Of Spiteful Deities and Soggy Bank Holidays

I'm convinced that if there is a God, he must really hate the Irish. What other reason could there be? Spring finally arrived last week, but was cruelly ripped away again at 5pm Friday afternoon. Whilst I was chained to my desk working out complex credits and rebills, the sun shone tauntingly through the slats in the tightly closed blinds. Though I haven't read my employee manual lately, I think that unofficial policy must be to hermetically seal the office in an effort to prevent the workers absorbing fresh air, vitamin D, and hope. Don't want them getting disgruntled with May Day coming up and all (now known in the U.S. as "Loyalty Day" according to Marguerite). As per usual, I digress.

Five pm Friday the rains came down. So did the temperatures. And then the spirit of a nation. What a great way to celebrate the coming of summer. Bealtaine. Bonfires on the hills. Joy at the great warming of the earth. Well, no wonder paganism died out in Ireland. Who wants to spend an evening failing to light soggy wood on a windswept hilltop, when there's always a nice warm church to be miserable in? Like I said, if he's there he hates us.


According to the Casual Trading Act of 1996, any town which failed to exercise it's ancient market rights by 30 April 2006 would lose them forever. So Cloughjordan, like hundreds of other towns all over the country, held an (almost) impromptu market on Saturday. All that was required was that at least one person set up a table and sell something--anything--and then be witnessed. Preferably by the Gardai. As Cloughjordan has no Gard, this may have presented a problem. Fortunately, I heard someone say someone else heard that someone saw a Gard drive by. This, in Ireland, is as good as official signitures in triplicate. So it seems Cloughjordan has preserved its market rights ad infinitum.

Elliot and I decided to head down (in a gale) to represent Sheelagh na Gig and sell books to the literature-hungry masses. We only took children's books this time, as they were our biggest sellers at March's booksale. What is our very best seller? "Black Beauty". Oh yes. Seven copies sold in as many hours of trade. If there are two things that Tipperary has its fair share of, it's horses and little girls. Put the two together and you get Lisa Simpson. Or perhaps Bonnie from "Gone With the Wind"--but her end was rather sticky and I wouldn't want to wish it on the little girls of Tipperary. The people I speak to are really looking forward to the shop opening. Even if Ali the tarot reader down at Blackrock Market hadn't already told me the business would be a runaway success, I'd be optimistic about our chances.


The whole town turned out in the drizzle, and bought up all the good stuff within minutes. I had visions of Eileen's jam tarts dancing about in my head for the rest of the day. Next time, I make my purchases *before* setting up my stall. John Jopling was there, selling his strawberry plants. I did get one of the last ones, so I didn't go away empty-handed. I also managed to buy a loaf of Una Darcy's brown soda bread, and one of Siobhan Leonard's photos. Siobhan was also face-painting the children for free. See, this is small town talk. No one reading this blog will know or care who any of these people are. But I'll continue. Nigel Quinlan was selling books as well. He's not competition though. We're buying his stock when we're ready to open. Elizabeth, my business partner, turned up towards the end of the market with more books, her remaining stock of homoeopathy remedies, and some things that were evidently out of the back of her junk drawers. But one man's treasure...as they say. Helen Costello had the same idea, and used the market to flog the contents of her attic.


Elliot insists his favourite part of the day was selling books. I don't remember seeing him, except for the 5 minutes he roared like a tiger and scared away all the the customers and the two times he complained of being hungry. He had made friends with all the local kids and dogs and disappeared off into the green somewhere. Which was just as well.


As we were packing up the sun made a brief appearance, and the jumpers and rain macs came off. Elliot and I took the opportunity to go exploring the countryside. We went to one of my favourite places, Ballyfinboy Castle, and discovered that some farmer had desecrated it by knocking down the part of the wall with the hole in it (our only way in), and adding a gate. Why would someone do that? No sense of the picturesque, I guess. Fortunately, the gate was only propped up against the wall, and I was able to push it in. Elliot was very concerned when we weren't able to lift it again to replace it, and insisted on doing his civic duty by reporting it to someone. That someone turned out to be a 12 year old farmer boy, who happened to be in the next field. He also happened to be a very strong farmer boy. If he hadn't lifted that gate, Elliot never would have let me hear the end of it. I fear I may have created...a good citizen.


So then the rains came back. Bealtaine was spent attempting to plant out the lettuces, beetroots, spring onions, and tomatoes Liz gave me, and the lavender and lobelia Elliot wanted for the pots. I suspect they've all washed away by now. Proof that God hates us. He obviously doesn't want us to grow our own food. Probably has a deal with Tesco.