Simple pleasures in a complex world

Queenie took a little drive down the country a couple of weekends recently, home to Springtown© to see the folks and catch up on old friends and generally enjoy the beautiful spring weather that never sits quite right in Dublin.

Now Queenie might be indulging in a bit of nostalgia now that she’s getting ready to leave Ireland, but she loves that drive. Once you get past the Mad Cow Roundabout, and those annoying traffic lights dotted along the motorway in Kildare, placed there just so Kildare people can nip across to the shop, there’s a long, smooth stretch of motorway along which the car just hums. If you have the right music, Orbital, and the right company, Polly, it’s a very pleasant hour or so, skimming along at eighty.

Off the motorway then, through Emo and Mountmellick, and up and over the Slieve Blooms. A most under-rated mountain range. Well, they’re not mountains really, just big hills. They rise gently out of that gorgeous green valley that nestles in the middle of Ireland. The little mountain road twists and bends, with no road markings along substantial stretches, so it calls for concentrated driving.

A line of little villages string along it like beads on a rosary – Cadamstown, Kinnity, Clonaslee. All home to schoolfriends, old boyfriends, teachers, farmers, and hurling heroes Queenie grew up with, all sitting in the memory vaults very comfortably. When she gets to the edge of the mountains and drives down the last ten miles into the valley, Queenie’s heart always lifts a little in anticipation of going home.

Up the last little hill and past the graveyard, with a nod to all the wonderful people she knew who are sadly gone now; sleeping peacefully under the tall pines. Then it’s round the dinky little roundabout and swing the car into Springtown.

Queenie is a very lucky girl she grew up there. It’s visually very pretty – gracious Georgian boulevards, homely Victorian town centre, the stunning castle and its demesne, the beautiful riverbank walks, the Pugin convent, the old mills. Despite the bungalow blitz of the last few years – how many town houses does a small town need - it’s still a little architectural gem.

It’s a very vibrant town, with a young population and lots of Queenie’s school friends have stayed in Springtown to rear their own families. But they still know how to party – oh yes. So Queenie always looks forward to her weekend break, her liver not so much.

Down past the old workhouse, check Nadia’s house to see if her car’s there – yes, fantastic! Over the bridge, down the mall past Lena’s house, round another dinky roundabout and through the square. Then up the hill and turn left at the church and there it is, the blue door; the steps she swept a million times every autumn, and park in Queenie’s dad’s spot, just to annoy him.

Part of the pleasure is spending time pottering in the old walled garden of her home with her parents. Nothing too strenuous, just rearranging the compost heap, or deadheading a tree, or cutting the grass. Mostly it’s about shooting the breeze with the folks. And listening to the birds sing their little hearts out. And watching the cat dragging its belly along – the Jabba the Hutt of the feline world.

The Queen Mother pruned a bush recently and left a branch sitting on the lawn next to the bird feeder. Jabba has spent her time since hiding under this branch to stake out the feeder. To Queenie’s horror, she has been pretty successful despite the branch being completely leafless, thus offering no excuse to the birds. Despite the carnage, and the half an hour spent trying to coax the poor birds out of Jabba's unco-operative jaws, there is something very peaceful and fulfilling about watching animals going about their daily business.

Then inside for a bit of dinner, shower and put the slap on, and down to Smoothies for a couple of pints with Nadia and Sam. One of life’s true pleasures. Queenie will think about all of this when she’s homesick in Canada.

© Mundy

Adoro las ciudades que son viejas
ciudades de provincia
y los puentes de piedra y los de hierro
y los puentes en ruinas,
viejos puentes de piedra solitarios
invadidos de ortigas.

Pero también me cansan esas viejas
ciudades de provincia
y todo lo que un puente sobre un río
oscuro simboliza.

I adore cities that are old women
Provincial cities
and stones bridges and those of iron

and bridges in ruins,
old solitary bridges of stone
invaded by nettles.

But these old women also tire me
Provincial cities
and everything that a bridge on a dark river
symbolizes.

Andrés Trapiello