Back to the origins!*

I haven’t paid much attention to this blog thingy over the last few while. I’ve been scribbling away in different areas, trying to write short pithy accounts about my own life but being more and more drawn back to the mythical age of heroes, whether it be Greek, Roman, or, inevitably, Celtic.

Anyway, I wrote about the Champion’s Portion and the Elopement of Deirdre earlier on in this blog as well as the courtship of Emer, and I decided to put them all in the context of a longer picture, presenting chapters of events, as it were, through the persona of a major player be it male or female in the overall picture.

Currently, as I shuffle character and episodes, I may now designate them as, retrospectively, 7 for Deirdre, 8 for Emer and 9 for the Champion’s Portion although this may change later on. Breoga kicks off the sequence and is followed by 2 for Cathbad.

For readers who already may have read Raiding Cuailgne / Cooley back in 2016 these character headed chapters, from both before, during and after the timeframe of my novel, will reveal new insights and details, previously unknown of the prophecies inherent in the myths.

  • I first wrote a book about Celtic heroes and then started this Blog thingy to promote it – and myself.. That was more than six years ago now and in that time, my book has faded into the electronic blackness somewhere in a void but the blog thingy has grown and changed and transformed into multiple lives of its own, But now, here I am back writing the same stuff that gave rise to the blog thingy in there first place! Going back to where it all started. Does that make sense?

2. Cathbad

The sacred mound dominated the landscape of the valley of the wide, slow flowing river Boann.  The moon broke through a gap in the lowering clouds showing the huge quartz and granite stones used to create the impressive white façade nestled in the bend of the river where the ground rose to form a long hill commanding a panoramic view of the valley.  The draoidh, Cathbad, paused by the outer ring of stone henges to catch his breath, for the journey here had been long and wearying.  Squatting down in the shadow of the henge, he laid aside his wooden stave and fumbled in his leather pouch for some of the dried mushrooms he had collected earlier when the moon was on the wane.  Breaking them into smaller pieces he chewed them thoroughly, washing them down with the cold spring water in the dried gourd he had slung over his shoulder.  The féis of Samhain was past and the now was the time, he knew, when the following dawn’s sunlight would pierce the inner chamber of the mound, marking the continuing of the cycle of seasons and the safe rebirth of Lugh sun god of the Tuatha Dé Danann – after the long dark days of winter.  Great portents were on the rise and kings would come and go but more than all this, it was clear that his hand was involved and the events that were foretold were now imminent.  

With a grunt, Cathbad heaved himself to his feet and approached the kerbstone before the entrance passage to the inner chamber of the drum shaped mound which towered above him.  Running his hand over the elaborately carved spirals, lozenges, coils and swirls which decorated the entrance stone, he marvelled at the perfectly carved designs etched into the stone before clambering over the kerb stone and, stooping, entered the passage lined on either side with large standing stones. Waiting until his eyes became accustomed to the pitchy blackness in the passage, Cathbad fumbled in his shoulder bag for his flint and kindling before managing to light his pine-resin torch.  The light flared briefly before the firebrand settled down to a crackling glow showing the passage ahead bending slightly to the right. Holding the light ahead of him, the draoidh slowly made his way along the passage to the chamber at the end, small in comparison to the size of the covering mound yet wondrously dome roofed with interlaced slabs of rock. Ignoring the two small recesses at the back and to the left of the chamber, Cathbad entered the larger recess to the right where two stone basins stood.  The upper basis had been painstakingly fashioned from a lump of granite and sat on a large slate stone and was partially filled with charred bones and ashes of those long dead.  Squatting down with his back to the lower basin, he propped up his torch and let the cool stillness envelop him with its aura of calm and peace. Almost immediately he began to feel a tingle throughout his body as he relaxed back against the ancient stones.  His senses appeared heightened and in the dim glow from his torch the relief patterns on the low slab roof above him appeared magnified, taking on a life of their own, swirling, curling and twisting across the surface of the stone and away into the further gloom around him. Surfaces seemed to ripple, shimmer, or breathe, while his stave, water gourd and leather shoulder bag appeared to warp, morph and change solid colours.  An aura surrounded the dying firebrand beside him and Cathbad felt himself melt into the womb of the chamber, everything so vivid around him that he felt as if he could not only taste but feel them as well.  Visions of the great hill fort at Eamhain Macha flickered across the back of his closed eyelids where a mighty king rose up, supported by a heroic champion in the greatest hour of need.  Women, tall and willowy but dimly obscured, appeared, weeping and beseeching, asking for help while screams rent the air of a feast in a long hall, armies on the march, torches flickering in the night while fires flared up over burning rooves. Horses reared and flailed the air with iron shod hooves while chariots swerved and long swords clashed. Badb, the scaldy crow of warfare, croaking over the blood soaked land but above all Lugh, the deity of light and all power appeared serene and all powerful announcing the future birth of his son who would deliver all from harm.

