unironedman

Dad died on January 24th last year, and we said our goodbyes a few days later, on Saturday 28th in St. Mary’s Church in Leixlip. And on Easter Saturday just gone, we bid him a final farewell when we scattered his ashes on Three Rock, about a mile from where he grew up in Ticknock, Co. Dublin. This was in keeping with his wishes. He had given me an envelope many years ago, and told me to keep it safe. On the outside he had written ‘to be opened on Granddad’s demise. Sorry, can’t give a date’. So, you can see where I get my ‘grand’ sense of humour from…

Although the planning of the event was in the works for quite some time, as is the way with these things, it seemed to sneak up on us all. For my part, much of that was down to my mishap with the roof, and the last two months being taken up with recuperation and rehab. But the great world keeps spinning, and spiralling around the sun, and Easter arrived as planned (well, according the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD…).

And so, with Dad’s ashes largely* and safely ensconced in a stout cardboard scatter tube, we left the house on Saturday morning to rendezvous with other family and friends in the car park of the Blue Light pub. And if you wish to read a potted history of the establishment, click here. There is drink and smuggling involved!

We were tipping along the M50 motorway, shortly before the turn off for the mountains when the car died. This is not ironic. Not even ‘Alanis Morrissette’ ironic. It was just an old car, suddenly leaking catastrophic amounts of oil, with the inevitable engine seizure. Hasty phone calls were made. Priority was to get the family off the lay-by, even though we were safe enough. Dallan and Tamsyn were collected first, and then Saoirse and I, after we had decided that our insurance company was pretty useless regarding a tow. (The lady on the phone told me I needed to stay with the car and that the tow truck could take up to two hours. Not a chance I was staying on the side of the motorway for that long, even without an important event to attend. If that’s their policy, it needs to be changed). It turns out there is a dedicated company that takes people off the motorway, and once I had contacted them and explained my dilemma, they were very kind to me and agreed to tow it to their depot where a local guy I know from my fire brigade days came and collected it later and brought it to my mate’s garage (who is, as you may have guessed, another firefighter in the local station).

By the time we arrived, a little flustered, to the pub car park, there was a good crowd of people waiting for us. My brother Robert reckoned there were about 45 in total. We car-pooled up to Ticknock to begin the climb to Three Rock. (Needless to say, there were further mini-dramas as one or two drivers managed to get lost in the short, two-mile spin from one car park to the other). But we all made it there in the end, including my Mum, who was bundled up in blankets and shawls and pushed along in her wheelchair.

The rain spluttered (much like my car) and threatened to spoil the day, but at least for the duration of the spoken words and the scattering itself, it held off, mostly. It is worth noting, for those that haven’t partaken in one of these things before, that there quite a lot of ashes to scatter; certainly more than I had realised. But it meant, even after my first hearty cast into the wind, that others were able to scatter what remained, either from the tube, or by hand, which I thought was lovely.

On the way back down, the heavens opened. Everyone got soaked. I was holding a brolly over my Mum and cousin, who was doing the pushing, so I was only half-soaked. But it was great to back to the warmth of the pub, and get some drinks and hot food on board.

I appreciate these photos above won’t mean a whole lot to you, my dear readers. They are a variety of mostly family, and friends, who were there to pay their respects. The lady in the red jacket, under the umbrella being held by my brother, is Auntie Emer, the last remaining sibling of my Dad’s numerous brothers and sisters. I like to refer to her as The Matriarch, just to annoy her 😉

The other really lovely thing to point out is the image of the six grandchildren who carried Dad into the church last January, on top of Three Rock. That they were all here was magnificent. Our two live in Leixlip, but my brother’s four are, depending on the time of year, in London, Italy, Brussels, or indeed, possibly further afield. When Dad died, Leah was in Chad, working with Médecins Sans Frontières.

The following day, the more immediate family reconvened at our house for a family dinner, and we shared some favourite Dad stories over lasagna and garlic bread, and ended the night in the Salmon Leap, in keeping with tradition. Indeed, with my brother over for a week, I think we had hit the pub most nights, and my liver could certainly do with a break.

As with the funeral last year, folks eventually drifted off at varying stages over the following few days, though I was spared any airport runs, thankfully. There is a direct bus service pretty much from our door, and the last to go was my brother, on Wednesday, and as his flight was around 6am, I admit I didn’t rouse myself to see him off to the Airport Hopper service at 4 o’clock.

