Our Week in Wicklow, 1974

 

I recall 1974 when we were tossed around

in a ferry

like a rotten auld turnip on the turbulent

belly of the Irish Sea,

such was its disdain.

God it was rough. Five nuns in a row,

hands going like the divil on those rosary beads,

lips moving rapidly, soundlessly

praying for Divine intervention.

A fellow, hanging upside down on the stairs to the bridge

praying for Divine intervention.

There was but one way to counter the constant

slam of the sea, and that was to join the rollicking

session below decks. Which found us there

double quick juggling pints of Guinness

spirited by jigs, slip jigs and reels, music and mayhem.

Divine intervention delivered.

We were six, three Ledgers, Josh, Liz and Annie,

Josh's girlfriend Wendy plus Denise and I.

Some Irish heritage, in this ancestral home

happy and wary to be among our own...

We wandered into a Dublin record shop.

Liz had spent some years in a novitiate

outside Sydney and had a refined accent, almost English.

She proferred the question to Yer Man Behind The Counter

as to whether by chance he might play some Elton John.

'D'yez know The Wolfe Tones?” He barked.

“Come out ya Black and Tans/ come out and fight me like a man”

at full blast can be a tad intimidating.

Trinity College with The Book of Kells

Bewleys and Slatterys

then someone had the grand idea

of a horse drawn caravan, so we took the bus to Wicklow

sure de farm was 'foive minutes dowan de road.'

Nevermind... Along the way we spied a wee gate

into a field, two feet high. This is Ireland.

Our mare was X-Ray, 'both sturdy and strong'

He gave us a map, but 'the horse knows the way.'

Plus two bicycles.

X-Ray 'sturdy and strong', the most reluctant

neddy to haul a gypsy caravan

past

Eire's green and lush plump paddocks.

And many a defiant fart was to chart

that mare's disdain.

'Oh no' cried Annie 'she's blasted again!

Just as well no-one was smoking...

'Seamus, didya see dat up dere? Must be one

'o dem hippie rocket tinkers.'

Along the way, near The Meeting of The Waters

a busload of American tourists

pulled up to chat.

'Oh my, where have y'all come from? Australia?

All that way?

She's a strong horse you say? Strong and sturdy?

My Lord, backing her into the Pacific was tricky?

Wow I'll bet it was.'

Josh later, standing at the reins was amused

and philosophical

'I think she's a metaphor for auld Ireland

Languorous and slow she knows where to go,

an inkling perhaps, but she's fine taking

her time to arrive wherever

the destination might present itself.

And that's where the oats are bejasus.

'You know, here in these Wicklow hills

the O'Byrnes and O'Tooles harried that English rule,

sword, hook and pike slashed, hacked and cracked

bone and sinew, brain and limb,

the blood flowed into this holy ground.

Not all bucolic charm and bliss. I could kill a beer.

Annuder beer will appear? Thoughts?'

Farmers helped us when we parked at night

Horse unharnessed, fed and put to paddock

Seamus Macken was one, a kindly man

who drove us down to Bray where at a pub

we sang the Lime Juice Tub, bringing Oz to Eire

and a few Irish songs bringing coals to

Newcastle.

Going back, Seamus showed us a sacred site

at the top of a hill where we danced around

a ancient rock, sunwise mind, to bring good

luck, the other way would cast fortune awry.

This was deiseal, down from The Druids before

St Pat who banished that pagan perambulation

to proclaim sweet Ireland a holy nation.

Those snakes were, to be sure, a tidy metaphor.

[deiseal pron. jay-shall]

One morning Lizzie returned with Patrick Feeney

a loquacious local lad who's love of the gab

was barely matched by his tumble of words

he lit up the van with his talk, his chat

his eyes alight and his face aglow

'and honest to God I can tell you stories

you wouldn't believe, a heartful of stories

that would burst upon your eyes.'

And not enough words for them all at all,

not enough words for them all.

Patrick was head barman at Fitzgerald's pub

'Come down tomorrow and I'll pour you the best,

clean out the lines, tap a new keg

You'll not taste a better Guinness anywhere.

Be there before Mass is finished because

after de Mass de tirst has dem and it's over to

the pub and dere all into the bar, in.'

The caravan was cosy, four bunks and two

on the floor, condensation dripped from the roof

and the occasional wasp

one of which found its way under

Annie's nightie to investigate

her nethers no doubt and couldn't get out

while she leapt about, wailing like a banshee.

Those were memorable days, etched so clearly now

yet fifty years on surprisingly,

the stars set sharp and bright in a clear Wicklow night

Josh and I walking back to the 'van

carrying a skinful of Guinness, the night

festooned with wonder, the face of God perhaps

and we passed a village hall where

music was playing, kids singing and laughing

and dancing with chairs and this was

the land of some of my ancestors,

and I was happy to romanticise.

