Author: Ruth Powell

One Saturday, after sea swimming at the Vico bathing spot with friends, Teresa suggested that I should write a blog about trying to buy property in Ireland in the year of our lord, 2021.

“You should write one of your stories about trying to buy a place in Dublin,” she said, while Julia drove us back into the city.

I shook my head, “I don’t think I’d be able to,” I said. 

“It would be a blog filled with hatred, venom and angry resentment”. 

Later that night after dinner, I wondered if a blog full of hatred, venom and angry resentment was necessarily a bad thing, and decided to give it a go.

My partner and I have been looking for a place to buy since May. We are both on the eves of our 50^th birthdays but have always rented, and never wanted to be property owners, until we realised recently that (eventually), we are not going to be able to afford to live in our current home, on state pensions.

Consequently, we entered the property market.

The first place we went to see was a two-bedroom apartment in East Wall that went up 70, 000 euro in the three days between booking the appointment and going to the viewing.  We realised then, that this market is a strange and inhospitable place, but we’ve been seeing two places a week since the late spring, and we haven’t come close to buying anything.

I enjoy the viewings.

I enjoy looking around a property in seven minutes and the daydreams this highspeed activity produces.  I enjoy sharing my thoughts with a random selection of estate agents who are contractually obliged to be nice to me.

“Oh, this balcony is wonderful!” I gush, “I’ll do yoga here at dawn!”

“Oh, but this home office is ideal for French classes and book club!” I mention casually.

“Oh, this is where I’ll keep my meditation cushion” I confess to yet another estate agent, who smiles politely at me, while thinking about what they are going to have for their dinner.

I live my best lives during those seven-minute viewings.

I imagine my new life full of creative energy and decency, lots of exercise, and more reading.  I promise myself that in this new home, I will be kinder, better, and able to cook.  Probably, I will take up pottery or Mandarin, and I will become the sort of person who buys thoughtful gifts for friends and family.

In this new home, I will recycle diligently.

“That rug in front of the fake fireplace is divine,” I say, and then I leave without a single piece of useful information, such as the date of build, management fees, or if it’s climate proof.

I love the viewings, but I don’t always like getting to them, as my sense of direction is hopeless.

Last Saturday I went to see a lovely two-bedroom apartment in Chapelizod, but I got lost and disorientated and was late for my appointment.  I decided to flag down a taxi and put my trust in professional assistance.  A very nice driver called Abdul, stopped for me, and asked me where we were going.  I told him the full address, and he told me that we were already there. 

We were already parked in the driveway. 

I said, “that’s brilliant, thank you so much Abdul,” got back out of the car, and went inside for my 11.30am viewing, head held high. 

That was the flat where I saw a charming shower curtain, a lovely duvet cover, and adorable candle holders on the dining table.

Recently on the internet, I saw an abandoned 200-year-old windmill in Wales, for a reasonable price, but my partner said, “I don’t think that’s us”.  My partner is insisting that we move into something with both a roof and windows, which we can’t afford in Dublin.  We can’t afford to live in the capital as long as our government writes housing policies which favour Vulture Funds, Hoteliers and Landlords, over residents. 

These exploitative policies are killing people.

Due to the pandemic, I haven’t had chance to chat to people lately, but the queues for viewings are perfect opportunities.  I’ve met a lively secondary teacher from Tipperary, a vet and her mother, a man buying a place for his son who’s at Trinity, and a couple who are about to start their own business so are looking for a home/office combo. 

I tell them all about myself; my hobbies and my dreams, and we all wish one another luck. 

It’s Muriel’s Wedding meets Squid Game. 

This is what I do every week now:  I jog, pick up litter, write this blog, see apartments and swim in the sea.

Even in the height of summer, the Irish sea never gets much warmer than 17 degrees.  Right now, it’s 15 degrees but it’s getting cooler every week.  Every weekend Teresa, Julia and I worry that it will be too cold for us and that we won’t be able to go in. 

Then we go in, and it’s fine.

Sometimes in the sea all you can think about is your breathing, the horizon, and the sound between the waves.  You concentrate on floating, while allowing your shoulders to be submerged and it’s as tranquil, calming and life affirming as coming home.

It’s just like coming home.

Everyone has a story about a fox.

