HEARTBEAT:The fruit of my labours end up landing me in quite a jam, writes MAURICE NELIGAN
IT IS A lovely summer day. A hint of a westerly wind pushes the cups of the anemometer. It is warm, with enough fluffy wandering clouds to provide some shade. I am writing outdoors.
I remember, in far-off days of examinations in medical school, that I and two close friends would avail of such weather to leave the city and study in some quiet, secluded place. Such peaceful environments worked for us. Some of our colleagues could only study when alone. Some sought a cool dark room. Others could work with a radio or television in the background. Some were early birds, others worked late into the night. One hardy man would study in Hartigan’s pub from five to eight most evenings before the arrival of hordes of thirsty students rendered such exercise futile.
Irrespective of location, concentration and willpower were essential attributes. Without them you were wasting your time. All three of our little group became surgeons. One was my best man when the HA removed me from random circulation, and the other was a groomsman. One is dead and the other has a long-term illness. I am left with memories – kind memories of great friends. I can see them clearly in these quiet surroundings, and I say a little prayer for them from my innermost being.
I started the day swimming in calm unruffled water on a full tide. Sounds were magnified across the water: cattle lowing, a dog barking, faint voices carried from far away. I emerged from the deep, energy renewed and ready to face whatever the world, more particularly the HA, would ordain for the rest of the day.
Today, it started with brambles. There is a long lane leading to the house and the brambles here have a nasty habit of growing. Seemingly, they can scratch the paintwork of passing cars. Secateurs in hand, I set out. It could have been worse.
On a beautiful morning in such a tranquil place, the work proceeded very slowly. There were too many distractions to concentrate on the job in hand. There were butterflies, large and small white. There were the less plentiful red admirals heading for the nettle patches where they lay their eggs. There were dragonflies with helicopter-like facility of vertical flight. There were myriad swallows strafing the road as they snapped up insects on the wing. These were ideal stimuli to make the worker lean on his spade and postpone the designated work. Observing this joyous carnival of life and growth made progress very slow.
R fruticosus or bramble or blackberry behave like triffids around here. The many-headed Hydra has nothing on them. No sooner was one shoot severed than three more sprang into its place. We are going to have a major crop this year. They range from the white flowers to green fruit, ripening to red, with the odd precocious black one thrown in. The blackberry picking, done happily in younger years, is less welcome in your earned dotage, but it is inescapable because the HA makes jam. There are 400 varieties of blackberry, and they vary widely in texture and taste. I haven’t a clue what variety ours are other than they are black and go into jam. They have to be picked before Michaelmas because everybody knows that on that night the Devil pisses on the brambles, rendering the fruit inedible. Mind you, I haven’t seen that myself, but have occasionally witnessed something similar on golf courses throughout the country. Nobody wanted to eat those blackberries either.
Brambles were planted in graveyards to deter grazing sheep and to keep the dead interred and the Devil outside. The long, thorny stems were also known as “lawyers” because of the painful difficulties in trying to escape their clutches. They are also sometimes planted near young trees to guard against the depredations of grazing deer. As we’ve only ever had the one deer it would seem to us to be an unnecessary precaution. It is also claimed that brambles in some mysterious way confer some protection against hernias.
The HA finally appeared, noted that I had failed to deal with the problem adequately once again and, what was more, I had taken hours to achieve so little. All right, so I didn’t do a great job on the brambles, but I was at peace and had thoroughly enjoyed myself. Another magic day raced away, as they do in this idyllic spot in Kerry.
mneligan@irishtimes.com