Clifden Writers’ Group 31march2024

This is a story about a family's two beloved dogs, Moe and Dottie. Dottie had a cool and enigmatic personality, while Moe was more playful. They welcomed a new Jack Russell puppy into their home, but Dottie's health began to deteriorate. They took her to the vet and had to say goodbye to her. Two years later, Moe's health also declined, and they made the difficult decision to let him go. Despite the sadness, they found comfort in the belief that Dottie and Moe would be reunited. They returned home as a family of three, but with the knowledge that their true friends would always be with them. Welcome to the Clifton Writers Group Easter broadcast. in association with Connemara Community Radio. Thank you to all our group members and Grainne and Linda here at the station. We hope you enjoy our selection of stories and poems and accompanying music. My name is Danielle Kinney and this is a story about my family. Three years ago we were a family of four. Two middle-aged humans and two of the best four-legged friends around. Moe was a black but graying male with zero sense of personal space. He was loyal to the core and adored one above all others, Dottie. Dottie was his true mistress and queen of our home. Her status making Moe still the cheeky chappy of the house where he could have been the elder statesman elsewhere. Their bond made us nervous about how they would react to the tiny Jack Russell we were getting from Modra, one of a litter who was starting her life in the loving care of Babs from Wrenville Cat and Dog Rescue. Dottie had a cool enigmatic air. She kept close but avoided cuddles and while Moe would always be found lying where the sunbeams fell on the floor, she was happiest near a door, letting a draught cool her ample butt. Her barrel-shaped body, short legs and turned out paws gave a bewitching wobble to her strut. She had many fans, despite her cool demeanour she was always in the thick of what was going on. She was a brilliant soccer player and the local kids would call to the house for her daily. Even gender stereotyping had led them to assume she was a male and we never corrected anyone who asked could Dottie come out to play. Dribbling the ball past other players with great skill, she never quite grasped the concept of teams, always playing for both sides. She was also surprisingly agile in the water, like a hippo, her short stumpy tail waving madly like a rudder as she swam out to fetch sticks in the Dargal River where it meandered through Paris Court, her favourite place to walk. Once I was told rather bluntly by an orthopaedic surgeon that with a build like hers she would have a short life due to how her poor physique would impact on her hips. If she makes it to eight you'll be doing well, he said casually over a table of cocktails in a Dublin night spot that was as cool as he needed it to be in order to be seen there. I'll get her a set of wheels, I said defiantly. No you won't, he said, because her spine will be ruined too. Well she was a happy twelve-year-old when we moved to Connemara, so what do Dublin hip surgeons know? Her soccer career was over but she could still mooch around the deep rock pools on Omie Strand with joy. One Saturday night, just after Easter 2021, she just sat down, mid-waddle, and I knew she wasn't sitting by choice. She was fifteen. She looked at me with confused eyes seeking assurance. Despite her cool air she had always trusted us utterly, possibly the deepest form of doggy love. At Halloween when the rockets and firecrackers were exploding all around suburban Dublin, rattling windows and setting off car alarms, she would climb on my knee and put her head under my arm as if it was something we did every night. I played along, grateful for the annual cuddle. So for two nights and two days she relied on me for everything, cleaning, soft food and spoons of water. Her trust was incredible. Why would I take her to the vet on Monday morning when they didn't close until five? No point in that. Mid-afternoon the four of us set off in the car. Not speaking of what this journey represented. If the hip surgeon said it was going to be fatal at eight, what chance did Dottie have at nearly double that? We pulled into the Mart. Covid regulations were back in place and the vets couldn't allow people inside. Drop-offs and payments were made at a trestle table at the doorway. We parked on the Mart side, directly opposite the vet's door. We opened the hatchback and the four of us sat together in the boot, our legs dangling out the back and the dogs between us. Dottie, limp and weak, Mo tense and fretting. The vet approached to take Dottie but explained we could not go inside ourselves. There was a noise behind us in the Mart. The cattle were lowing and Dottie awoke. There was no room for John and me in the surgery. This post-Easter evening started to feel like the Christmas manger. To our relief, the vet kindly said she could attend to Dottie in the car. We waited, not speaking. Some sheep were bleating now in the pen behind us, but it wasn't a Christmas birth and though it was just after Easter there would be no miracle. Dottie would not be coming back after three days. While we waited, noses buried deep into Dottie's fur, we saw the distinctive red fan of