For ever and for ever when I move

I was first welcomed into Bridgid McLoughlin’s charming Wexford country house, an old backpacker’s bed and breakfast—of which one wall is rumoured to be four hundred years old—following the tails of my children’s Halloween costumes. We had prearranged for a neighbourly trick or treat, and I happily followed my little ghost and lion into the sitting room to say a warm hello. I was immediately impressed by the carefully curated collection of artwork on the walls.

As we moved back into the conservatory, my heart swelled at greeting the expansive painting hanging on the wall. It is not just the size of the painting that is impressive, but the depth and beauty of the thick oil strokes that truly captured my heart. I was drawn into the scene and felt the room around me fade away, enchanted by the painted sky over the harbour at dawn. It is evident that Bridgid is no stranger to the sea, as she so skilfully captures the essence of the waves.

Inspired by her love for her family and the rich wildness of the landscape of her native Ireland, Bridgid’s paintings explore the rugged relationship between rock and water, life and death. Her studio and home are filled with breathtaking oil-painted scenes and it was truly an honour to meet with her in her beautiful home to see her expansive collection of decades of work, even while many of her paintings have been sold throughout the years in exhibits and galleries.

“Any colour I see, I can mix it,” Bridgid tells me proudly, a truth that resonates in her collection. “There is no need to buy a whole box of colours when you’re able to blend them.” Hers is an inherited skill, learned from growing up in a family of skilled craftsmen and wood carvers, and beside a brother with a reputation for mixing coveted colours. Her subject matter varies from the bright, cheerful hues of flowers— honest meditations of her own gorgeous garden— to the complex and layered tones that compose the colours of the coast and the sea, to the warm, charming palette of rustic country scenes depicting chickens and turnips and the labours of the farmhands of old.

“I don’t paint for money, and I don’t paint to teach,” she tells me as she gracefully directs me to the Gorey Community School for art classes, my eagerness at her expertise overflowing despite myself. Bridgid is the depiction of a true artist: humbling, inspiring, and one whose work speaks for itself.

Stored on a table in her studio are a pile of her daughter Clodagh’s sketches, which were left behind, no longer needed; page after page of beautiful bouquets of bright flowers whose confident brush strokes and dazzling colours show that the artistic apple certainly doesn’t fall far from the tree.

We close the door to the studio and resume our conversation in the kitchen, where Bridgid turns her skilful hands back to chopping blanched almonds. A bowl of whiskey-soaked currants wait on the table. One Christmas pudding sits complete and wrapped in foil, another fresh from the oven, resting on the table in its beautiful brown paper wrap, awaiting delivery to her children.

I made my way out of the house and past the roses, still in bloom, that line the gravel path back to the road. The morning’s bright sun has given way to wind and rain, as it so often does these days, and I pull my jacket collar up, comforted by the knowledge that just down the road the waves crash against the shore, and crash against the shore, and crash ever more.

In anticipation of Christmas
My darling child
Has become an insomniac
Staying up all hours to sticker
His books
And waking in the night;

Singing carols,
Arranging gifts around the tree,
Laughing like Santa, with a ho-ho-ho

Dreaming of footsteps on the roof

Dancing
In anticipation
Of the joy, the surprise

His first remembering
And this time shared
His memories of Christmas.

I wonder occasionally
If I will survive

Hearing his little voice in the night
As it breaks the silence
Like an electric shock to my system:

Mama, mama —

Just as I am drifting into the abyss
The sweet darkness of sleep
And there
A little voice
Calling me.

But I try to remember
The magic
Of the Christmas lights around the tree
The sacred stillness
After hours and avoiding sleep
Bridging the worlds between,
A child in the world of his parents’ making

The beauty of the world
Unfolding
And magic all around.

These days my evenings are spent with my little ones, hunting for the illusive doorway that guards their passage between wake and sleep. Time twists and turns, hours vanishing in our search. Elusive, evasive, how their little bodies scream and scramble from bed to bed, in and out and over and under, onto the floor and into the air they dance their song of resistance. Howls echo off the walls, screams and laughter crash and resonate through the air. Experimentations in sound, bouncing vibrations and curious faces. Giggles abound, mirroring between the two of them, and daring songs in tiny voices that warm my listening heart with wonder. Energy, boundless bouncing energy, bouncing, banging on the wall, banging, bouncing off the walls: Where does all this energy come from? And who summoned it so, at bedtime?

Where is the sweetness of the night that lures our softened eyes to sleep, gentle, love, that calls to us? Darkness has already drawn the light out of the room, and yet it’s in and out of bed and into bed once more. I call to their minds to soothe their small bodies as we recollect memories of our days and slowly welcome the night that surrounds us: moonlight and creatures of the night, we call to you to soothe us. We sing to you. We open to the night, and leave the glare of the light of day behind. Details begin to shift and blur, the energy dissipates as we drift into another frame of mind. Gentle now, for these little hearts that love so freely, how they hate to leave this world of the waking and drift away into sleep. Mother’s voice is singing now. Softly, softly, with kisses that shore’d us onto the bank of sleep, drifting into the mists that shroud the mind, heads drift gently onto the pillows one final time, little fingers that curl around small creature comforts and then gently, gently, eyes that close, how softly do they drift away.