People watch our cunning friends taking food from overflowing bins late at night, or at the purple early dawn.  Always alone, they wander the streets of Dublin, and are less and less afraid of people.  Sometimes they find their way into gardens through openings in fences, and if they discover a garden is derelict, they stay a while.  A vixen might decide to build a den and raise her cubs under the decking or near the shed, and they are used to the noises of the traffic and the smells of city life.

Are you sitting comfortably? 

Then I will tell you more about why the urban foxes are thriving. 

No, seriously.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Many of you have returned to your offices lately, and I worry that you are not sitting well.  Sitting on any object for seven to nine hours per day in an office, is not what evolution prepared us for, but particularly if you are also sitting in a moving vehicle too.  I see a lot of ergonomic stools on my social media newsfeeds, which means that some of you have been buying chairs that you think will save your souls.

They won’t.

Ergonomic stools will not save your souls.

There are just two types of people in this world: those who want to return to the office, and the rest of us.

I still don’t understand why anyone would want to get up early, force feed themselves breakfast, lunge into traffic so that they can sit in an open plan silent office, where they can work on a machine that is similar to one they have at home.  It makes no sense and if offices weren’t situated in privately owned buildings, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.  We should be using the office buildings for accommodation, and more interesting activities: such as, underwater wrestling, entomology classes and witchcraft.

According to the Irish government, the pandemic will officially end on 22 October, however, they didn’t say if it would be before or after lunch. I am looking forward to going back to precedented times.  However, I would like to keep many of the restrictions, including everyone keeping their distance from me, washing hands, wearing masks and of course, working from home (if able).  It just makes good sense and might ease our winter fuel worries brought on by the lack of HGV drivers in Britain, and Russian foreign policy.

Imagine a winter without Netflix! 

Good god in heaven!  Imagine us all sitting in our candle lit homes, with small tins of peas, and only our memories of the first time we watched Schitt’s Creek.

I hope it’s all nearly over.

I made the mistake of reading that article in the Economist last week about the excess deaths, since the pandemic began.  They collected the global death data and took away the official Covid deaths and those deaths which occurred because hospitals were caring for Covid patients.  Then they added the deaths that didn’t happen, such as from seasonal flu, pollution, and road traffic accidents.  They reached a surreal total of somewhere between thirteen and eighteen million excess deaths, since the beginning of this reality horror show.

Those are some numbers.

I shouldn’t have read the article.

I shouldn’t have read the article while the seasons are changing because I’ve believed for some time, that a changing season can upset some of us.  It’s during the changing seasons that we have to admit that life is constantly altering and evolving, and that everything is forever temporary.  This makes us uncomfortable, because we like to believe that we are immortal and fully protected.  We are not.  We are just floating around this galaxy for an infinitesimal period of time, and less than speckles of dust, in the eternal book of life. 

If this makes us nervous, it shouldn’t. 

It should bring us joy.

It should bring us joy because nothing much matters.

What I mean by that, is that none of the absurd foolishness matters.  That argument with a family member, an awkward email from work, a strange sensation after too much social media.  None of it matters at all.  As long as we’re kind to one another and decent, and can show love and human compassion, that’s all that counts.  None of the silliness matters when placed within our concepts of time and space.  Isn’t it wonderful to feel so light and floaty, when we truly accept our insignificance and lack of importance?

So, with that in mind, enjoy the new fox painting on a wall of a building in Dublin, that I used to illustrate this week’s blog.  The story lives on as long as we laugh, love and have more tales to tell.  These things are only important:  love, compassion, kindness, repeat.  Until the time when our parts of this tale end, nothing else matters at all.

One of the apartment windows is directly opposite a street lamp, that lights up earlier and earlier at this time of year.  A slight clicking sound, before the switch connects, to remind people that the summer is slowly folding into autumn, and that the darker evenings are coming this way.

When the street lamp is on, it’s easier to see three connected spider webs that have been designed and built in this setting.  Indiscernible from the ground, or in daylight, the three webs look majestic under their spotlight. 

One web is perfectly concentric, agile and moves like the sails on a ship.  Another is looser and seems to have been a trial effort, while the third web is abandoned and derelict.  It’s not clear if the same spider spun the three webs, or if it’s the work of three separate beings.  What is clear, is that millions of years of evolution has provided the creature with the skills and ability to craft a home and a trap for pray at stratospheric hights that can survive wind and rain. 