Dottie's groomer Babs pull in. She was also the current guardian of the soon-to-be-ours baby Jack Russell. John explained how circumstances were about to change and the family of five we had expected to be by the following weekend was now a dream never to materialise. Babs pulled up the zip on her jacket and there, tucked under her collar, was a tiny little brown and white creature curled up into a little ball. And for that one brief moment we were all together. There in the car park of the Mart. We let Babs take the unnamed baby away so we could return our focus to the old girl. She was here. I'm glad. It's enough, I thought. We held Dottie on our laps as she slipped away. It was quick and our hearts broke. Most spirit was visibly crushed. The vet moved to take her inside. Dottie would be returning in a box. But they didn't close till five and I wasn't going anywhere. I wanted to keep her on my lap for as long as I could. So we settled into the boot, the air getting cooler as the sun dipped around the back of the NCT centre. Friendly pet owners standing in the queue outside the clinic stood the required social distance apart from each other and us. The six metre distance hid the reality and people admired Dottie on my lap and asked me her name. Frank Acton, who had a front row seat to the farewell, approached us. This isn't a happy scene, he said kindly. I'm sorry. The three out of ten our customers, desperate for his attention who had followed him, ended up having to sympathise too. There is kindness and comedy, even in the darkest moments. The sun sank further behind the clinic and we stayed there in the chilly spring evening holding Dottie and Mo and listening to moos and bleats echoing in the marsh. No amount of frankincense, gold or myrrh could have been as precious as our last moments together. Two years later, on the morning of the anniversary of Dottie's passing, we were still a family of four. Peg, the Jack Russell, a light in our lives, and Mo still kind and faithful, but his heart was still never fully healed. An hour later I heard him yelp. My blood ran cold. I barely remember the drive to the marsh. A different vet this time, but just as kind. They would try to help him, I knew they would, but he was old. The call to come back and make a decision came. Filled with anxiety, we scooped up little Peg and went to the clinic straight after lunch. We'd arrived too early, the vets were in surgery. I was assured that Mo was comfortable and could we come back later. It was two years to the day. It was obvious what we were facing, and I knew what we had to do. Same car, same parking space, and with great care Mo was brought out to us for the rest of the afternoon. The similarity was comforting. The veil was opening, but we could feel Dottie so close on the other side. Incredibly, Babs Red Van even pulled in again. She looked horrified as we did, and she had no little pup this time. When the time came, we could have gone inside. No Covid rules to be obeyed, but it didn't seem right. So Mo left us, like Dottie before her, in our arms in the back of the car. Once again we lingered and watched the sun dip behind the MCT centre, holding Mo until the clinic was closing. We went home as a family of three. But knowing that two years to the day, somewhere, just out of sight, two best friends would reunite. A day will break, stars will fall, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, time will pass, past will pass, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, time will pass, past will pass, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, time will pass, past will pass, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, time will pass, past will pass, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, time will pass, past will pass, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, time will pass, past will pass, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll forget to say, don't forget to say, true friends never part, there's always something you'll Hi, this is Peter Donovan and I'm bringing you a mixed bag of poems today. I don't know if you live near the sea but the other day I looked out and there was this beautiful little white bird with yellow feet. So I took it up and it was a little egret. It only came to Ireland in 1997. So I began to wonder what other exotic birds might reach our shores with climate change. And here's one of them. Who wouldn't love grey-crowned cranes? Elegant with tall legs and a golden crown, a stiff-feathered halo, a red bib under their bill, quite dashing. I love that the cranes flock, just like two o'clock in the morning, to watch a pair of chicks who have reached mating and dance, then fly off as a couple. They continue to dance, to touch as they groom each other, mating for life, incubating their chicks together, until time comes to shoo them away, wide-winged up into the azure clear sky. Sometimes we have to look at just what we have in front of us. Habitat in the West Our dry stone wall runs by the road, stones that cleared the field so long ago, now weathered, mottled with lichen, greened with moss. Its airiness breaks strong gales as they whistle through. It floats, indeed it flexes if ground settles, holding in improbable randomness. Yet watch