Vultures

I'm back walking three weeks after breaking my hand. The base of the metacarpal was successfully pinned and plated two weeks ago and the bandages came off yesterday. So I went out for a short walk today and got sweaty for the first time since the surgery. Not a long walk, just two local loops, with my wife and our dog.

Despite the splinted hand, it's been a hectic three weeks, and while there's been a lot to think about at work, there've been a lot of family issues too. Parental transitions; dementia, strokes, Byzantine bureaucracy and some amazing selfless carers as nursing home care became reality. A family wedding involving many from home and around the globe. A new engagement, perhaps a wedding next year, and a visit to a potential wedding venue. The end of a school year for another transition. The Dalkey Book Festival. And there was The Take Five gallery opening in Kinsale. Discussions with other family members considering job/career changes. All of these layered into a continuous blizzard of intense work commitments for my wife. In the middle of which I had a five day hangover from a general anaesthetic (anyone, how does propofol actually work?).

Talking of such things, I learned that Diclofenac is a killer; it's the active ingredient in the Voltarol I recommended in an earlier post and it almost wiped out the birds that dispose of bodies in India. I've written before about my respect for American Turkey Vultures who were (and sometimes still are) used by natural gas companies to pinpoint pipeline leaks. Natural gas is by itself odorless, so gas companies add the chemical ethyl mercaptan to it so that people can smell gas leaks. As it happens, ethyl mercaptan is one of the chemicals emitted by putrefying animal carcasses, and so, strangely, leaks in natural gas pipelines attract congregations of Turkey Vultures. But don't be confused by my conflation of vulture stories; the diclofenac and mercaptan stories are only linked by the association with vultures. (Which reminds me of Bird Sense, an excellent book on senses in birds by Tim Birkhead in 2012.)

Overheard while yielding way on a path: woman to two late teenage sons: "And there it is, the stone bird ..."

Overheard on passing a park bench: two women, one to the other: "I tried another one on in BT and it fits, so maybe I should ..."

Overheard passing a coffee shop; father to teenage son: "They left the place in a terrible mess. You've got to understand your friends did this to you, to us."

For a different view of your world, you might want to read this thought provoking piece in the Los Angeles Review of books: "What Are We Still Doing in Guantanamo?".

And if you need to know the difference between cryogenics and cryonics, read Wait but Why here.

And so, back to fundraising. Recall that I was watching pipits and larks the day I broke my hand. I was retching and resting and retching on the way up the mountain and now I have found a famous haiku that even in English captures the scene (of the birds).

all the long day
singing, singing, yet not enough:
a skylark
Bashō

I'm not going to make the 500 km in training walks before the event, which is just six days away. We walk next Saturday. I tried. I will still do the event unless it rains; I'll cry off if raining in case I'd slip and undo the repairs to my hand. Otherwise, I'm going for it.

Meanwhile, I am very proud of our sponsorship and fundraising endeavours. The funds raised to date are fantastic, thank you and you can read more here. 

Dandelion

"It's a flower not a dandelion" insisted the indignant three-year-old yesterday before we left her for a trip to rugby disappointment. There's a lion theme to this blog, dandy or not, coincidently as Leo Vradkar vies to replace Enda Kenny running the country. We've seen the Leinster Rugby mascot, Leo the Leinster Lion for the last time this season. It's Scarlets that head to the Pro12 final in our home city. 

I came away from the game last night, dispirited, thinking of George Best who said "I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered." It's the last bit that came to mind. Maybe coach Leo Cullen and his management team have squandered the talent that earned five selections for the imminent Lions tour of New Zealand. Saracens, who are on track for a double double had six Lions selected. Leinster, in the same two seasons, have managed to lose two semis and one final. That's poor, very poor. A management problem with serious implications; the inspiration of three European Championships in the four seasons 2009-2102, the European Challenge Cup in 2013 and the Pro12 in 2013 and 2014, successes that filled the rugby academy with amazing young talent, is perhaps being squandered.

dandelions,

dandelions

on the sandy shore -

spring

opens its eyes

Ogiwara Aeisensui

These are things that were in my head as I walked 8 km just to to get to the start of the Dublin Mountains Way in Rathmichael Wood. There were other thoughts too, as I put on and off my rain-gear as the showers drifted over me. I had been to a Cecil Beaton photo exhibition during the week where I realised that fake news and photoshop are just new terms for old concepts. Char to Dowager is worth a look, from the Beetles+Huxley gallery where some 70 photos, all printed before 1945, are being sold.

The beach and some of the mountain walks were augmented by the musky smell of valerian. There were no deer to see because the forest is being logged.

Imagine being so sick that you need home visits by nurses. Imagine having a friend who one day takes you out to lunch where one of your carers happens to see you. Imagine being told that since you have a friend who can drive you to lunch, you no longer need home visits. Is this nationalised health care? 