Currently, as I tap way on the computer, Storm Kathleen is battering Ireland. I got wind (seriously? ed.) of a tree down on the avenue so popped up to have a look. Sure enough, a huge old Beech had come down in the last few hours, blocking the road. A company was out cutting and clearing, and when I arrived to have a chat, they were just finishing up and heading on to the next job. It’s times like these I wish I had Dad’s little flatbed truck; it would have been a model for horsing a few boughs into, for cutting up back at base. Not to worry. I’ll see if I can scavenge a few branches tomorrow morning before the hungry hoards descend!

My Mum has been talking about getting a ‘new’ car (i.e. a decent second-hand one) for the last year or so, and she has got her wishes. (The plan, expedited by my car’s departure, was to rid ourselves of our two bangers and get one decent car to share). My mate Ian has agreed to sell us a decent car which is only about six or so years old with very low mileage, and it’s had a service with new tyres, etc. To be honest, my interest in cars pretty much stops at ‘the key is turned, the engine is running’ so I can tell you it’s a Nissan Pulsar 1.2 petrol, 5 door hatchback, but if it goes, I’ll be happy. It has bluetooth as well, and I have a sneaky feeling it might be the first time I’ll drive something where everything actually works. I won’t know myself…

Dallan and I had a boys’ night out on Friday. I believe the girls stayed in and watched Ru Paul’s Drag Race; clearly presaging the fall of civilisation as we know it ;-). As confirmed sci-fi nuts, we were off to see Dune Part 2, and for Dallan, it was his second time in a week to see it. So, nuttier than I, I guess.

Even though I was reared on a diet of sci-fi classics from the genius of Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke and Robert A Heinlein, I never ventured into the mind of Frank Herbert, the creator of the Dune saga. I think my brother read some of the books. By that stage, I was heading into Tolkien’s Middle Earth and Donaldson’s Chronicles of Thomas Covenant. But the first stab at Dune on film in 1984, from David Lynch, wasn’t bad. After the revelation of Star Wars from 1977, it seemed that the impossible was now, well… possible. That’s not to say the effects on show were tremendous. Truth be told, the early Star Wars films don’t stand up too well. And it would be unfair to compare Lynch’s Dune to that of Villeneuve. That said, the original Bladerunner from Ridley Scott is still a classic. Dilapidation and decay, all doused in steam and dripping rain and lit with neon set the gold standard for the ‘future’ look for many years to come.

All of which is a long-winded way of pointing out that I haven’t read the Dune novels, and now I am intrigued, but in a slight dilemma. Clearly there will be a part 3, but we’ll have to wait at least a year. And according to fans of the books, the remainder of the series are unfilmable. So the third instalment will be the last. Ho hum. To read all the novels, or wait? In any case, both parts one and two are superb. Epic in scale but still with enough space for the main characters to breathe. My only gripe is that they aren’t long enough. Two and half hours for part 1, and two and three quarters for part 2. But your mileage may vary, understandably. Just make sure you’ve gone to the loo before you take your seat…

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[I added this bit the following day]

As to the rehab; well, things are going okay. The wrist is still stiff and sore in the mornings and takes a little while to wake up. The back seems to be fine, though I am taking it easy as regards lifting, bending and stretching. We played a gig last night in our local, and my crocked back got me a pass on lifting the heavy PA stuff, which was a nice change 🙂

The storm has passed on. As I mentioned above, it took down a large Beech along the Avenue, poor thing. The last time one of these old ladies was felled, Tamsyn and I counted the rings and reckoned they were planted around the time of the famine in 1845. The scavengers were out quickly; the contractors chopped up the large stuff and took the trunk off the road, but when I popped up today to have a look, it was mostly gone. And yes, if I wasn’t injured, I would have been up too, with my trusty Stihl ‘saw…

I had my first swim in a long time. Managed 1 kilometre in the pool. Somewhere around lap 40, I felt I briefly found my form, only to lose it shortly afterwards to tiredness. But it was good to get back in the water. The only downside is that I’m not a member of that gym, and my own gym doesn’t have a pool. And it’s €20 just to use the pool. All of which sounds tremendously like a luxury problem. Which is what it is.

I have scheduled my first official ‘run’ for May 1st, which is about 3 months since the fall. I have nothing specific in mind, but Gary has agreed to join me, which is nice. We’ll start in the park, around the pitches, so it will be soft underfoot. If the back is okay, I’ll start back with some easy runs during the week. With the longer evenings, that’s doable now. And I continue to take my daily dose of Vitamins D and C, plus glucosamine.

And now for something completely different (and irreverent…)

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* Despite my initial thoughts, we retained a handful of the ashes in this little brass urn which will go into the columbarium of St. Mary’s – the church Dad spent some time working in and around many years ago, as part of a state-funded renovation project that was designed to teach young lads about building. And we also have the wooden casket back in our house, where it has kept us company, and in there too are a tiny ‘pinch’ of ashes.