the stone man building one, he doesn't hesitate. His eye picks out the stone that fits, creating a stoic sculpture tapering to the top. There's a larder within its crannies, insects scurry from preying spiders, a wren rummages for the spider. With its liquid movement a stoat catches the wren. Shrews and field mice shelter from kestrels, while lizards risk basking on sun-warmed walls near our ancient well. There's a trace of a style where neighbours stepped in to fill a bucket with water. Generation of hands over centuries added shore stones to repair tumbles. Memories recorded in our landscape, and a custom in these parts, to always leave an old gate or path intact, ensuring the spirits of those who lived here can find their way home. I don't know if you remember when a Russian warship sailed into West Cork and since was scarpered by the Cork fishermen. But I wouldn't like it to land into Manon Bay. We were in Hungary soon after they got their independence and there were still traces of what it was like to live under the Russians. Budapest 1993 We hadn't studied the Soviet system. Complete your quota and all's well. Hungry breakfast peers, we looked at an empty buffet spread. The early German tourist coach has been and gone, quota fulfilled. We go to the hotel pool. It's 40 degrees and rising. Two deck chairs and hard seats. Two attendants on the deck chairs. One shows us the outdoor shower. It's full of wasps. No shower, no swim. Luckily the wasps are trained. They've had their quota. I slip into the snack bar for sandwiches. The attendant smiles widely as he opens the empty fridge. The Soviets didn't read Parnell. No man has the right to fix a boundary. To some minds, this newfound freedom, well, it's taking a little time. No matter. Living with an imposed system, choices must be made as to what can be saved. The Hungarians choose music. Outdoor in an 18th century courtyard, we attend a concert. As the violins soar, a bird joins in. A Lynette, perhaps. It matches every sweet note. A hotel built on monastery grounds throws a grand piano on the ruins. Under moonlight, we listen to Chopin. Next morning, we are in Matthias' church, knowing this is where Sisi, Empress of Austria, was crowned, and that when she came to Ireland to hunt, she stayed with her beloved horses in what is now my brother-in-law's yard. Turquoises, reds and golds of the church diffuse the interior with an earthly light as in transcendent harmony, Hungarian choirs sing Mozart's Requiem. When we leave Matthias, walking slowly, still absorbing such beauty, we pause. A street harpist is playing O'Carolyn's concerto. A young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, 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a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, 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a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, a young man, 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ah i thought so mama we'll call you back i need to check on something bye hello is this head office yes i need to speak to mr jeffers secretary please no jeffers he's at lock ray i see we don't have officers at lock ray we're in athelone of course i should remember that goodbye oh hello again mama yes i will be coming home soon i'm bringing a bottle of vodka and a bottle of gin they have been open but are perfectly good yes i know we don't drink gin and hardly drink vodka but this was a special occasion it is not every day we celebrate my losing my job is it see you soon mama and happy easter i'm going off to give my stuff a drink so blessings of easter to you all this is catrina lane who lives in russ league here in connemara i have a poem here that i'd like to dedicate to my sister marion lane who died 10 months ago and she died far too young in her prime a short battle with cancer three and a half months and a month after she died last june i happened to be walking on carol moore beach beside lewisburg and i came across this beautiful greater black back gull that was dead on the beach and i took some photographs and i realized the tide was coming in and that soon this beautiful creature would be carried out to sea and so this bird deserved a poem it subsequently won a prize in bally bunion arts festival and when i read it there it resonated with people who had lost loved ones so i suppose in a way this poem is also about my sister and i dedicate it to everyone who has lost someone prematurely and to those who are suffering in gaza today and also in ukraine A berlin a chleadh tuir ceasda, cad a harle dith a stor, a berlin sol a squail tuir lath iar an teidh a thrá umhranóna, greater black back gull at caramoor. what happened you my love that caused your skyfall as a kimikaze speed of light what happened you my love that seized your pulsating heart that zapped the airflow from your lungs that destroyed your majestic wingspan that finished your freebird flight your battered body cast aside on this sandy stretch bearing witness to this upside down world tell us tell us oh crucified creature what happened you my love tell us before the ebbing tide carries you away to the mermaid's chamber marion was very um choosy about what she liked and what she didn't like about my work things that i write and the