unironedman

IN WHICH WE PLOD AROUND THE TOWN AND PAUSE TO REFLECT ON PATHWAYS AND HOW THEY COME INTO BEING, AND WE ALSO STOP AT THE GATES OF CASTLETOWN HOUSE TO GET THE LATEST ON YET ANOTHER IRISH SOLUTION TO AN IRISH PROBLEM…

Firstly, I must apologise for using the royal ‘we’ up above. There was no ‘we’ out there this morning; there was just little old me, plodding around in circles. Well, one large and rather unsightly circle, according to Google Maps. I hadn’t burdened myself with the gym too much this week (one session last week, alas), but I have been keeping to the ‘three runs a week’ deal, for now. And if that doesn’t altogether banjax me, I will up it to four.

The Garmin running stats, as always, are the HR department of the fitness division. They don’t lie. They call you in for a little chat and update session when you least expect it. Nothing formal… we just want to see how you are getting on… and then they gently push a set of print-outs across the table…

So, December was a fairly fallow month. Indeed, if not for Lock up the Year, it would have been appalling. The cycle the day before the race to set out the markers was not much shy of the total running distance for the month, at around 45k. And about half of that total was completed on the last day of the month.

January was an improvement. I’m sure the HR department wonks will take note. 108k or so of running over 13 sessions. If all goes well, February should be better again. Though of course, I’ve just made God laugh, so that’s probably fecked that up…

Friday was the opening day of the Six Nations, and France put Wales to the sword in Paris. It was the main reason the Friday gym session got the hammer. Yesterday, Scotland overcame Italy (a game I missed), and then Ireland beat England in the highlight of the three games this weekend. It was in Dublin, and there’s always an extra spark when the Old Enemy come to town. Worth pointing out, of course, that England fans can freely mix in the city centre with Irish fans, and drink at the same bars. Which brings to mind this: “It is clear that one is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans; the other a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen.”
Chancellor of Cambridge University, date unknown (c.1890s).

That of course is a famous quote about the difference between football and rugby, which is hard to pin down to one person. The internet places its bets equally between Oscar Wilde and Winston Churchill, but it would seem neither are guilty on this occasion. That said, in a pub quiz, if all else is lost, and you need to put a name to a famous quote, either of those is as good a choice as any. (Mark Twain says ‘hold my beer…’).

Anyway, the main thing is that it was a good game, and England looked sharp in the first half, and had a 10-5 lead at half time. Some stern words must have passed in the dressing room, because a rather different Irish side took to the field in the second half and had the game won with a 27-10 scoreline with about five minutes to go. England pulled back two late tries but the game was over by then. A losing bonus point, though, which could prove useful at the tail-end of the championship. Who knows?

And so, I dragged my carcass out of bed around quarter past seven this morning, and gathered my gear together. Porridge was made and eaten, and a bar was stuffed into the hydration vest. The gloomy damp weather promised by Met Eireann was still lingering outside like a drunk at the doors of a shuttered nightclub. I popped my head out the back and there was enough drizzle to convince me to put on my light rain jacket. A gentle beep from the trusty Garmin and I was off, up the Black Avenue and into St. Catherine’s Park, where all the best runs start. Then over the bridge near the sewage works, and along the swollen river towards the South County Dublin Lucan entrance, which is getting a facelift. Clearly someone in the council has a mate who owns a paving company, as Lucan’s ‘village green’ is set to become a veritable showpiece for paving in the coming months too. And if the artist’s impression is anything to go by, it’s being done by the same contractor. No doubt there’ll be a tribunal in a few years. For now, both sites are just heaps of rubble and earth, mounds of gravel and sand, and pallets of (no doubt very expensive) paving slabs.

Out along by the golf course on the Old Celbridge Road, and by this stage, I have settled into my stride (if what I am doing can constitute such a thing). All of a sudden, I am swiftly and savagely snatched out of my inner ramblings by a double thwacking sound that fizzes over my head and buries itself in the trees to my right. Had I been a President of the United States, I would now be on the ground under a heap of special agents. But on this cold and dreary morning, there are no sharp-shooters, and the grassy knoll, it turns out, is in fact a tee box close to the clubhouse of the Lucan Golf Club, and someone has just lost their ball. I, thankfully, have not lost my head, but it’s a timely reminder that the hand of fate can sometimes slip on that Callaway Big Bertha, and of course, that all golfers are vermin. No further questions.

I don’t consider that the errant golfer has possibly reloaded and is taking aim again. Nor do I leap to my feet and shout ‘fight! fight!’ I mean, that would be silly, right? I just plod on, and a minute later I see the culprits. They are too far away for me to let them know where their f**king ball is, so I just meander on up Tubber Lane and out past the new estates that have sprung up in rapid fashion in the last year or so.

As I cross the bypass which is part of this new development, I stop to take off the rain jacket. The drizzle and I have reached a score draw, and I am over-heating. I hang the vest on the edge of a chainlink fence and stuff the jacket and gloves into one of the zip pockets. Here I spot one of those pathways that we humans make, despite other humans attempts to prevent such things from happening. It’s a topic I have touched on before. For some real in-depth reading on the subject, I would recommend Robert Macfarlane.

