Coming Home to Story

This is the Kilmurry Beat on the River Blackwater near Fermoy. Chris and I came here 10 years ago for a day’s fishing with guide (and World Champion Fly-Caster) Glenda Powell. We’d been to the Cape Clear Island Storytelling Festival and were coming to the end of a wonderful camping trip round Ireland. I treated her to the day as a late birthday present.

Today I came back to spend an afternoon fishing with Glenda and to put some of Chris’s ashes in the river. In the course of four hours we covered a half-mile of river and, with Glenda’s expert guidance, I caught three beautiful small brown trout. I remember that Chris had caught a baby salmon on her second or third cast and crowed about it for weeks.

There were kingfishers on the river this afternoon; salmon breaking the surface mid-stream; an egret fishing in the margins; and mink scurrying around on the bank. Ted had the run of the place and was in and out of the water all afternoon. I don’t believe in heaven but if I did, it would be like this: sunlight sparkling on a salmon run; trout lurking in the shallows; happy dog trotting nearby.

Glenda remembered Chris and we talked all afternoon about life, love, and loss as we fly-fished our way slowly downstream. At about 6.00pm, we waded out into a fast running stretch of water and emptied a small container of Chris’s ashes into the river. Glenda said a prayer and I thanked Chris for all the wonderful adventures we had together, and for being my playmate as well as my soulmate.

Afterwards, we toasted her memory with a dram of Irish Whisky, and Glenda invited me to stay and camp by the river for the night instead of driving to a campsite. So, I’m writing this by the light of a coal fire in the wooden Fisherman’s Hut by the riverbank.

I called Hedda and we talked about the day and about coming to Ireland together. Then I cooked some steak on the barbecue and had it for supper with a bottle of Guinness. Ted had a fresh marrowbone, also from the butcher in Fermoy, and we settled down by the fire to digest our meals like a couple of replete hunter-gatherers.

It’s 10.00pm now and dark outside. Soon Ted and I will hunker down for the night in Rosie the Campervan. I plan to wake early, get in a couple of hours fishing before breakfast, and head to Rosslare for our final 24 hours before the ferry home on Friday evening.

The Irish leg of my peregrination with Chris’s ashes is almost over.

It’s been a great trip.

Here’s an unashamed plug for the best fishing guide on the Blackwater

Glenda Powell
http://www.blackwatersalmonfishery.com

Last Friday I stopped off in the village of Graiguenamanagh, in Kilkenny. It was nearly 50 years since the last time I was there. Back then, I had come to Ireland with a school friend, Peter Burnett, for a week’s fishing. We stayed at a local farmhouse for the princely sum of 8 Guineas each, full board.

A couple of evenings we walked into town to drink pints of stout in one of the town’s many pubs. I remembered being fascinated that the pub was also a grocery shop and a monumental mason. When I saw Doyle’s pub last week, I thought it might be the one so I parked the Campervan and went inside.

It was exactly the sort of pub that Peter and I had frequented, though whether it was the one, I couldn’t tell. It didn’t look as though it had changed much in 50 years, apart from the fancy coffee maker and the presence of women and children, which would certainly not have been the case in the 1960s.

The bar sold butter, cheese and cooked meats as well as beer and the grocery section was well stocked with the necessaries of rural life, including bottles of de-licing fluid and tubs of rat bait. But no sign of monumental masonry anywhere. Perhaps that had been a figment of my adolescent imagination?

Three grey-haired old geezers (about my age) propped up the bar. I ordered a pint of Guinness and as I waited for it to settle in the glass, explained my quest to my fellow drinkers. Could they remember if Doyle’s had had a Masonry section when they (I mean we) were boys? The question prompted some laughter and much scratching of heads.

I left them to it for a few minutes while I fetched Ted from the Campervan and returned to sample my first pint of Guinness in Graiguenmanagh for half a century. To say it was magnificent would be an understatement.