The spiders have been here for some time.

As undetectable in daylight or from a certain point of view, many moths fly straight into the biggest web, where they wait to die.  A gruesome sky ballet takes place every night, which is different from the show at dawn, or the matinee.

Dark is for the spiders.

Few people can draw a perfect circle, yet the spiders spin mathematically correct webs.  A millimetre too far and the construct would collapse, a millimetre too near and it would cave in.  Each line is the correct distance from another line, and nothing overlaps.  Made with a visceral memory, an architect’s mind, a dream project engineer and a song.

Spiders have four eyes and spin a silk straight from their abdomen.

The silk is in liquid form while still inside the spider, but transitions into a sticky, strong, agile material when it comes into this world.  Prey unsuspectingly fly or crawl into it every night.  Humans and spiders have been tenants here for a while; mutual fear and dislike has kept a respectful distance between the two species. 

It’s very rare for a spider to kill a human.

At this time of year, the rising harvest moon can be seen from one of the windows in the apartment.  It moves between the Church and the chimneys, over the way.  This allows the spiders to enjoy direct moon bathing, to dance in the rays, to feel the power of the shine.

Almost as if it was planned.

The tourists have returned to Dublin.

They gather on O’Connell Street in herds of sensibly dressed people, shepherded by tour guides.  They carry appropriate rain weather jackets, and they eat breakfast early, in order to make the most of their forty eight hours in Dublin.  Some of them go on the open top bus tours, while others head to the museums, shops and art galleries.  Many of them stop for a Guinness along the way, and some of them book the horse and carriage trips.

They all take selfies near the Spire.

O’Connell Street looks like someone who’s been on an extended sick leave and has just returned to work.  Colleagues welcome it back and say, “you look great, we’ve missed you” but secretly they ask one other, “do you think it’s terminal?”

The tourists look bored.

It’s like they are not sure if the weekend is worth all the effort, and perhaps they are wondering about Fast Tourism in general.  They come with overly ambitious itineraries, which means they virtually run around the city to complete their #WeekendGoals.

“Yes, I’ve done Dublin” they say to one another as they race back to the airport, without having had any craic agus ceol.  Without watching the sunset from Poolbeg Lighthouse as the people fishing, pack up their rods and bags.  Without smiling at the swimmers having a dip, before the moon guides the ferries and the cargo ships out of the harbour, and over the seas, on the evening tide.  Without laughing themselves wretched with some of the city’s best residents.

One of the saddest scenes in Dublin is watching a tourist miss the views from O’Connell Bridge because they are looking at the screens on their machines.  They post their photos in their endless search for “likes”; but if everyone is uploading, no one can be viewing.

I am allergic to Smartphones. 

I didn’t own one until 2017, and I just bought my second one, which will be my last.  When this current one expires, I will return to the simplicity of a NOKIA mobile phone or perhaps a landline.

I don’t have an ethical dilemma about coltan, the energy needs of datacentres, the dangers of the blue light, or over consumption in general.  I just hate SmartPhones.  I hate everything about the slippery little bastards, from the sounds they make to the amphibian-like texture of their screens.  I hate the violently coercive effects they have on my day, and I hate their bullying tactics!  In particular, I hate the fact that they no longer complete the primary function they were designed to do.  Mine is almost always on silent, so as to be free from the never-ending ping, ping, ping; which means that I don’t know if anyone is calling me!

Never call me in an emergency.

I hate how Smartphones have smuggled their way into every day lives.

Just last week, I signed up to do the Dublin women’s mini-marathon and I was immediately asked to “just download the app!”

“Just download the app!” people say to me casually, as if they haven’t described one of the first circles of hell.  “Just download the app!”

What if I don’t want to just download the app, what happens then?

In order to do the Dublin women’s mini-marathon you can “just download the app” and take photos of yourself as you do the 10km route of your choice.  I assume you have to gaffer tape your mobile to your forehead to do this, as I can think of no other way.  You do the 10 km alone, but virtually with others. At the end of it, you present yourself with a medal which has been sent to you previously.

I can’t wait.