In the field beyond, the Irish government have installed some modular housing for Ukrainians. The estate looks neat and tidy, and by all accounts, the units are good for at least sixty years. So one day, when the madness of Russia is over, and they can return to their homes, if such things still exist, then these units can be used again. As I put my hydration pack back on, I can smell cigarette smoke, and I spy a gent with his back to me, walking slowly up a path towards the houses. What is he thinking? I can’t possibly know. I would like to sit down over a cup of tea and chat about his homeland, but that is not an option for today.

I know there is a Lidl store a short walk from here, and the most direct route is to cross here at this ditch. And so, a few planks serve to keep one’s feet out of the mucky water, and the chain link fence panels end at this point. And so we have a natural pathway formed by people who have a need for one. And that is how things start. In Ireland, a road is called a bóthar, which means ‘cattle track’. And they would have been the proto-roads in Ireland. Indeed, there is another word for what we may understand as a ‘road’, and that is slí, which means a way. The Slí Mór were the great highways of Ireland’s past, and they still exist in some form to this day. They served as pilgrim routes, and for traders to move about, and for locals to get their produce to fairs.

I pass the state labs and its carefully manicured landscaping around its high-tech interior, and then cross the Liffey and turn left towards Castletown House. At the main gates, I stop and chat with three lovely locals who man the pop-up tent/information centre that has become a permanent fixture. It’s a long story, but essentially, the OPW (like The National Trust in the UK) manage the stately home and demesne, and for years, access was granted from the nearby motorway into a large car park which catered for all visitors. The main gates and tree-lined avenue was pedestrianised.

This access point sat on land that was privately owned, and when it came up for sale, it was purchased by property developers, who were able to outbid the semi-state body. A deal to maintain access fell through (I understand they wanted payment for continued access), and suddenly the OPW had a serious problem. The house and parklands get up to one million visitors per year (not sure how they measure this, to be honest). The OPW wanted to dig up a field near the main gates and build a ‘temporary’ car park, but this was met with fierce opposition from locals and a stand-off ensued which is still running to this day. That’s nearly two years ago. I admire their resilience. The OPW have got up to some silly business since, to try and discredit the local campaign. The silliest one I heard this morning was the removal of the bins. The first part of the silliness was that the OPW decided not to empty the bins because one of the main issues for everyone is that the locals have effectively stopped the main avenue from being used by vehicles, unless they are accompanied by a safety person to make sure they keep to walking pace. Subsequently, the house seems to be operating on a skeleton staff, and the bins were one victim of this. Leaving the bins overflowing and pointy the finger at the locals was a dirty trick.

So the locals took it upon themselves to empty to the bins, and apparently, they did a better job of it than the previous people. Annoyed by this success, the OPW removed the bins…

The OPW have been mired in controversy in Ireland of late, as they have been found to have spent ridiculous amounts of money on what a lot of people would deem frivolous projects. Certainly my own experience with them here on a flood alleviation project would confirm they have a lax attitude to equipment and finishing. I am not surprised they waste money, hand-over-fist.

I trudge on over the motorway and remember that there is a new access path to the canal, which is my own pathway home. The path doubles-back, and unsurprisingly, I discover another ‘desire line’ where you can cut off a couple of yards off your journey if you are traveling in that direction.

Now I am on newly-laid tarmac which has destroyed the unique character of the canal towpath. Is is clean and safe for all users? Of course. It’s pleasant enough to run on, I suppose, and when it finally peters out, the grass has been chewed up and the heavy rains of January have made it rather mucky. Which is just the universe poking you in the eye for having notions.

I have had several opportunities to bale out and take a shorter route home, and have manfully soldiered on. I am no refugee, fleeing war or famine. I don’t carry my worldly possessions on my back, or have my family in tow. I am just another middle-aged dude out flogging himself, who will soon be home to a hot shower and breakfast.

I finally part company with the canal at Collins Bridge on the Clonee Road, and then it’s a short stretch of tarmac footpaths before I slip back in to the park again for the final leg. The watch is still beeping at regular intervals, but I have been ignoring it, so I am not sure where I’m at as regards distance. I get home, upload the run and S has made breakfast of sausages and scrambled egg. Bliss! Then it’s a quick shower and I take Mum to church

The run is a sliver over the half-marathon distance, so I am happy with that. The pace is slow and steady, and I am not interested in it anyway. These last few months have been about getting back out again and trying to establish some sort of routine. Make some desire lines of my own…

---

---

Many moons ago, a callow youth found himself at a dinner party. He was perhaps not quite twenty, and was playing in a band with some friends at the time. The party was being hosted by a well-known artist whose son was managing their band at the time. Managing is definitely over-stating things here; the band in question can hardly put together enough songs for a gig. They are hoping to write their own material, and conquer the world.

He is not used to the dinner party as a form of social get-together. Pubs, parties and night clubs are more his thing. But the people there are very entertaining, and the homemade hooch is going down well. After victuals, one of the guests is prevailed upon to sing a song. She protests, but in truth, she seems to be secretly pleased. As the only guitarist there, an instrument is thrust into his hands, and he is asked if he knows The Ballad of Lucy Jordan. It’s something of a nightmare for this young musician, and there is some muttering from one or two of the older guests that he doesn’t know this classic number. Nonetheless, a key is found, the rhythm described, and after a little false start, the song is performed to general approval.

That singer was Marianne Faithfull, and the guitarist was me.

So long, Marianne. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a hanam.