Yet close by at Arklow, Clonmore and elsewhere

had been tragedy and slaughter, and blood sprayed

in battles to break the English yoke.

Now, you may choose a train or bus from Arklow

to Atha Cliath, mostly on time I'm told.

Back to the night of the star filled sky

I saw fit to share my euphoric wisdom with

The X-Ray, firstly praise 'you're a big horse,

both sturdy and strong, and we are easy going

friendly Aussies and animal lovers. Why be grumpy?'

Then gently chiding by reminding her

that the neddies of auld Ireland were renowned

for their alacrity of pace over the turf

and why soil that legacy?

I put it in equine terms I'm fairly certain.

Anyway blow me down she was an

enlivened mare the following day I kid you not.

Never believe that horses can't understand.

Brittas Bay I think it was where Josh found

a round hollow. And in that space where you

could sit, the sea crashing nearby on the foreshore

not a sound could be heard. All was silence.

And there were boulders there, marked with runes.

This is Ireland.

A donkey drawn cart was bouncing towards us

pell mell down a dusty road and

prostrate in the back was Big Moon 'O Meara

sleeping off his nightly affliction

at The Growler and shooting home

to his darlin' wife, Thin Aoife. [pron. Tin Eefa]

The Xray sped up three times, the first

as I mentioned, after our heart to heart

me with a Guinness and the mare, all ears.

The second, when a black stallion

swung past overtaking us at speed

pulling two Sweedish gals in a carriage

and the Xray was moved by fart and whim

to a change of gear, almost a sprint.

And the third was when she was close to home

you wouldn't have known it was the same auld

plodder, so keen she was to reach that fodder.

Well Len, that's the story written as a ragged poem of sorts in free verse but with poetic conventions, aiming for a loose iambic pentameter, with internal rhyme, assonance, alliteration, some simile, metaphor and a few laughs. All pretty straightforward really. And its all true except for the names of the man in the donkey cart and his wife. They may of course have been true, I suspect they were.

We've kept in touch with Josh, Liz, and Annie on and off over the 52 years since, with an email from Wendy a couple of years ago. They were the best of travelling companions, in fact we later travelled through France and Italy, all meeting up in Rome, then up into Austria and Germany with some imaginative border solutions/adventures. But that's another tale.

Oh yes, and Josh and Liz visited Patrick Feeney at his house in the late 70s I think, where there is no breath between sentences, and hardly any between words, his brothers being just as loud and quick on the gab as Patrick himself. He is now happily married to his 'little cosmonaut' I think he calls her, a lovely and talented Russian lady.

The Ledgers are replete with their expanding family, another grandchild just landed, as we are ourselves with number nine, Joey, lobbing in last year. But despite the passing of time and circumstance in massive ice floes it seems, our week in Wicklow still shines through; it remains a sweet memory. Thanks for the opportunity to relive it.

Dancing With Delight/ Being Alive Mill Theatre performance

 

March 2026

This week the Mill Theatre here in Canberra chose two of my stories to perform, Dancing with Delight and Being Alive which are below. Both were very well received. 

The actors brought the stories to life marvelously with just a chair, lighting and expression, so simple yet effective. I was fascinated, mesmerised. There is no screen and you are part of the stage and story, particularly there where the seating design is 'L' shaped, for intimacy.  Anyway, we had a wonderful experience.

Dancing With Delight

Old Gus had expired in the pandemic. In accordance with his wishes, a service was held at the Cremo, replete with music by Mozart, Midnight Oil, Bach, Ernest Ranglin and assorted other esoteric oddities to sound his passage to the heavenly sphere, or whatever path he might find himself upon.

'Once you're gone, you're gone.' he'd informed the missus, 'But y'know Marg, those Buddhists and Hindus could be right, your spirit might find its way into some other form, a boulder maybe or some other human or animal form, who knows? A plant, hey I might come back as a dahlia?'

And Marg replied 'And you know what Gus? I'd pluck you and stick you in a vase.'

'I'll take that as a compliment Marg.'

And so, also in accordance with his wishes, the family took his ashes to Coolo Ridge and scattered them around those blue-green hills. That night a passing fox noticed a different scent, sniffed, nudged some calcified pieces with its snout and gulped them down in what might be described as vulpesine enthusiasm; a rare epicurean foxy treat.

Old Gus awoke, vigorously scratched his belly with his hind leg, then behind his ear, shook his head, languidly got to his feet, stretched, went outside his den, shook his head again, pawed his snout, put his nose up, sniffed, and cocked his leg. A hot stream of steaming urine marked his territory. 'That should stop that bloody wombat,' he thought.