I raised my glass to the three founts of local knowledge who were now deep in conversation. “Sure, wasn’t there Monumental Mick?” said one. “You’re thinking of Mason Ned,” said another. They were straight-faced but with a twinkle in the eye that suggested they might have been teasing me. “You could try O’Shea’s round the corner,” said the first speaker. “They’ve got a coal yard out the back.”

Realising that I would never know for sure which pub it had been and that historical accuracy really didn’t matter, I decided to assume that I was in the right place, and let the matter drop.

As the conversation across the room turned towards Brexit and what fecking eejits the British were for giving up a good thing, my mind went back to that halcyon week we’d spent in a world that (apart from the Guinness and rat bait) has largely disappeared. I slowly finished my drink, put down my glass, and left.

Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.

Captain Midnight here, reporting from the mobile kennel (or the campervan as Himself calls it) on a farm somewhere in Ireland. He did tell me the name of where we are but it slipped my mind after the riverbank debacle. You probably noticed that I’m still a bit wet, especially round the ears. Does anyone know why they take so long to dry? Beats me.

Why am I wet?

That was the riverbank thing.

Himself said that he was bored sitting down and writing all day.

“Let’s go for a walk then,” I gestured.

“Ooh yes,” he said, jumping up on his hindlegs, all excited.

So I clipped him to the lead to stop him getting lost and took him down the path to the river for a stroll. I decided to let him off once we were clear of the farm and he couldn’t chase the livestock. Naturally, I went ahead to check for danger and interesting smells and came across the river. It looked rather inviting so I got into the water: a stylish leap followed by a bit of doggy paddle.

Getting in wasn’t the problem, it was getting out again.

Somehow the bank was further up than it had been down. I didn’t want to use my Superdog powers of levitation in broad daylight so I woofed until Himself clambered down the bank and hoicked me out by the collar. He made a fuss of me; asked if I was alright; gave me a cuddle; suggested that I didn’t do it again; then walked on ahead as if he was the one in charge. All rather embarrassing.

Himself is only a pup and you’re probably thinking that I shouldn’t have let him off the lead. But how else is he going to learn?

Captain Midnight here with good news.

Meet Hedda. She’s the good news. Himself is smiling a lot more since she turned up. I say turned up, but it was all my doing really.

I know it’s my job to keep an eye on him, but a few weeks ago I got to thinking that it would be nice to share the load. So, I took him down the hill in Lyme Regis to visit old friends, and when I spotted Herself, sitting in their garden, bathed in sunlight, I pounced.

Himself was drinking tea, completely oblivious. Duh!

I tugged at the lead to get his attention and looked pointedly in her direction. He still didn’t get it, so I woofed and dragged him across the lawn to say hello. You’d think he’d know what to say, being a writer and all, wouldn’t you? But no. He hemmed and hawed, mumbled, went red, and sat down.

Hopeless.

She seemed friendly enough but he clearly need help. Summoning my super-dog powers, I jumped onto his lap and looked winsome. It’s one of my most appealing looks, well-nigh irresistable.

“Nice dog,” she said. “Yours?”

“His name is Ted,” said Himself.

“Suits him,” she said. “My name’s Hedda.”

“Mine’s Geoff,” he said. “Hello Hedda.”

The ice was broken and my work was done. They haven’t stopped talking since. He tells me they’ve been out to dinner, and to the circus (I wasn’t invited to either, which is a bit rich). But I did go to visit Hedda at home and, last weekend, she came to stay with us in Lyme. She gave me chicken and we all paddled in the sea, which I enjoyed very much.

Himself told me they want to see a lot more of each other. I said that three is better than two and that she is very welcome to join our pack. “Absolutely,” he said blithely, as if it had been his idea in the first place.

Of course dear reader, we know what it really was.

A triumph for Captain Midnight.

Babe magnet.

