Stendahl

I did two walks today and thereby achieved my walking goals for April (see chart). It was windy and raining and I was wearing all of my rain gear for the full 12 km. I’m quite pleased with my fitness progress, more so with the lack of grief from my knee. And I see we still sit at 68% of our fundraising goal. Come on, be good and sponsor us.

Overheard snippet between two women: I shared my riding school page with my niece three times and she's never liked it.

And a quote from Mark Henwick in his novel Hidden Trump: My paranoia wasn't always right, but just to be on the safe side, I never went to sleep with a clown in the room.

Three mistakes?

And some other things I was thinking about today. I was on Dun Laoghaire pier again, and I was remembering how lucky I was to have had the writer Gerry Hanley as a family friend. We had many conversations, literary and otherwise, especially during the occasional times I drove him home after dinner chez nous. One such night, he asked me to argue the case for my favourite book. I might have answered Lord of the Rings. I could also have comfortably argued for Principles of Physical Geology, a book that changed the direction of my life. And at that time, The Great Gatsby had also been a big influence on me. Yet I know that I replied Scarlet and Black by Stendahl. I had only recently read it and I identified more with the 'coming of age' theme of the young Sorel than I recognised in any of the somewhat seedy Gatsby set including Carraway. Today, I might give a completely different answer. But back then, Scarlet and Black had deeply impressed me. Gerry told me that it had been banned in some countries for being subversive, which made it all the more interesting to me, living as I did, in a repressed, religion tormented third world country of banned opinions amidst the fear of terrorism. I was reminded of this conversation when I read about a condition called Stendahl Syndrome (and another link is that Gerry died in Dun Laoghaire 25 years ago). Anyway, back to the syndrome, said to be common in Florence, as I understand from wikipedia (and I don’t want to be responsible for sending you down that rabbit hole). 

Haddock

Old anthurium, pavement paw marks, Sorrento and rough seas.

Another loop around the hill. I went down to sea level thrice and back up to the top of the hills. I was on a dinner mission, headed to Robert's in Dalkey to get some haddock, and took the opportunity to make it a 10 km walk, on Trump's 100th day.

Early on, I met a family of five at the top of the Cat's Ladder, where they asked me for directions to the nearest DART station with emphasis on routes with the least traffic. The adult accents were foreign, I presumed tourists, so I showed them the way with Walkmeter on my iPhone before I headed down to Coliemore Harbour. The youngest of the three kids fell over and the kids and I exchanged a bit of banter in perfect English as the eldest told me their ages to lend weight to the need to get the howling five year old to a train. On my way back up from the sea, I met them at Khyber Pass; they had changed their plans and were consulting a paper map. I carried on back up to Telegraph Hill and then went back down again, cutting through Sorrento Park where I met them a third time. I crossed the road, heading back down to sea level in Dylan's Park. And of course, I met them for a fourth time as I left the park. From there I went to Dalkey to buy the fish. And wouldn't you know it, I met them again 20 minutes later for the fifth and final time on Coliemore Road. Which is when I heard the 9 year old use the word 'stalking'. I wondered about that (a lot) on the last two kilometres walking home.

Once home, relaxation in mind, I decided a bath was better than a trip to the jacuzzi in Fitzpatrick's hotel. Best not to dwell on why there's dog shampoo in our bathroom? It was hidden under the anthuriums that have lived there since the Sydney Olympics. Plus a zinc pot of them that arrived two years ago when colleagues in America kindly sent me 'get well' flowers. In a strange coincidence, a local florist chose potted anthuriums, not understanding that a near death biopsy infection, followed by a diagnosis of prostate cancer was why Interflora got involved in the first place. There are three pots still thriving in the light at the top of the house.