It was still dark but dawn was slowly caressing and awakening the sleepy earth, dismissing the stars, and colouring a new day. Old Gus said to himself, 'Bloody hell, slept in.' He sprang into a sort of canter along a fox trail experiencing a feast of smells in his snout, the dewy grass, humus earth, deep watery pond, animal droppings, reptiles, insects, tree and herb, in the cool sharp night air, so good he wanted more and more cool, sharper and faster and in his foxy brain Gus was propelling himself as though he were flying through it with a strength he'd never known, he ran faster and faster, way beyond the Ridge, following the Cotter river in an ecstatic blur. Some inner something was driving him and eventually he reached the Lyndsay Prior Arboretum car park.

Those so called Freedom Fighters were still there, and Old Gus had been known for his acute distaste of their hippyish anti vax conspiracy drivel. He cocked a leg and urinated on the van which proclaimed that the 'Satanic elite' had concocted the Covid bio weapon, that it was in fact snake venom and that it, together with the vaccination, was committing mass murder. Old Gus leapt and tore the flag and pole from its hanger on the side and dragged it to their previous night's smoldering fire. Yells were coming from the encampment. 'I don't believe it! It's the Devil in the form of a fox!' Old Gus thought 'Believe it Boofheads, Freedumb and dumber. So exciting, fabulous! I could murder a bacon butty.'

Young Ella was up early again, humming while she plaited her doll Angie and waited for breakfast.

' Mum... MUUUM. Angie wants her bacon now!'

'Ella, I'm cooking it, Tell Angie it won't be long!'

'It won't be long Angie. You know what she's like, she gets up tired and grumpy. She's been like this ever since she kicked Daddy out.'

'Ella, your father left of his own accord. I've told you that.'

'You told me once you kicked him out, anyway he's coming to take me out today. We're going to the playground and then he's going to buy me something very special.'

'Ella, your father is working today. And so am I. You're going to school where you can play with Oumoo.'

'Oumoo says that her daddy lives at her house. Why is my daddy not here with me?'

'Ella please don't start... this early. I've told you he wants to live with that bloody woman, damn her.'

'You swore Mum.'

'I'm sorry Ella, I rarely swear, it's just that... sometimes...' And she bowed her head.

'Mum why did Grandad Gus leave me. I miss him.'

'So do I darling, I wish he were here now, he didn't leave you, I've explained, everything lives and eventually dies, it was time for Grandad Gus to die, he would have stayed if he was able to. He loved you very much, in fact he loved you more than anyone.'

'Even Nanna?'

'Yes even Nanna although he loved her too.., in his own way.'

'Oumoo's Grandad lives at her home...'

'Angie, here's your breakfast, you can share it with Ella while I shower.'

Ella loved bacon despite her mum's efforts to get her to eat a 'healthy breakfast'. Her mum blamed it on her own father, Ella's Grandad Gus whose appetite for bacon was profound and who would always share it with his grand daughter when she visited.

Ella offered a rasher to Angie and glanced at the morning cartoon on TV. There was a movement outside the door glass. A large red fox sat on its haunches, smiling.

'Oh my beautiful boy' exclaimed Ella jumping up, clapping and laughing. She opened the door.

'Here my boy, you love bacon.' And the fox danced backwards shaking its rear from side to side, grinning before taking the bacon. Ella started to dance, laugh and clap. The fox knudged her affectionately with its snout and made that bark that sounds like a human laugh.

'Such a beautiful long tail, such a beautiful doggie. MUUUM, Granddad Gus wants more bacon!'

So as Ella's mum, Pam explained to Marg later.

'I came from the shower toweling my hair because she was yelling and there she was, her arm around this red fox, the fox licking her on her ear and cheek, and she's demanding that I cook more bacon for 'Grandad Gus' and put some Midnight Oil on. Whaatt?? I thought I must be dreaming and pinched myself. I mean, I know she's got a big imagination but Grandad Gus? Midnight Oil? Where did that come from?

'Who knows what the silly old bugger might have told her.' replied Marg. 'It's a wonder she didn't ask you for a glass of cab shiraz and a ciggie. Look normally I'd scoff at this, you know that, but...'

'But what?'

'Well, I know you're going to say I'm stupid but there was a red fox on my front patio this morning.

I shooed it off with a broom. I found later it had nicked one of the fish out of my pond. It was him. Bloody Gus.'

Ella always maintained, even as an adult, that her Grandad Gus had returned to be with her.