following poem i sent to her this time last year in fact it's called let the hair sit and she liked this one and it's published in the storms journal the previous two are published both in irish and in translation in the lock raven review which is a american maryland based poetry journal let the hair sit this is also about biodiversity and it stems from when i was driving through wicklow a couple years back i saw this big graffiti on somebody's wall surrounding their property it was called let the hair sit so i thought what's that about let the hair sit do not mow the meadow's edge this is the hair's corner she settles her form into the long grass to birth let the hair sit long enough to nurse when she runs her errands at dusk the ragged robin and dandelions will dance with the bell heather and buttercups and buttercups a curtain of color shielding her leverage from prying eyes this is published in irish too in a journal called in one peen which was part of a project with yadi and she's an heir art and the piece of music i've chosen to conclude is by anya whom my sister marion loved it's called evening falls and the lyrics are very precious she will always be close to me here in connemara and close to my family in ireland and in england oh then it won't be completely close to home i cannot stay close to home is far oh oh carry me to my own to where i can come over close to home i cannot stay close to home oh good searching never right i am lost in oceans of light forever hoping i can find my memory behind even though i live will i go on believing that this time is real me never know i know so a short story written and read by philip gooding of the clifton writers group when i first moved to letterfrack over 20 years ago i very soon learned about the furniture college and how it had previously been a reformatory school since then the dark history of abuse of the school has been exposed in detail on the radio on the tv in books and in films this has made me wonder what might have sustained the boys during their time there this thought this question inspired the following very short story the other boy he and the other boy were set to their morning task to sweep the corridor floor the entire stone floor with the matting down the middle stretching straight ahead for the whole length of the building it hardly mattered that you could sweep it all day every day and still there would be dust so they set off from one end him and the other boy who had arrived at the reformatory school a few days before him the other boy who always spoke up before him who even now on the right side of the corridor moved ahead of him whilst he swept laboriously down the left side then the other boy stopped and looked at the dust dancing in the sunlight at the end of the corridor the other boy turned and looked back come on you feckin slow coach you need to catch up then the other boy turned his back leaned on his brush and peered again at the dust in the sunbeam in that moment all the hatred that he felt for the other boy for the world was inside him it was over in an instant the heavy brush head swinging like an axe crashing into the other boy's head driving his head against the corner of the stone pillar he saw the blood running out onto the newly swept floor the other boy slumped to the floor his brush clattering beside him he looked at the other boy and the other boy looked at him in that instant he understood that he could easily have killed the other boy and that he never would they both looked along the corridor they were over halfway they went on sweeping oh oh oh oh oh oh so hello my name is Mary Louise Heffernan and I'm going to read April Lamming. April Lamming. My daughter Elva is awake now it's early 6 30 a.m she's there to feed the baby lambs she stands there weighing out the formula her headphones on looking sleepy in her pajamas we have two of them this year Lambo and Rambo they are around a week old and bleaching the shed just outside the kitchen window. Lamming is my favorite time of the year I always take time off work for it I've been the least experienced of my family I'm the junior and wait for instructions. An hour later we climb into the 1977 Land Rover. Aigle wellies, barber jackets and the squat team have a set of pink plastic bags. Pink is hard to lose out on the mountain. We drive in the road and the girls swing on the gates opening and closing them. The gorse is in full bloom. We pass an old cottage the half door half open and our neighbor's sheep are painted in red and blue markings looking like a flock of French flags. We drive up the track slowly which is more like a gully over large rocks and into deep pools before coming to the edge of the river. Here we let the dogs out of the car. Fred our fairly deaf sheepdog and two excitable Spaniels Charlie and Lola. My husband Pete tells us the plan of action and we follow him into the river and wade carefully across to get to our land. There are other routes but this is the shortest. The farm is surrounded by the 12 bends and is bordered by the own Glen River a salmon river that rises in the bends and runs through Clifton. Our land borders a waterfall and in winter we often see salmon trying to jump it. The farm is part of Craig Hill with high heather which floats down to a