28 July 2016

Ted and I are coming to the end of a two-week stay at Hawkwood College, Stroud as Writer (and Dog) In Residence. Our room is on the first floor at the far left of the building with one window overlooking the courtyard and another (just visible in the picture, below the lower gable) at the front of the house with views across the valley.

When Alicia Carey, the Principal contacted me in January to ask if I’d like to come, I knew straight away that I wanted to use the opportunity to see if I could make a book about bereavement from the 30,000 words of memoir, 150 blogs and 40 poems I’ve written since Chris died.

Over the past 18 months, many of you have encouraged me to share the account of my journey more widely because you found it moving and helpful to read when confronting your own losses and disappointments. I’m so grateful for your support for me personally and as a writer.

I recently found a publisher who is also interested in the idea and, for the past fortnight, I’ve been wrestling with how I might offer my experience of bereavement, not as an expert guide, but as a fellow traveller doing my best to make sense of things that most of us will experience at some time in our lives.

A book has begun to take shape that I hope might become a good companion for others also living through the pain and confusion of bereavement. Re-visiting the time of Chris’s illness and death, has been tough but I as I commit my story to the page I hold it more lightly: the act of writing is both a means to remember and a way of letting go. It’s one way I mourn her loss.

I’ll continue the process when Ted and I go on holiday to Ireland next week. By the end of the summer, I should have something to show the publisher and, with a bit of luck, I’ll have a completed manuscript by the autumn.

Wish me luck!

Saturday 9 July 2016

Chris loved apple pie. When friends asked her, during the last 6 months of her life, if there was anything they could do to help, she frequently asked them to make her an apple pie. Pies of all shapes and sizes were delivered to the house and to hospital wards. All were consumed with gusto and gratitude… and gouts of fresh cream.

Which is why, a year ago, Chris’s sister Helen and their mum Joan chose to plant a Bramley, queen of cooking apples, in her memory, in a secluded orchard a few streets from Helen’s house in Manchester.

I drove there today, with some of Chris’s ashes, to stay with Helen and her children Adam (20) and Rosie (17) and to visit the tree. Joan couldn’t get there because of a problem with her train but, after some to-ing and fro-ing, we decided to go ahead without her and that she and I would have a separate ceremony by the river at her home in Stratford-Upon-Avon, later in the year.

After lunch Helen, Rosie, Adam, and I took Ted with us to the orchard. Helen pointed out the tree, its slender young branches already bearing fruit, and I dug a small hole close to the base but far enough away so as not to damage the roots. The four of us took it in turns to mix some ashes with the fine dark loam then I re-filled the hole and tamped the soil down. Before leaving, we said a silent farewell to Chris: beloved daughter and sister; loving and generous aunt.

During her lifetime, Chris nourished the talents of all around her, from her artistic niece Rosie to her many doctoral students. Which made me think she would be pleased that her ashes will help the tree grow. In a year or two, with a bit of luck, it will produce enough shiny, plump Bramleys to make a good-sized apple pie.

I’ve already put in my order for a big fat slice.

With cream.

I’ve been meaning to get a haircut for weeks. Just a trim, mind you. Nothing too drastic. I rather like the white mane that’s appeared since I last went to the hairdresser. Note the word hairdresser. I haven’t been to a striped-pole men’s barbershop in years: too many bad memories of pudding-basin haircuts inflicted on my tender scalp under matron’s watchful gaze when I was a kid at boarding school.

But I’ve been on the road working and travelling for a couple of months and I’m beginning to look like Einstein on a bad hair day. So as I walk past City Barbers on Worth Street, New York and notice that it’s devoid of customers, it occurs to me to break the habit of a lifetime and go inside. I poke my head in the door and am greeted by a moustachioed, bear of a man with a thick Slavic accent.

“You. Come in. Sit.”

“I just want a trim, please.”

“Trim. Yes. Sit.”

I sit.

He swirls the bib across my lap and fastens it firmly round my throat. It’s tight but I decide it would be unmanly to complain, and that appearing unmanly would not be a good thing right now.