After I’ve done my 10 km on Sunday, I will present myself with my medal and I’ve already planned the few words of congratulations that I intend to say to myself.

I will say, “Ruth Powell, you may not be the fastest or fittest person in the land, but you are strong, and courageous and brave!  You are the most respected Welsh-Irish working class woman in this race, and we think your new ASICS runners are beautiful.  The fact that you run very slowly only indicates to us that you are a profound thinker and that you have wisdom, integrity and warmth.  Dublin is very lucky to have you as one of its residents, and congratulations on completing the 2021 Women’s mini-marathon”.

I’ll use my Smartphone to let you know how I get on.

The sailing time from Dublin Port to Holyhead is just under four hours, and if the sea is calm, it’s spectacular. Salmon coloured skies are the backdrop for the seagulls, travellers, migrants, and poets who travel from one Celtic land to another. People have been making this crossing since St Patrick and before him, and the journey is filled with waves of memories and the sounds of goodbyes.

Half way across the water, there’s time to think.

The thoughts needn’t be profound or interesting, but the middle of the sea can be precious and sacred.  It’s there you see the ghosts of the Irish emigrants of the 50’s dressed in their best suits and Sunday shoes, leaving one island for another. You sometimes see St Patrick, heading off to teach the gospel to unsuspecting pagans.  Nowadays, you see holiday makers trying to keep their distance.

Not everyone likes to keep their distance.

Yesterday, a very unpleasant man was too close to me in the queue.  His eyes were narrow, and he had a hooked nose, with an overstretched forehead. I could tell from his side parted hair that he was a careless driver, a bully to his spouse and a challenging colleague.  He wasn’t wearing a mask so I could smell his foul, mouldy breath, and the dampness of it, as it passed my neck, made me want to vomit.

He is the type of man who thinks that being asked to wash his hands is an infringement of his right to wipe his arse and let the faecal matter simmer under his fingernails, all day.

I asked the man to step away from me, but the request made him smirk.  When I asked him, a second time to please keep his distance, he snorted an exaggerated, pantomime laugh.  I told him that I had a Category Four person living at home, and that having a someone with underlying health problems, in my household, made me a little anxious about picking up and passing on diseases.

He laughed and said, “this man-made disease isn’t even real, come on, we all know that!”

How remarkable, how very sad.

I’m often struck by how unfortunate looking some of the anti-maskers are.  You would think they would be in favour of putting a small piece of material over their faces, and covering up for a while.

I don’t have a sick person in my house. 

That was just a lie I invented to encourage a gram of compassion or a speckle of decent, human courtesy from him.  It did not.  Contagious diseases aside, I shouldn’t have to ask men to move away from me.

What’s wrong with people? 

Why are they so mean?

Later, I saw the horrible man coming out of the shop and he was speaking loudly on the phone to some unfortunate family member, friend, or colleague.  He was walking with wide steps, outstretched legs and swagging shoulders, as if he were ready for battle.  He was holding up his phone up high, like a modern day dagger made of gold and lapis lazuli.

For a moment, I saw through the pinhole of eternity and into his soul.  I saw the sadness and grief that had caused this anger and pain, and I wished him less loneliness, and a happier life.

He’s not alone on his journey of insipid selfishness.

If he doesn’t want the free, life-saving vaccine, then so be it.  I just hope I don’t miss out on medical treatment later down the line, because he’s holding up another queue.  I know he’s been doing his own research with that one video on YouTube, and that conversation with his cousin’s best friend, I just wonder if his research is reliable.  I wish you well, strange man in the queue.  I wish you well.

We still have a little while left on this trip, and I wish him safety.

I really do. 

The last time I came back to Dublin, on the ferry from Holyhead, a coast guard helicopter tried to land on board.  It was at night, and it was dark, and it was very dramatic.  Most of the passengers ran outside, to see if we could record whatever tragedy was unfolding.  Luckily, it turned out to be a training exercise, so we all went back inside, and carried on scrolling our phones.

We, the humans, are funny old things. 

We are so perfectly pointless and serene, beautiful, mean and light-hearted.  What an extraordinary privilege to still be here.

Over the sea and back again, over the sea and back again.

I’ll see you here next week, when we can continue on our voyage together, and thank you so much for reading me.

Remember the small door in a tree, that reminds you of you, and is painted bright red?