I wanted to walk the whole way, as I did last year. But I hit the wall on Ballyedmonduff, carried on to Three Rock where my packed lunch did nothing to restore me. So I called for rescue and walked back to Johnnie Fox's pub where I was collected and transported to sanctuary. Only 26 km today according to Walkmeter. But it's OK, there's a month to recover from the blisters and even better, we have reached one of our sponsorship goals.

And I see that I also used Dandelion as a title in 2011.

Wysis

I walked through Henley-on-Thames a few years ago and spotted Isis House, an old name with a new connotation. With a bit of internet searching, I gleaned that Tamesis is an old word for Thames and the shortened versions Wysis or Isis are in common use among rowers. Which gave me the idea to visit the head of Isis.

A few months ago, I was lucky enough to read Thames Way by Diarmuid Fitzgerald, a book of haiku and tenka inspired by his walk from the Thames Barrier to the head of the river. I have less time than needed to begin at the sea, so I thought to start near the Cotswold Country Park, and maybe make it a 25 km round trip and leave the other few hundred km for another life. And then this weekend became 'free' so it was time.

I spoke notes into my iPhone as I walked from the Saxon town of Ashton Keynes, mapless, reliant on the Thames Way signage. A lone cuckoo calls. Coot, mallard, pheasant each reply: no competition. Later I noted The damselflies here. Sheep bleat where Isis springs, swans groan, content. I was trying to keep Fitzgerald's excellent haiku in mind, hopeful of being joyously unlost, finding inspiration for my own thoughts. But in truth, I was bored by the riverside flatness after just a few kilometres. And I made a few basic orienteering errors, bringing new life to one of his haikus.

in the marches

without my map –
joyously lost

Diarmuid Fitzgerald

So I snapped photos to capture ideas and memories for consideration later. 

One of my navigation errors was a classic. I'd digressed to Kemble to see a Norman church door but my arrival coincided with a mass exit from Sunday services. Standing in my hobo style walking gear, surrounded by tied and frocked worthies, I asked for directions to the river. Not so much the penitent's selfless request of "Where should I go now?", more like finding the inside track with "What's the quickest way back to the river?". They smiled tolerantly. "You won't find water you know." "You do realise it's an hour to the source from here?" "There's nothing to see other than a stone."

Resolute and sensing a little condescension, I overlooked a personal workplace mantra, "Trust, but verify." I failed to verify and it cost me at least five extra km because Mr Betied Worthiest said left was right. And he meant my right but called it left because it was behind him as he faced me. And the curve he suggested I took did lead to a bridge but it was a railway bridge that led to a PRIVATE trail. A map I saw later confirmed the road curved in the other direction too, before meeting a bridge across the river. And indeed, that was how I made the return journey once I visited the head of Isis.

I'm a bit ashamed at the number of mistakes I made. I've come to expect signage on national trails and I adhere to the principle that you don't change bearing until the next sign. Walking until the next sign isn't reliable even on The Thames Way National Trail. But I was tired after walking 20 miles yesterday. And prone to errors. Only now do I accept the sign reading "you're crossing the river Thames" was an admonishment rather than a direction - and the Thames paid me back for crossing it. I noticed potential for other forms of payback too - the Lower Mill Estate is actually lower than the lake across the road. And I crossed from Wiltshire to Gloucestershire, where new roadside signs confused me. What exactly does Quiet Lane signify? There were sheep bleating and the first sign I noticed was underneath crackling and popping electric wires draped from ugly pylons, these all under a busy flightpath for light aircraft heading to the nearby Cotswold Airport.

And in Kemble, silent Lycra clad, bike borne assassins kept me vigilant after some lessons yesterday in Box Hill. Had I witnessed both Giro de Box and Giro de Glox? I could see big, partly scrapped planes at edge of the airfield from down in Kemble. 

What's the meaning of Keynes (pronounced 'canes'? Milton Keynes ('keens') is one example but it's a long way from here where there are Ashton Keynes, Somerford Keynes and Poole Keynes. I read that Somerford Keynes was where beavers were re-introduced to Britain about ten years ago.

I made it back to Ashton Keynes, walking at a purposely sustained pace of more than 6 km/h for the last 8 km. From there, rehydrated, I drove to see some extraordinary pieces of glass in the studio at Avening Glass Art. And I know the folk there so they let me shower and then they fed me. Excellent sponsorship, thank you. 

In summary, I covered some 27 km in five and a half hours. So I was pleased to have walked 50% of my goal for May in the first week. Now, here are some scary aggregated stats to ponder. I've spent 73 hours walking on 36 walks and covered 336 km which is 67% of my goal. And I blog the walks, and each blog takes about an hour, so I've dedicated at least 100 hours to training so far. That's already 8 times the duration of the Yorkshire Three peaks itself. At this rate, I've another 50 hours to find. So, please help us help Care.

