Walt and I went to Dublin the other day. I don’t know what it’s going to take to FINALLY learn this lesson: I just don’t like big cities.
We rode up with some friends who had business to attend to, and while they were off doing their thang, they set us up with a tour of Parliament. Good Lord Almighty, watching twelve people in suits discuss minute details of a proposed bill made me want to pull out a pistol and shoot myself in the head.
Mind you, I don’t own a handgun, and possessing one here will earn you an automatic ten years in prison, particularly if you cart it around in a government building, so that wasn’t a reasonable way out the predicament.
While strolling along the tourist sights we ran into a young man who appeared to be crapping on the sidewalk. He was wearing pants, which is a little counter-intuitive when considering the task at hand, and was digging away at his backside to beat the band. We must of had a puzzled expression on our faces because his friend, who was hurrying past us to join him, explained, “Don’t mind him. He’s just driving a nail up his hole.”
K.
Let me tell you why I love my little hilltop out here in the countryside. I love the seals we meet when we paddle off shore. Fat buggers, the lot of them, lazing in the sun. Floating on their backs watching the clouds roll past.
And the passel of baby ferrets who have taken to playing in the yard. Cuteness alert!
And the cows that graze in the field in front of the house. Most of them now have names.
And the foxen, and the pheasants who appear from time to time. Who never fail to thrill.
I love the quiet, and the sense of space, and the cool air.
I mean, it’s July 15th and I’m sitting here in a pair of ratty shorts, a T-shirt that really needs to be changed, and a fleece sweatshirt that has seen better days.
And while the village has its fair share of eccentric people–I caught sight of an unshaven man in a bustier and pirate boots eating at the salad bar at the supermarket the other day–we have yet to come across anyone driving a nail up their bung hole. Or boring the shit out of us with the nuances of Article 39-B.
No, around here, there’s talk of cow infertility, and copper in the well water, and the local priest who still wields a lot of power, and good cow herding dogs, and the cancelled Garth Brooks concert that’s going to send the Irish economy straight to hell in a hand basket. Not to mention all the local gossip I caught from Ann-Marie, my hair dresser.
I’m a country girl. Through and through. A reminder to you, my friend. You are who you are; you like what you like. And certain aspects of personality are never going to change.