It has a golden knob, and it’s quietly hidden but easily seen.  Knock, knock, who’s there? 

It’s you.

Two super massive black holes, collide and coalesce their energies, becoming one.  If a third arrives, or tries to join in, it is expelled and is flown over to a further galaxy.  Let’s travel through the wormhole to a different place and time, to a door in a tree, with a door knob.

No one really knows about the moon.

All these stars and planets, rotating like the eggs in your ovaries, silently invisible and tiny enough to be bigger than space. 

When does the universe end?

A virus, a shark, a rising tide, a footprint, elephants herding through China, ice melts.

And beauty, and laughter, and love and sunsets.

Be on the beach, swim in the sea, breathe in the sunlight. Find the door in the tree that reminds you of you.

Inside it’s cool. 

A warm draft passes by your forehead.  It’s small enough for super massive holes to live in.  One day, while playing pool with the planets, God lifted up his cue and asked “double or nothing?”  You agreed to play another game, who knows if you’re being hustled.

Its insidious selfishness, horror and scab like disgust, also comes with sea horizons and joy: unfiltered, uncontained, immeasurable joy.  All around and inside.  Your atoms, your molecules, your heart keeps the engine running.

There is a day, a summer, a laughter, a wooden door in the bottom of the tree.

Knock, knock, who’s there?

It’s me.

On Monday, I listened to News by accident. 

I thought I was downloading a meditation from the internet, but News slipped through by mistake. Shocked, I rushed over to my device as quickly as I could, which took me out of Warrior Pose unexpectedly, and I hurt my lower back in the process.  I have an exceptionally low tolerance level for pain, so I have been covering myself in Deep Heat, and ingesting Nurofen, every four to six hours, since.

In the few moments where News did get into the apartment, I learned that Boris is now a Catholic and has married his third wife.  I learned that more restrictions are being eased, and that the virus is still raging and mutating. I learned that everyone in Ireland is cross about the litter.

I may have mentioned this before, but the litter really gets to me.

Some people blame The Youth for leaving their rubbish all over the streets, parks and beaches.  Some people blame councils for not having robust waste management systems in place.  Some people blame the country’s unhelpful relationship with alcohol as being an underlying cause for the litter: while others blame it on the boogie.

Prior to the yoga injury, I had become increasingly interested in the work of two Welsh friends, Karon and Sarah.  The litter problem in Blaenau Gwent was rising, so they decided to stop complaining, and start fixing.  Karon and Sarah are now Litter Champions of the local area and clean up rubbish as volunteers.  Excited about my own Litter Journey, I signed up to An Taisce’s National Spring Clean (Ireland’s nationwide anti-litter campaign), and waited for my starter kit to come in the post.

I couldn’t wait for my starter kit to come in the post, so I set out without the regulation clothing (or safety gloves).  I took an empty bin-bag, walked to the end of the street, began to pick up the rubbish, and stopped when the bag was full.  It was remarkably simple, zen like and enjoyable. It had a beginning, a middle and an end.

The best thing about it, was the praise.

I live on a busy city centre street, with plenty of foot fall and a LUAS stop.  Dubliners are chatty and interactive at the best of times, but even more so when there’s an unusual sighting on the street, of a lone woman with a bin-bag, and a lower back injury.

All the comments were encouraging and filled with magnificent praise.

“Fair play to you Mrs”.

“You should get a gold medal for that!”

“Ah, aren’t you great now, for doing that!”

“I hope no one messes it up for you, it’s only gorgeous”.

I wanted to reply to the strangers “not all heroes wear capes,” but I decided to be silently modest instead. 

The second time I cleaned my street, I developed a benevolent nod in acknowledgment of the strangers’ praise, and by my third clean, I was simply replying “you’re very welcome” to anyone who wanted to thank me.

How things have changed since March 2020.

Back then, I used to scream at my partner, “do not go to the supermarket for single item purchases, that is a HIGH RISK activity”.  Now I pick up other people’s rubbish by hand.  Hands covered by regulation protective glove wear, but hands all the same. 

We mammals are so adaptable.