Monday

I finally bought the new boots and the mention of the charity activity walk in The Yorkshire Three Peaks Challenge earned me a 10% discount from 53 Degrees North. Recall that we are doing our walk for Care International and you can sponsor us here. Go on, sponsor us. You know it's time.

I managed a 4.5 km walk today. The new boots and the continuing sore knee made me cautious.

My weight back in 2012

We attended Beyond Caravaggio recently in the National Gallery in Dublin. Dramatic use of light and a new realism (at the time) were techniques inherited by the Caravaggisti on show in this exhibition. I was amazed to learn that there is some debate about the homoerotic subjects and portrayals. No question in my mind. Get over that and instead, explain his violent nature - lead poisoning? syphilis? or maybe he was just nuts? However, he was a great painter and inspired many more.

I picked up Blink by Maclom Gladwell after I stumbled over this photo of my weight in books from 2012 (an idea I re-used here in March). As I was flicking through Blink earlier, I found a bookmark I left in 2012: “Bad improvisers block action, often with a high degree of skill. Good improvisers develop action." Seems self-evident and yet Little Britain had us all laughing with "computer says no".

This haiku reminds me that I am not the only one surprised by what can be found in books:

I read a book -
somewhere within the book
an insect chirps
Tomiyasu Fusei

Arise

This morning I have woken up to a bright day. There's enough light to facilitate photography. Encouraged,  I look. And I'm in catch-up mode. After a very short walk we did this morning, a day after rugby results went our way.

A dusting of ice runs along the ridgeway of the neighbours house, a line of warm white smoke emerges from their chimney, rising vertical into still cold airs. A hooded crow, maybe two, is hammering something on the flat roof above my head. Or perhaps our neighbour will see there are a couple of crows dancing.

There's finely macerated leaf material wind splattered and rain smeared on the bedroom window. Memories of the fierce storm just a couple of nights ago. Last night's excitement was a police helicopter whose searchlight passed through our garden at 2 AM. Z watched it from beside us as we slept, oblivious.

Below my third story perch, a domed green-grey acacia has budded with an explosion of spring yellow that contrasts with the open nature of the blue Douglas fir and vertical funeral green of the Italian cypress. A small garden that may be too full.

with a crunching sound

the praying mantis devours

the face of a bee

Yamaguchi Seishi

The sea beyond looks calm. The bay appears blue. Calm and blue, cold. Ferries and freighters cut across the bay. The brown trees, leafless, frame the view yet flicker with magpies, jewel like in the low winter sun. Another ephemeral shimmer in the far distance, sunlight reflecting from a glazed surface that I know to be at least 25 km away. Half way there is a friend's house I could see with the right lens.

A photograph might bring any of these things to reality better than the words I have used. The smoke will be frozen, like the ridgeway. The rattle of the magpies, the thrum of the helicopter, the mantis crunch, the hammering of the crows you'd have to imagine.

The air is always still in a photo so you'd need visual clues to imply / sense movement. The temperature of the sea becomes irrelevant unless the image includes something like dinghies crewed by the hardy in wet suits. The dirt on the double glazed window will disappear in the deep depths of image field or emerge pin sharp if it becomes the object in focus.

Such ambiguity of content is in stark contrast with the precision of technique in its portrayal.

The pleasing photograph pleases whom? And how much time will the viewer have? What does the image need to hold the viewer a fraction longer? If the Namibian Himba tribe have five words for the colour green, what do they see so differently to the rest of us?

Depictions and contradictions.

Pandemonium

I took another loop through the Uxbridge golf course on a beautiful Spring day, a balmy 15°C. From the indiscreet roar of a new McLaren hurriedly joining the M40, to a screeching pandemonium of immigrant ring-necked parakeets and then the polite plinking of native coots on the Union Canal, there was lots to hear along the way.

Earlier, I was walking around the office with other team members, all in fundraising themed flat caps; a bake sale fund raiser. I ended up contributing stuff hastily purchased from M&S this morning after my savoury crepes went wrong - I whizzed the batter after adding pine nuts and the cooked galettes tasted pine-sap awful - I generally add whole pine nuts while cooking, without such change in flavour - is this like whole almonds becoming vile when transformed to marzipan? Always learning.

And if you're a sign writing sports fan, remember that first isn't always on top.

And now, a doggerel haiku memorialising a morning view:

Street parked stroller
memory distressed mother
baby car all missing

Blog bonus: like rugby? You might enjoy this post. 

Just 432 km left before the Three Peaks itself. And here's where to go if you feel like sponsoring us. Every day is what you make of it. Why not make someone else's?