Bruce Munro's Field of Light in Paso Robles with 58,000 solar
powered fiber optic lights on 15 acres

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As I stood at the far edge of the bus shelter studying my ticket, I gradually became aware of the agitated sounding woman talking over the phone at the opposite end. She spoke in urgent staccato bursts, machine gun profanities littering the pavement beneath our feet with a rapidly growing pile of discarded shell casings. In just a few rapid sentences she must have used the F word at least thirty times, in a manner that was both impressive and bewildering in equal measures. Across the space between us stood a dozen uncomfortable souls, each of them no doubt wishing the ground might open up beneath them, swallow them whole and transport them safely to Cork, just as I did. Or swallow her whole and dispatch her to the Sorbonne for an intensive course in the proper use of English with a particular emphasis on vocabulary. Another half dozen curses were loosened in the direction of the unseen recipient of the call, no doubt a feckless male who might have been doing more in support of the relationship. Or lack of relationship. Around her meandered three children, yet she paid them only the barest attention. Two of them aged seven or eight, seemingly left in charge of the two and a half year old who wandered back and forth along the concourse, while Queen Pottymouth continued to rant into her mobile. I wondered at which point one of us might need to intervene and whisk the toddler from the wheels of an oncoming bus, although thankfully she stayed away from danger. This is the country that punches far above its weight in literary terms. The Ireland that produced Swift, Joyce, Beckett, Yeats, Shaw, Wilde and countless other feted writers. And here, Queen Pottymouth was performing her own earthy brand of street poetry - albeit with a noticeable over reliance on one adjective.

It was Roisin’s idea to take the Aircoach to Cork. She’s cousin number four of eight by the way. I’d been planning to take a bus into the middle of Dublin and catch the train, but I was promised this would be a far better plan, and so it proved to be. Despite the unwanted free entertainment at the bus stand, Roisin was right. Loiter outside Dublin Airport in the right spot, and for an extremely agreeable price you can be whisked away to the south in comfort. A brief stop in Dublin city centre and then it races south to Cork without stopping. And yes, there is an onboard “facility” if you were worried about spending three and a half hours with your legs crossed. Dumping my case in the hold, I boarded the bus, and proceeded, as I always do in such situations, towards the rear. I then did an immediate one-eighty and returned to a seat closer to the front, for there on the back row was Queen Pottymouth, who at least seemed to have remembered to make sure all three of her children were accounted for. I settled into a window seat, the camera bag stuffed into the remaining space that wasn’t taken up by my feet and prepared for the journey ahead. The back row had by now fallen blissfully silent. Maybe she’d given herself a case of laryngitis. Either that or she’d run out of emotions.

Ali had raised my hopes by telling me I might end up sitting next to Andrea Corr, but I would soon be disappointed. As darkness fell, and we arrived at the stop on the banks of the Liffey, the coach filled up and a young man slumped into the empty seat beside me, where he promptly fell asleep. It was probably for the best. Apart from the fact that I can remember just one song by The Corrs (besides which I far prefer the original by Fleetwood Mac), I’d have only started stammering in front of Andrea and tripping over my words. A young woman with kind smiling eyes took a seat in the row in front of me, and told her neighbour she was back in Ireland after spending some years living on the other side of the world in Melbourne. “You’ll see some changes,” said the lady beside her. I closed my eyes and let the time slide by as we crept slowly through the Friday evening city traffic towards the motorway.

Changes there certainly had been since I last travelled this route. New motorways linking Ireland’s main cities, making the journey easier than before and far quicker. No more crawling through Kildare, Cahir or Cashel. An end to foul ups at Fermoy and Thurles. There was no doubt that Roisin’s counsel was good. It used to be possible to fly direct to Cork from Newquay, but sadly the airline went bust some years ago, and I wasn’t keen on going all the way to Bristol when Ali could drop me off at the only airport within a two hour drive of our home in West Cornwall. This was much better. Somebody else was doing all the work and we were making good time. All I had to do was sit here and enjoy the ride. The back row continued to maintain its silence. Evidently she’d made herself clear enough at the bus stand earlier. Or like a foul mouthed thunderstorm, she’d simply blown herself out.

A little after eight, we rolled into the outskirts of the city and along the banks of the Lee. In time we came to a halt and the door opened. We’d arrived. I made my way along the bus and saw two familiar faces grinning up at me from the pavement outside. Louise (cousin number eight) and my much loved Uncle Peter, who comes about as close to being a blood relative as it’s possible to without actually being one. Hugs all round, and then through the streets of Cork to the quiet suburban area where they’ve lived for four and a half decades, and where all eight of my cousins grew up. Dinner, the rugby international on the television and a generous tot of Jameson’s, distilled in nearby Midleton, the town where my long since departed paternal grandfather spent his childhood years. This was just the start. And where there was a start, the adventure would surely follow.

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Klingking, Nusa Penida, Indonesia

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A flaming red maple bent over a bench in Kubota Garden. By the time we got back from our trip to the Oregon coast, most of my favorite trees in the garden had lost their autumn hues. But this one still flamed red.

Color My World Daily - Red
Happy Bench Monday!

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Die Fußgängerbrücke in Wilhelmsburg in einer Finart Arbeit...
eine kleine Sisyphusarbeit all die, gefühlt tausend, Streben händisch freiszustellen....:-))
The pedestrian bridge in Wilhelmsburg in a Finart work...
a small Sisyphean task to release all of what feels like a thousand strivings by hand....:-))

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