lake and grassy limestone outcrop. The limestone has a few stone cottages on it and just over the fence is a lime kiln for burning limestone to fertilize the land. Between outcrops of rock are remnants of lazy beds walled in separate gardens where people grew vegetables and at a lower level there is a freshwater spring rising. As the land rises it becomes boggy again and just 100 metres from the old houses there are worked turf banks. The story goes that the family left for America after the famine. There was even a children's burial ground there reminding me of harsh times. I often think of the Murphy farm and I'm sure they would have had names for every little field and crock on. In its heyday it would have been a beautiful place to live with abundant food and fuel. Our farm is organic and extensive. We only have a hundred or so sheep on around 300 acres. The land is designated as a special area of conservation and is of international conservation importance for heaths, bogs and the salmon river so low stocking rate is the order of the day. In November Pete puts up the rams, just two are enough. They are mighty beasts with large swinging balls, curly horns and he walks or wrestles them from the top of the hill onto the holding. I get all the easy jobs like opening the gates. They are well shattered two months later having impregnated the entire flock and it's much easier to collect them then. The rams are brought to the yews late so that the lambs are born in early April when there will be more food available. We go in to check them daily. Scottish blackface sheep are hardy, they land by themselves on the hill. We go in every day for a month to make sure that no lambs have been abandoned or killed by foxes. Some young mothers can't cope, others don't have sufficient milk and those with twins usually can only manage to rear one. It's awful to find dead lambs or just a few remains and some are simply taken by the fox. This year between the three family farms 30 lambs have been killed, that's one in ten of all those born. We also lost a greater amount to sheep rustlers but that's another story. The lambs are born in April onto limestone outcrops beside the river where there was plenty of grass, warmth and shelter. However limestone with its cracks can be lethal for small lambs. One such rescue was very dramatic, a newborn lamb ran into the crack in the rocks and fell into an underground cave about a metre down. My husband rang me to come in and bring the car jack to pry open the rocks. He worked for hours wedging open the crevice only to find that she had moved underground further along passage. We had to put the phone down and video her to see where she was. It was dangerous, if he had fallen in we would not have been able to pull him out. We held on tightly to his legs. It was at least a metre deep and he had to dig a hole and lean right in to get her out. The lamb was bleeding all the time and the mother calling too close by. It was such a relief to see the lamb being lifted out and run to his mother to be licked and fed and brought up the hill. Today we move the sheep slowly to the pen and as often we have six family members helping out, giving advice whether it is wanted or not. Echoing around the valley we can hear Pete shouting at Fred to lie down. The ravens recognise his voice and come over to see what is happening. The sheep are corralled into the pen and the children are set to catch the lambs. They have to be quick like predators. I love watching the small lambs playing, bouncing on all four feet, chasing each other. The newborn lambs are marked, given some lamb nutrient mix if they are weak, and sprayed with fox repellent. Weak, abandoned or sick lambs are carried out and their mothers are brought out too. It is hard work. Five hours later, having walked six or seven kilometres up and down the hills with nothing but mints for substance, we arrive home looking windblown and scraggy. It will only take an hour, we were reassured this morning. However, it is a very satisfying feeling that we have saved a few lambs and mothers too. We will do it all again tomorrow and the next day and the next until the middle of May when the lambs grow stronger and more independent. Then we will drive the flock back up the hill where there is plenty of herbs and heather and shelter for them. The pet lambs hear us arrive home and they respond to our voices bleating at the gate, looking to be fed. Elva boils the kettle and I reach for the formula to make the bottles. When the sky is cloudy, your pretty music will brighten the day. You come along with a song right away. Come with your beautiful music. Little April showers, feeding your food and your sorrow. Why can't you hear when your music sounds? If it's not from the sky, it's probably you. Come along, come along with your pretty little song. If it's not from the sky, it's probably you. Come along, come along with your pretty little song. It is a wonderland. It is a wonderland. All from the rainy day. All from the rainy day. How I love to hear your pattern. Pretty little things are patterned. How we'll gather when you come and go. We'll always be together. If it's not from the sky, it's probably you. Come along, come along. 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