Buffed and Butch on the Beara

Buffed and Butch on the Beara

Last summer’s  ramblings of a new rural romantic.

What you have to understand is that I am a city kid. I have never lived anywhere without a corner shop- literally on my street corner. As a non-driver, I have always lived where there are at least two bus routes serving my area. When I lived in Belfast there were six bus routes to my home, but public transport is a commitment up North, not a miracle. I’m an urban girl. I like to have a pub within staggering distance and a few neighbours, who are amiably disposed towards a gossip. I even get withdrawal symptoms if there are no kids kicking a football outside the door who I can give an ear-bollocking to- its so good for venting one’s frustrations- consequently I have never felt the need to see a therapist and it has saved me a lot of money.

So, it has all come as a bit of a shock to discover that I am in love with the vast, sparsely populated landscape of the Beara Peninsuala. I can sit for hours on end watching the sky- and doesn’t it go on forever? I stand outside at night in gobsmacked awe at the number of stars in the firmament. I  voluntarily, nay, even with a spring in my step, walk two miles to the nearest shop. I practically skip along the hedgerows oohing and aahing at the wildflowers that spring up every visit to greet me. The dominant colour this month is the blood- red of the fuschia, last month it was the lavender of battalions of foxgloves, the month before it was the brilliant sun yellow of gorse and next month it will be my favourite hot orange as thousands of clumps of  monbretia burst upon the scene. Listen to me- I’m an eejit for this stuff.

The last two visits have seen particularly extreme manifestations of my new, tree- hugging- smell- the- good- wet –earth- and –bless-the day-that’s-in-it self. It started when we bought a bow saw. Herself is a keen and extremely talented gardener, whereas I shuffle two paces behind as she attempts to explain to me for the one hundred and third time what the difference is between a weed and a plant that she has nourished and nurtured for months. (Did you know that a weed is just a plant that nobody wants? A bit like Michael Mc Dowell really.) Basically, she is able, knowledgeable and efficient in all matters horticultural and loves nothing more than to sink her hands into earth and tend to growing things. I usually admire all this from a safe distance- things crawl in the soil.

But then the bow saw came into my life. And I have been transformed- praise Jesus!
An ecologically –aware friend, (I’ve know her for 25 years and only now am I paying any heed to the wisdom she has tried to impart to me over the last quarter of a century), suggested we cut down some of the young sycamores on the land around the cottage because they seed quickly and choke the other trees. Hence, the bow saw. This sounded like a job even I could do- unskilled labour. Truth be told, ever since I was a kid I’ve wanted to shout “TIMBER!” and mean it.

I have felled six of the buggers so far AND turned them into firewood. I am a  Tasmanian devil with purloined, serrated teeth. There is a ritual to my toils. Up early, coffee cup in hand, sizing up the job to be tackled each morning, then I put on the kit. Men’s construction shorts with lots of pockets for ‘things’ and even a wee loop to hold your pencil, in good weather a sleeveless tee-shirt or vest, a pair of thick socks and walking boots and a baseball hat.  Like those Japanese soldiers who were found in South East Asian jungles 30 years after the war ended, I look like the Greenham Commoner that time forgot. All I lack is my bender (a tent made from branches and a dog blanket- I think), a campfire and rolling tobacco. I have muscles on top of muscles but they are all on my right arm and the incongruity of my upper limbs is beginning to show. But who gives a damn- in my tree-felling rig-out I am the butchest looking thing around for a half a mile, until you get to John Joe’s farm and his prize ram. I am getting more ambitious as the weeks roll on, I now have a pair of giant, telescopic secateurs and those suckers can lop off a branch as thick as my arm- well, my less developed left arm. Lately, I have been pondering the technicalities of making my own wooden bench from the supply of logs I have amassed. I fancy something rustic, bound together by sheer grit and a bit of old rope-sort of Ikea without the straight lines.

I have amazed myself. All this from the woman who went to Greenham Common and  lasted less than 48 hours there. They had no corner shop.