unironedman

I suspect for most of us, we all have our visual markers for the birth of Spring. I am always on the lookout for the first Lesser Celandine, the first Primrose, the first Wood Anemone. But the biggest show-off and harbinger of Spring (you can’t write a piece like this and not use the word ‘harbinger’; it’s the law) must surely be the Hawthorn. It has several names, and perhaps the simplest one is Whitethorn. It is, after all, very white. And it has thorns. (And we’ll overlook the whole debate about when Spring actually starts; technically, it’s March. For me, I’m more of a pagan, so I opt for Brigid’s Day on February 1st.).

However, let me present to you the other thorny tree with white blossoms that generally beats the flowering Hawthorn out of the gate by a couple of months, depending on the weather. And clearly falls within the purview of Spring. The Blackthorn. The two can get confused. And by that, I mean ‘we’ the people sometimes get them confused. The trees are not in the least bit confused. They understand their place in the world perfectly well. And to make matters perfectly clear and obvious, one just has to check out both trees later in the season, when the crimson haws of the Hawthorn shine like the most gaudy Christmas baubles ever made. Even for a red-green colour-blind mutt like me, I can spy the berries from a hundred yards.

The Blackthorn’s fruits are a more subtle affair. Next to impossible to describe without using the term ‘deep purple’ which could send me on a side mission to YouTube where I will be lost in all 10 minutes and eighteen seconds of ‘Child in Time’ and the outstanding vocals of Ian Gillan… oops… nearly… back now… where was I?

Sloes are the fruit of the Blackthorn, and their purple and almost black colour is often hidden behind a powdery layer as if they’ve just stepped out of the shower and put on some talc. It demands to be gently rubbed to reveal that rich endless darkness beneath. And of course, you can take a few and pop them in your bottle of gin too, if that’s your thing. It imparts a ruby tinge to the drink, which sort of reminds me of Guinness, in that it is considered to be a pint of the black stuff, but given enough light in the right conditions, you can see that’s a very dark ruby colour too. Though generally nobody gives it that much attention; they’re too busy drinking it.

Worth noting we are pretty much at Vernal Equinox, so it’s all good, my friends. If you can ignore the global warming, genocide and rapid plunge into fascism around the globe. My advice? Check out the Blackthorn blossoms. Altogether more delicate and less showy than their May flower cousins. Though their thorns guard their fruits more savagely, it must be said. You will have to fight for your sloe gin.

I managed a half this Patrick’s Day morning. It’s as close as I’ll get to a parade these days. Haven’t been involved since I left the brigade. And when I say a half, I don’t mean a half a Guinness. I mean half a marathon. I had planned to join Gary for a canal adventure. We were going to get the train into Dublin and run back along the canal. This didn’t happen for family reasons, so I toddled off on my own. I had vague plans to go through the park and do 7k along the canal and turn at the old schoolhouse. That would be a nice 14k. I was wearing my posh new shoes. I have been rationing them out since I bought them, in an effort to save as much ‘bounce’ as possible for the 5k attempt, not forgetting the small matter of Abingdon Marathon later in the year. But a few hundred miles on them shouldn’t hurt, I guess…

[the bounce on these shoes is astounding. It’s impossible not to use the word ‘plush’ when describing them. The upside is that you feel like you’re bouncing along on a tower of foam. The downside is that you feel like you’re bouncing along on a tower of foam… in other words, stability takes on a whole new meaning. But you get used to it reasonably quickly.]

The first kilometre passed with the obligatory beep from the watch. About 5:30… interesting. That first k up the Black Avenue hill, getting the legs to turn over and allowing the breathing to settle usually gobbles up six minutes minimum. The second k is another steep climb before you hit the end of the park and the Clonee Road. That’s usually another slow one… beep… 5:41… Out then onto the road for a stretch before taking a right down onto the canal, and the third ‘lap’ is 5:38. I decide not to bother with the stats but instead focus on the run, and perhaps see how we feel when we get to the 7k mark before I decide whether to push on over the canal or turn for home. I’m long enough at this running lark to know you don’t make hasty decisions at the start of a run, not least when you seem to be feeling a little more sprightly than normal.

There is a breeze and unfortunately it’s at my back along the exposed stretch from Lucan towards Westmanstown, which means I’ll have it full in the face on the return leg. As I get further into the Deep Sinking, the surrounding trees remove wind from the equation and it’s a pleasant spin towards Castleknock, despite some muddy patches which make for slow going. Once out onto the M50 overpass, the wind reintroduces itself. By now, I have ditched the hat and gloves. I pass over the busy road and wait ’til the watch hits 10.55k and turn for home. I make a quick mental note of the time and wonder if I can manage a negative split. Only one way to find out, I suppose.

I put the head down and try and keep the pace honest. Just to make the run more interesting, I avoid looking at the watch. It’s beeping away alright, but I like surprises, so I won’t find out if I am going to make the grade until I reach home. I am also famously bad at mental arithmetic, so I am struggling to work out what I need to finish in anyway, and even if I could work it out accurately, I would then need to work back and calculate what the remaining distance would have to be achieved in… all in all, I would be rubbish at darts.

As I reach about 4k left to go, I am now back on that open stretch of canal. The wind seems to have picked up. The gently ruffled surface of the canal now is thronged with – if not white horses, then at least newborn foals cresting at intervals – and I feel like I have slowed to walking pace.

Up and onto the bridge and left, hoping for some respite, but the wind finds me here too… bloody hell, what cursed magic is this? At least the turn into the park once more offers shelter and respite to tired legs. At the beep signalling 19k, I can’t resist a quick look at the watch, and I push on down the hill towards the beech tree, and take on the last incline which feels steeper than usual.

One final push along the Black Avenue and down the hill to home. I have to wait ’til the watch ticks over onto 21.1k, and then I can stop. 1.54:07 at 5:24 pace. Definitely a negative split. Both my watch and my groins tell me so. And even that last k came in under 5 minutes when it felt considerably slower. Well, tougher, at least.

I blame the shoes 😉

Happy with that morning’s work, and happy to report that the reason Gary couldn’t join me for the run seems to be not as serious as was feared, so that’s good news.

And just to return to trees, as I watch the tricolour-bedecked fire engine whizz past my house on the way up head the local parade, I shall recount this tale: Back in 1999, plans were in place for the much-needed Ennis bypass in Co. Clare. But as the diggers camped out near Newmarket-on-Fergus, local seanchaí (storyteller) and folklorist Eddie Lenihan passed by one evening, and stopped to see what was going on. He was horrified to learn that a particular Hawthorn would be uprooted to make way for the road. He hit the airwaves. Local papers and radio stations first, and then it went viral. He warned of dire and deathly consequences from the fairy folk if a branch on the tree was harmed.

After much huffing and puffing, the council agreed to move the road slightly to one side, and the tree still stands to this day. There are other examples of this deference to fairy trees. And it’s been suggested the demise of the DeLorean plant in the north was due to the felling of such a tree. Now if only there was a way they could go back in time and avoid that problem…

In other news, well done to the irrepressible and multi-talented Jessie Buckley, who picked up a Best Actress award at the Oscars on Sunday night. Congrats too to Richie Baneham, who studied at Ballyfermot College where my mate Mark taught animation for many years. Richie picked up a third Oscar for his work on the Avatar films. And of course, there were many more Irish folk involved across the board representing all aspects of the film industry. Safe to say, it’s in good hands at the minute.

(In the above smorgasbord of nonsense and some wonderful poems, I have included some daft Pareidoliac cardboard figures from work. Entitled ‘Happy Robot’, ‘Sad Grizzly Bear’, and ‘Sad Polar Bear’.)