Without another word, Dimitri (which should be his name even if it isn’t) picks up the scissors and launches himself into action, hacking at my locks with a frenzied mania that wouldn’t be out of place in a slasher movie. With his right hand he frantically combs my hair into sheaves to be scythed by the razor-sharp shears he is wielding in his left.

Soon we are both engulfed in a blizzard of white hair. I consider reminding him that I just want a trim, but the blades are snip-snapping so fast that if I distract him now it could be fatal. I hazard a nervous smile. Perhaps he’ll be merciful?

But Dimitri is an artist, impervious to all but his own inner demons. Scissors, comb, and electric clippers perform a danse macabre on my head until the topiary is completed to his own original design. Finally, he draws breath and reaches for the doomsday weapon. It looks like a small flame-thrower but turns out to contain water. He squirts it vigorously until what’s left of my hair is drenched and can be combed flat.

He holds up a small mirror and grunts.

Not wanting to excite him further, I pretend to look in the mirror and also say nothing. This seems to satisfy him. He puts the mirror down and picks up the electric clippers once more.

“You vant eyebrows?”

I consider the proposition carefully. Is he asking if I want to retain my eyebrows intact or have them also receive the benefit of his trichological ministrations?

“Er… ”

He forestalls my indecision with a few sabre-like slashes of the clippers, which reduce my eyebrows to stubble. For an encore, he lunges at my ears and denudes them of the straggling hairs that it has been my unfortunate custom to pluck out absent-mindedly on socially inappropriate occasions. I am beginning to appreciate the severe genius of the man.

“Moustache?”

I assent with the barest flicker of an eyelid.

“Don’t move.”

I turn to stone. The clippers do their murderous work and my upper lip is suddenly liberated from most of its hirsute confinement. I fear that its sudden appearance will repel the fair sex and frighten small children.

“Good,” says Dimitri unfastening the bib from my throat and flacking it like a matador’s cape to remove all signs of my shorn hair. It’s a statement rather than a question. He holds out a stubby, calloused hand.

“$20.”

I hand him a $20 bill plus an extra $5 as a tip. It’s a generous amount, even by New York standards, but the thrill of getting out alive goes to my head. Money seems unimportant at such times. Dimitri looks pleased with the exchange and gives a conspiratorial nod. As I turn to leave, I fancy I hear him, soto voce, uttering the old comrade’s farewell:

“Dos vedanya tovarisch.”

Later, walking down the street, I catch sight of a reflection in a shop window. It takes few moments to realise that it’s me.

Now that’s what I call a haircut.

So good, they named it twice.

It’s the best part of fifty years since I first came here as a student in the 60s and I’ve been back many times. Chris and I came quite often to stay with our friends Dick and Karen, and two days ago I was a guest at their wedding at the NYC Marriage Bureau and at Trestle on 10^th Avenue for the party. It’s been a long time coming (they’ve been together for 20 years) and maybe our own wedding and Chris’s illness and death gave them a nudge.

Yesterday, I visited the 9/11 Memorial Plaza. It’s said that we don’t do grief well in western society, but this memorial is stunning in its simplicity and profundity. Within the footprints of the Twin Towers, two massive acre-square waterfalls cascade thousands of slender streams, combining to form sheets of water that are gathered and held briefly in pools 30 feet below, before plunging deep into the earth. At the perimeter, the names of all the known victims are etched into bronze tablets.

It was on the day after 9/11 that Chris and I, who had been friends for some time, reached out to each other and became more than friends, so although we didn’t lose anyone we knew, the event had some personal significance for us. I went back this morning clutching a single stem of Gerbera which I offered in memory of those who died in the attack and in memory of the time Chris and I were together in the years that followed.

Then I caught the subway to Penn Station and walked along 34^th Street to the Empire State Building. I wanted to do something that Chris and I had not done together in New York, to symbolise the arrival of new energy and new love in my life. It took an hour to get up to the observation deck on the 86^th floor, but the view of the city and the sense of limitless possibility it exudes, made the queuing and cramped lifts worthwhile.