Day 447:  tended to the Spider Plants, ate Tiramisu, went for a walk in an anti-clockwise direction, cleaned the street with my new HiVis vest and gloves.  Watched The Office (USA), noticed that the clock said 6.30pm and got a shock because I thought I’d forgotten to call Dad at 6.00pm. 

I think we need another word for boredom.

Whatever *this* is, it isn’t boredom. 

It’s far too menacing, hateful and insidious to be called boredom, but I don’t have another suggestion.  It feels like a conclusion, without an ending, or an ending without a full stop.  It’s a dash rather than a full stop or a comma – Emily Dickenson used the M-dash a lot in her writing.  She used it when full stops felt too final, and commas too vague.  Maybe that’s where we are – the dash at the end of a sentence – an outdoors summer with time passing on –

Are we nearly there yet – I don’t know – who’s to say? –

Further observation necessary.

Gather around your light and listen to these stories. 

Come closer to the sounds, and hear what tales there are to tell.  Learn from the stories, all you can about salt.  Memories of pink, Himalayan salt.  Dreams of Vietnamese salt farms; next to visions of naps in hammocks, after watching the sea water evaporate.  Journeys for salt.  Killer salt, helpful salt, indifferent salt, arrogant salt.  Peculiar compound that we love.

Once upon a time there was a salt farm in Viet Nam.  Seven people are napping in the hammocks after a delicious lunch of sea food with rice wine.  The radio is on, but no one listens to the man who is talking about the weather.  Everyone knows it is hot, and even the sun is tired.

From the kitchen, a small child watches as two slugs and a snail get covered over by a mountain of salt, and as their bodies evaporate, they transition, by osmosis into nothingness.  Except that it’s not nothing, thinks the small child who is watching, because nothing can be nothing.  It’s just something else now, some other matter that we don’t have the name for.  The child sweeps it up from the floor and returns to the tasks in the kitchen.

Just add salt.

Further away, on a snow covered mountain with a lake view, the salt is used to change the snow into water, and this makes the onlookers smile.  Is it magic?  No, just physics, and how easy it is to dilute the snow when you know how. 

Evil salt, helpful salt, kind salt and gentle salt.  Friend of tequila, enemy of thine mind.

Back to the sea, and the first thing the two swimmers notice is the smell of salt.  The blue of memory relaxes the mind, and the colours whisper again “you have been here before”.  The good sea air, and the views of the horizon are what we love so much.  Is it the sound of the never ending waves, or the rhythm that helps us breathe well?  Is it the wind on our faces, or the smiles from the other swimmers that encourage us to say to strangers, “here is the sea for you, it welcomes you”.

Unlike Lot’s wife, we crave more of it. 

We need the crystalline mineral to preserve our food, and our memories; carefully covered in bees wax wraps, and hidden at the bottom of a cupboard.  One day we’ll see a seahorse, and when we do, we’ll lean in closer and ask him “do you love the full moons, the smell of summer, or the taste of salt best?”

We’ll wait in the quiet for him to answer.

Buttercups are the rebels of the canal banks.

They dangle towards the water, like elite mountaineers, without ropes or fear.  They tantalise the ladybirds, and flaunt their yellow heads, under the noses of the caterpillars.

Sometimes the buttercups smile at the less brave flowers, who don’t wish to swing too near to the water, and they say, “it’s better over here where the action is”.

Buttercups are rock stars.

They swagger and they roll, and they rock and laugh, and live on the water’s edge. Buttercups don’t have pension plans, they don’t worry about tomorrow and they never grow old.  Buttercups lure and they sway again, and they dance all night long.  They are always on the road.

Do you play the piano, little daisy, what’s your favourite tune?  Are you interested in politics?  Are you religious or are you more comfortable describing yourself as spiritual?  How long have you been vegan and do have any allergies we should know about?

Do you like dancing, in the shade of the tree, little daisy?  How much do you remember and what do you see?  Do you think things are harder now, in this year that didn’t happen, or does it feel just the same to you?  Is it like previous plagues and poor harvests?  Do you care?

Do you, and your battalion of friends prefer moving under the guidance of the sun or the moon, little daisy?  Are you happy in the soil, or would you prefer to be part of a magnificent chain, in the hair of a young woman, enjoying the afternoon?  Would you like to spend time in a vase?

Modest little daisy, so grateful and kind, all eyes and all seeing, beneath us as we pass.