It happens at the same moment, ere they go. I can tangibly feel the moment that sleep settles into the room. It is there with us. One moment we are calling and calling and it never seems to come, and then suddenly it is here, settled amidst us, and they are asleep and the day is over. A few whimpers of a dream, perhaps, else all is quiet. The warm, soft rise and fall of our breaths within our bodies. The gentle glow of the night light in the corner. The serenity of peaceful sleeping bodies and the warm hum that resonates between us. Other-worldly, within this world. There is beauty here. Something sacred, something still. Slumber that holds space for dreams, in the warm comfort of blankets. Good night, sleep tight, my darling ones, the moon is on the rise.

Standing on the slip together
With you in my arms
Watching the waves thunder as they
Draw in from the sea, heavy rolling
To crash with exultation against shore
Before dissipating into bubbles,
Dancing on the surface of the deep.

The seagulls fly over the waves
Small heads craning side to side,
Wings planing gently against the wind,
Their cries echo distant to greet us.

Across the water the shadows
Of the land shrouded in mist.

I feel a tenderness
Melting softly like butter
Across freshly baked bread.
Not that shit margarine
Not a loaf from the shop
But something I kneaded myself
With a dash of pride
From my own two hands.

The mist turns to rain &
We walk home again.

Winter settles in, a quieting of the scene. Days stretch on without disturbance, only the weather to contend with, people miserable and occupied as they bustle from place to place: “It might as well be evening when you wake, dark as it is! Couldn’t let up for a day, could it now? Miserable out there, truly shite!” Shaking the rain from our jackets, burying our heads against the wind, we move along our way.

Storms blow in and last for days, the wind whipping at the trees, blustering over and around our little house. Some days when we wake the streets are flooded, water rushing quickly to the sea. In some towns the rains feed the rivers to rise dark and swollen, flooding the banks, every year the same. Yet we are safe here, sheltered from the storm. Warmly we sleep near the fire, content to rest. The nights are long and with the darkness comes peace. Nature’s roar provides reason for respite, should one pause long enough to listen. In the warmth of each other’s company, by the light of the fire, we steadily seek what so hungrily is sought.

Each to his own. By the scratch of a pen in the slow passing of night, on the pressing of keys whose pitch in searching grows fevered and stops, pauses, shimmers in the light; in the solemn meditation that hums from the great mountains of Asia, every morning the same, the monks in their temples as they open the day. We also seek, in our own way. Constant be the footsteps that tread the path to the light. Quiet dost the heart so rage. Carefully we step on the mossy ground in our climb up the mountain, through the tall thin forest of pines that dance and rage in the wind, creaking in the moonlight, threatening to break.

Yet the forest is old, it withstands the weather. And the crashing of waves upon the shore takes its toll before rolling back to the deep. In the laying of hands and in the solace of nature, so often is it found, so surely do we keep.

Candle wax is spluttered across the darkly polished wooden tabletops. Ceramic vases with bright red poppies sit beside the small dancing flames, and warm fingers of light flicker against the dark rouge walls, cream-colored frames and yellowed, aged stills.

I stand alone behind the bar and reflect upon the dying of the light, situated beneath a chalkboard and with an espresso machine to my back, polishing wine glasses. While one or two tables in the small back room of the public house remain wholeheartedly occupied, the rest of the tables sit empty, quiet and satisfied, an evening at it’s end. The last beams of the warm day stretch enthusiastically through the small single-pane window, set low and deep into the concrete wall. The sunlight radiantly reflects across the tabletops, even as the hungry grey shadows of darkness begin to swallow up the sky.

The Summer Solstice is far more apparent an event the higher latitude one finds oneself positioned on the globe. Here, bright early mornings are followed by confident daylight that lasts long into the night. Though we are late to the bonfire and will have to leave early, the idea is to watch the sun set in the west and wait for it to rise again in the east. As the Earth rotates into a deeper evening, the tide draws out and changes the acoustics of the shore. The light off the glassy surface of the water mirrors the light of the moon and the sun as they withdraw and encroach the waters, according to our own planet’s shadow.  Thusly we observe our presence in its motion: the Milky Way splashed luminously before us, passing through an isosceles triangle that stands crooked on one tip, the innumerable spread of stars unknown yet ever around us. As the three shimmering lights of Pegasus dance over the reverence of the sea, we the dancing shadows of the sand stand before our own circle of fire.

In celebration we brought all of our drumming regalia, which noisemakers were distributed immediately through the excited hands of the children. “Somebody sing us a song!” they recite, both together and separate, running and dancing and sitting around the fire, “Somebody sing!” So with my shoes off and settled in the sand, to the warm glow of the flames, with the occasional rattle of the shaker, a song becomes its own. The aged mandolin makes its debut in new hands, life reincarnate; the abstract is pulled back into focus, a twang releases from the strings and the sound becomes sweet.

A small child sits with the bodhrán on his lap in the sand, his tiny feet sticking perfectly out the other side, toes wiggling to the rhythm. His sister perches on the cajón, toes clenched in concentration, feet situated several inches above the ground, legs clutching to the sides of the box. She rests her weight on one hand and drums with the other. A few children bravely sing, while the others clack and rattle along obediently.

