street in the village. Why this hotel and not the other? No idea, dear reader. I am not the oracle.

That’s your lot for today. But always good to recognise and celebrate one’s local history, as you quickly realise that everything around you is in some way connected to the rest of the world. This neatly segues into a plug – not that one is needed – for a Bill Bryson book I am currently reading called At Home. His work is hugely enjoyable, and if you are not a fan, well, what can I say? You and I can still be friends, but from this moment forward, I will view you with suspicion…

In this book, the author goes through his English country home (a far more modest residence than any of the Stafford-King-Harmans) room-by-room, and weaves in a potted history of the world from about the Middle Ages onwards (not forgetting a dollop of Roman civilisation). It might be hard to imagine you could fashion a large book out of the study of the various rooms in your house, but with Bryson, not only is anything possible, but everything is quite probable. And wonderfully entertaining.

When I have finished that, I will move swiftly on to Dean Karnazes’ latest book, A Runner’s High. Gary very kindly dropped it in the other day, and I know I will enjoy it. Like Bill Bryson’s books, it’s impossible not to enjoy Dean’s work. I suspect he may be hard to live with, but as a writer, it’s a fun journey.

In other entertainment news, I have, not surprisingly, been watching more telly than usual. If you are in the market for a wry serial (rye cereal would probably be healthier), then may I suggest Loudermilk? I’ve no idea where you crazy kids get your telly from, but we watched it on Netflix. The shenanigans of a reformed alcoholic and one-time music critic in Seattle are pitched as ‘dark’, ‘fearless’ and ‘searing’, amongst other adjectives. Indeed. We didn’t find it that dark at all. Perhaps we have… issues. It is, without doubt, funny, and tackles its subject matter head on. I think where it scores best is when the the titular character goes off on one of his famous rants, reminiscent of Ricky Gervais in After Life. You are grimacing and howling in equal measure (not easy to do!) and I think there’s a part in each of us that wishes we had the gumption to do that now and again.

Anyway, give it a go. I promise you won’t be disappointed. And if you are, I promise not to care… (I am taking a leaf out of Sam Loudermilk’s as yet-unpublished book!).

The other series I would plug is Breathless, though I suspect this won’t feature across the Atlantic. It’s a four-parter about the Covid pandemic in the UK, starring the always excellent Joanne Froggatt.

Last week we paid our respects to Mayo man Eugene ‘Rufus’ Gibbons. Rufus was a fixture and fitting of our local pub, The Salmon Leap Inn. It was a rare evening indeed if you visited the pub and Rufus wasn’t perched on his favourite stool in the corner of the bar. He was the cellar man, in the traditional sense of it, though I suspect his duties where many. He served his time with the O’Shea family in Dublin, and I guess moving out with them when they bought the pub out here was a form of semi-retirement.

We had got to know Rufus a little over the last few years, though he generally kept to himself. He went to the hospital a few months ago with sore ribs, and was sent home with painkillers. By the time they found the cancer, there was nothing to be done. There was a huge crowd in on Thursday to pay their respects, and we all stood outside on the road when the hearse pulled in on the way to his home town. Old school.

And to finish, a few funnies.