As I looked downtown at the gleaming One World Trade Centre, I recalled that, out of the smouldering rubble of the Twin Towers, workers rescued a badly damaged Callery pear tree. With loving care, it has thrived, been replanted in the Plaza, and christened The Survivor Tree. It stands as a modest reminder of the universal impulse for life in the aftermath of death.

So, I’m flying home this evening in good spirits, with love and gratitude for all that Chris gave me, and with high hopes for what the future might hold.

New York, New York.

Thank you.

Captain Midnight here reporting from behind the enemy lines.

Himself is back from his American sojourn, gracing us with his presence for a few days before he buggers off again. Meanwhile, I spent the last three weeks with a very nice family the other side of Wotton-Under-Edge. They looked after me very well indeed. Two walks a day and not “tasty toppers” on my biscuits but chicken. Simple enough you might think but apparently too difficult for my man to manage. I ask you!

That aside, it was nice to see himself again. I gave him my very best greeting, which involves climbing up him like a tree until I am sitting on his head. He has no idea how I do it and frankly neither do I. It’s a bit disconcerting all round but just another of my super-dog powers, I suppose.

He drove me back to Folly Cottage (I do like having a chauffeur) and I took him for a walk in the woods. As you know, I’ve struggled to train him to walk properly on the lead but I’ve got a new type of harness so he doesn’t pull as much, which made the whole thing much more fun. He still threw the odd stick away; luckily I was there to fetch it back.

Later on, he made a cup of tea (never offered me any) and told me about his recent trip. It mostly seemed to be about putting Herself’s ashes in the ground in various places. I can’t quite understand why he did it unless he wants to go back to dig them up later and eat them, which does seem rather unlikely. But there’s nowt so queer as folk, as I was saying to my Yorkshire Terrier chums at the Kennel Club the other day.

Apparently, he’s got a bit more travelling to do and then we’re going camping in Ireland later in the summer in Plastic Rosie (our mobile kennel or camper van as he calls it). It should be nice once we get across the watery bit.

I’ve written a special note for him on the holiday shopping list:

These are the 122 steps leading down to the beach at Horton’s Point, Long Island. Over the years, Chris walked down them many times with our friend Karen Karp to swim together in The Long Island Sound. Karen and Dick’s home nearby was one of her favourite hangouts and she went there whenever she could.

Today the three of us took some of Chris’s ashes to the shore. Karen and I waded out a few yards and I released a handful of ashes into the water. Karen stood nearby in her wetsuit. I passed her the container with the remaining ashes.

“Do you want to take our girl for a swim?” I asked.

Karen nodded, plunged into the sea and struck out towards the horizon. Soon she allowed the tide to catch her and drift her parallel to the shoreline. After 10 minutes or so, she made her way back to where Dick and I were waiting and handed me the empty container.

“I opened the lid and let her ashes flow out as I went along,” she said. “It was beautiful to swim with her again. Thank you.”

As she spoke, a small white butterfly flitted around us. They are commonplace here but it was a touching moment and lifted our spirits. Chris had a great gift for friendship and she would have been delighted that our dear friends Karen and Dick were able to say farewell to her in this way with me.

Chris and I stayed here for our first holiday as a couple, in August 2002. It was our “unmarried honeymoon” and the start of a new life together. But it was Karen’s idea to finish our North American peregrination back where it all started and she was absolutely right.

As I write these words, Karen and Dick are cooking dinner and compiling the playlist for their wedding in New York on 1^st July. They are getting married after 20 years together and I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Chris, I’m sure, will be looking over our shoulders to witness them exchanging their vows in City Hall, and dancing with us at the celebration party afterwards.

I’m not going to be giving a speech at the wedding but if I was, I think I would say, from what Chris and I learned during our time together: life is short and precious; enjoy each other every moment you can; and – in the end – love really is all you need.