Eventually the children leave the excitement of the fire in favor of the gentler call of dreams. Their tent is settled into the coastline and has a string of fairy lights draped across the entrance, mystic and playful in the night. Ours is just one fire upon the shore, and the dancing light of other fires call out to us, challenging us to last the night, solemn to the approaching dawn.

We leave our friends their fire for the warmth of our hearth, the steady sound of the waves echoing in our ears.

As a bit of a literature nerd, I was delighted to discover that Edinburgh has a vibrant, exciting literary community. Within minutes of doing some google-researching, I was able to formulate a list of events for every single day that week. Every day! There were different events, poetry events, every day of the week! Most of the events were free, some varying from 2-5 pounds, and all were open to anyone interested, either to participate or to watch: poetry readings, open mic nights, writing workshops, art exhibitions combined with literary performances… the list goes on.

I was able to make time for two separate poetry events, both of which I would highly recommend to any passing literary enthusiast looking for some cultural, artistic, local community events. The first was on a Monday evening, the event called ‘The Blind Poetics’, situated in a cozy little pub by the name of The Blind Poet. People sat on couches around the pub, situated around small tables, tucked into little nooks and crannies, all facing the small stage at the back of the pub. Due to the unexpected onslaught of snow earlier that day, the original performer was unable to come, and the event was opened up as an open mic night.

Open Mic Night @ The Blind Poet

These were like any of the poetry slam events I loved to go see in Madison, WI, when I was in University: people reading their poetry, encouraging others to do the same, some experienced readers, some doing it for the fun of it, others reading some truly incredible stuff. As a tourist, it is enormously refreshing to get off the street and into a cozy pub where people are participating in an excited, artistic atmosphere. Not staged, just real.

The second event I found solely based on my attending the first event: the poets encouraged everyone to come on Thursday night to Soap Box at the Cabaret Bar, a weekly open mic performance with varying themes. Soap Box is directly connected with the University, but open to the public. Did I mention it was free? Totally free, except for the beers, which are reasonably priced at 2.80 pounds per pint.

In the excitement of yet another evening of poetry, this one with the theme of “Rhythm,” I prepared a few poems of my own and tucked my notebook in my backpack to carry with me. Encouraged by the comfortable atmosphere, the genuine excitement of the participants and the incredibly welcoming attitude of Freddie, one of the organizers of the event, I signed up and performed. Having never performed my poetry in public, I took the assuaging encouragement of a pint, relaxed while listening to others’ performances, and then stood on stage to deliver one rap and three poems. After the event we hung around with several of the poets, chatted about travel, poetry and other such interesting topics before taking leave and sprinting off to catch the last train back.

Rachel Rankin performing @ the Cabaret
Photo Cred: Soap Box

Yours Truly, performing @ the Cabaret
Photo Cred: Soap Box

Guest Rapper @ Soap Box
Photo Cred: Soap Box

More information on weekly literary events in and around Edinburgh can be found at the Scottish Poetry Library. Otherwise: Soap Box can be found on facebook or on twitter @SoapBoxin. The Blind Poetics on fb or on twitter @BlindPoetics.

“She is like the morn in May
Mild, divine and clever
Like a shiny sommerday
She is mine forever.”

Six days in Iceland is not nearly enough. Two days in Reykjavík, artsy, charming, full of tasteful Viking men in full beards and flannel, many of them pushing baby trams. Vintage thrift stores full of furs and Icelandic sweaters, all fully beyond my price range. Nibbling on bread and yogurt (incredible dairy products! just incredible). Poetry painted on the sidewalks, art painted on the walls. Café by day and bar by night. 

We rented a car, a nicely aged Toyota: the rental was quite cheap, the petrol quite expensive. Three enchanting days driving on the ring road, Route 1 along the southern coast, through misty rainclouds, flooded streets, spots of sunlight on the horizon. Waterfalls spilling over the cliffs, rocky crags shrouding the glaciers behind. Rainbows shadowing clouds on the horizon. Stop alongside the road to take pictures with the Icelandic horses; admire their charming size and friendly dispositions. Face total isolation on the black misty beaches of Vík as dusk settles in, the whole landscape seeming somewhere between heaven and hell; if souls were meant to wander after the body has perished, surely this is where they must come.

In the glacier lagoon float icebergs the color of a melted blue raspberry icee; the wind is bitter and relentless. Warm mud masks in buckets on the edge of the Blue Lagoon, bury the feet in mud on the bottom of the pool, relax. Black lava landscapes, pebbles and sand, flattened volcano tops on the drive north to the coast. An unexpected invitation to a party, always say yes. Small chunks of shark meat that reek of piss, salted seaweed, mussels, sea anemones, scallops fresh out of the shell; salad, potatoes, meat carved off the carcass of a lamb, dancing and poetry and music.

Leave with reluctance and promise to return.

An Icelandic poem must be clever, written with humor and poignant intention:

“Sleep Lóu bird, long and slender
The lights nearby are dying.
There will be quiet on the sea
In the lakes and the woods are silence.”