When the ashes of Gus had travelled through the internal passageways of the red fox and had been finally extruded in a copse of trees on Cooleman Ridge, Old Gus dissipated. He intermingled with the breath of trees, the veins of leaves, the molecules of earth, of water, the force of wind, the sigh and stillness of night, and lastly became the resolution and silence of death. But his spirit shone through in Ella's son Jordan, and Jordan's daughter Ella, and her daughter Camille,

the quirkiness of personality and depth of character was his legacy, this family was always a bit wonky somewhere, opinionated, whimsical, mischievous, a bit odd, but ultimately compassionate.

Heaven knows this spirit was meant to be, it added to Humanity.

                                                                    

Being Alive

“When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple, with a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves, and satin sandals, and say we’ve got no money for butter.” Jenny Joseph.

I'm not old yet, 70 is the new 50 in my book. There's life in this chicky babe, she's sparkling so she is. I'm a gal you don't meet everyday. I toddle down beyond the pale causing a stir in the social circles of this town, into the club with a flourish, my gorgeous smile and rapier wit slashing through those starchy, moribund, church ridden, camphor whiffy biddies.

“Good morrow girls, and how are we knitting and pearling today? Got the biscuits in the oven have we? By god the sun's up, you must be feeling frisky eh Edna, got the winter drawers off? Mine's red silk with yellow satin sequins, tell all your husbands. They've seen them before... some more than once. Only for special occasions ha ha.” And I saunter by in my hauteur and indifference to my table and my newspaper, read for an hour, cryptic crossword and then the highlight pen to the racing fixtures, totally ignoring the outrage, stares and whispers.

I don't have my purple ensemble yet but I do have the red hat, ha that and the brandy and butter.

Jeremy was my first, my only true love, ha ha the kids would laugh now. But you know how it is. You marry and you are in that bliss of early love, children come and the family brings its shield of togetherness, insularity, and somehow you find yourselves years later looking at each other thinking 'where did we grow apart, who is this person I married? '

Because you change over the years imperceptibly, and in minute increments you drift away from each other. A rift can form. And the strength of the marriage is tested. We managed but not without some rocky moments. Yes I'd give him some stick, a gee up, his head was always in the clouds with his stories and music, but hey I love him still, miss the poor bugger. He said to me on his deathbed 'Rene, take what life has to offer, you don't know what tomorrow may bring. I won't be looking, once you're gone that's it.' And he went in the next hour god bless him.

Norm the second, The Human Chimney I called him, wreathed in a cloud of smoke, puffing on his own demise. He lasted 18 months,. God knows what I saw there, but... yes, he wooed me, flowers, perfume, careless and useless chatter. A woman loves to be wooed so she does. Those biddies might attract some old goat one day, butt them up the clacker.

Dano On Parole, or as the kids knew him, Dano The Dipstick was the third partner. I was flattered by his tats, his pecs, his ponytail and his youth, to be honest. On the back of his Harley I was queen, red hair streaming in the wind, skirt up around my bum, howzat for a 60 year old? He said an older woman like me had more experience and that's his desire. He wanted me pressed against his back, loved my voluptuousness, he reckoned I was cosy, his portable heater. Oh but he was a beast, an animal, the kids knew it when they saw the bruises and begged me to leave him. Problem was, it was my house and he wasn't going. “Get yer arse over here Rene, I won't tell ya again.” I can hear him now, through this song of the pokies plinking and buzzing.

Deliverance came late one afternoon. Dano had been on the turps. “Hey Rene, CLUB, let's hit it. NOW, not fuckin' tomorrow. ” And I followed him to the back stairs. It had been raining, the stairs are steep, and slippery in the wet. “Well, he just went down, must have slipped...” I explained to the coppers. “A fall like that... even the thickest of skulls can crack. I mean, he's a big bloke, and crack he did. A fatal fall. A bit of a yell then a loud crack on the concrete. Blood and brains. Oh mercy, what will I do now?” I was pretty distressed I can tell you.

And now I find myself in the twilight of my years, not old though, naaah there's a few more Ks left in this tank. I shall have an occasional dalliance if the mood takes me. All off - bar the red hat ha ha, The Merry Widow they call me. I shall go to the smartest, most expensive restaurant in town in my trackies and order just the soup, in French. I shall lob rocks on Edna's roof at midnight. I shall crash her soirees with my bikie mates carrying their slabs of beer. I shall practise my trombone on the beach until the dawn arises, then swim. I shall steal corflutes at election time and use them for a bonfire. I shall shine and sparkle like Venus.

I shall make my kids and grandkids laugh at my silly ways, my silly stories. I shall feel my blood singing, my heart pumping gloriously. I shall be ALIVE. I have heaps to do.

“Hey Edna, cryptic crossword clue 'Go higher, old maid'. Stumped? Biddies. Think about it... yeah up yours too.”