With a start, Cathbad came to himself, sore and stiff from the long vigil on the rocky floor of the chamber.  The torch had long since died out and the darkness surrounding him was complete.  Suddenly, gleaming rays of light shot through the gap above the entrance stone giving the passage and the chamber where he lay a golden hue and he clambered slowly to his feet and followed the ray of light down the passage and out over the kerb stone where the sun, rising higher in the early morning sky, bathed the ancient monument in its nacreous light.

Only one thing was clear, it would be a long journey before he could hope to reach the great hill fort of Eamhain Macha in the kingdom of the Ulaidh and hope to make sense of the visions he had seen.


Ness, the consort of Fachtna Fathach, was bored.  Sighing, she stretched her long legs before her and impatiently pushed her embroidery away.  There must be more to life, she thought, than sitting around, listening to the idle chatter of her slaves and doing embroidery that she was no longer interested in.  Instead her thoughts turned to her foster fathers and the cruel fate that had befallen them.  If she were a warrior, she would have avenged them, not like her fool of a father – the yellow heel!  Oh, to be a man, she thought and then giggled to herself as her mind jumped to the idea of having a man.  The mere thought made her blush and her loins ache and she jumped when one of her slaves, fearing that something was wrong, asked if she needed something.

“Arragh, don’t be at me.  I do be going mad, sitting here,” Ness stamped her foot and  pushed away the restraining hands of the slave girl and thrust her unfinished embroidery towards her.

“Would yis ever leave me alone,” she commanded.  “Sure, I wish to be by myself, so go on with yourselves back to the fort and build up the fires for you know my lord will soon be returning from the hunt, laden down with wild boar and deer and him roaring out of him for strong drink.  Go on with you now, I’m telling you.”

Pushing her long tasselled cloak over her shoulder, Ness picked up the hem of her light linen tunic and skipped out of the main entrance of the fort and headed down towards the river. In the cool shade of the willow tree she sat on a rounded boulder and dipped her feet into the water.  Silence all around her now, she waited and watched for something to happen.  Life could sometimes be so boring.  Why hadn’t her own father agreed to seek compensation for the death of her foster fathers, she wondered.  Everyone knew it was that band of outlaw warriors without the restraining hand of a liege lord who had slaughtered her beloved foster fathers as they sat together, befuddled with food and drink, roaring and singing out of them.  That was the time when she knew she could twist them all around her little finger and get just what she wanted from any one of them – another gold ring, or a finely wrought torc of bronze or perhaps a new brooch for her cloak, silver maybe, studded with amber, so smooth and warm to the touch.  Now, what did she have? She reflected bitterly.  A doddery father, afraid of his own shite – “but there were no witnesses to the attack, love of my heart,” he would whine, “and so we can not seek compensation for their deaths because of that.”  She had heard it all before, and more of the same from Fachtna who still had not managed to fire her loins and make the hair stand up on her head.  Another night of his pathetic fumbling, as he tried to disentangle her from her simple tunic and shift, his rough hands pawing ineffectually at her breasts, and yet, when she reached for him, yearning for a thrusting hardness, all she could find was a soft tumescence, a broken back worm wriggling feebly in her hand, and she would scream.  The smell of drink on him, and him cursing and snivelling, as he attempted to push his bod into her, it was enough to put the heart sideways in her, she thought crossly.

Bending down to pick up a twig to throw into the stream, she caught the flicker of movement among the bushes across the water.  Carefully and cautiously, she slipped off and behind the boulder she was sitting on.  A man it was, sure enough, but what class of one was he?  Not a warrior certainly for he had no sword or shield.  Not a noble either for his cloak was ragged and unadorned but a fine figure of a man, all the same, with the shaven head, smooth as a river pebble, on him, Ness thought to herself.  A craftsman maybe, for he looked capable enough, the hand holding the wooden stave, strong and lean, covered with fine black hair.  Before she could continue her furtive examination of the stranger, he saw her, his eyes, the pale blue of a thrush’s egg, suddenly binding her and compelling her to rise.

“The blessing of the day on you, Ness, consort of the king,” the man called out as he hoist up his robe, revealing strongly muscled legs covered in a coarse black pelt of hair, and waded nimbly across the stream towards the girl.

“May the road rise before you, stranger but tell me this and tell me no more, how is it that you know my name?”

“Sure, don’t I know the past and the future and I know it’s about your present you are concerned.”

“Well if you are so smart then so, tell me this then, what is this very hour lucky for?” Ness demanded impudently.

Cathbad paused and looked at the girl more carefully.  She was well grown and her breasts pushed tight against the fine, red-embroidered tunic under the speckled cloak she had pushed back over one bare shoulder.  Her honey-yellow hair was tied in three tresses; two of them wound in front of her head, framing her broad brow while the third fell down her back almost to her mid calf.  Her eyebrows were pitch black while the long eyelashes cast shadows on her pink cheeks.  Her lips, a deep Parthian red, were plump and sensuous and Cathbad felt the blood rush to his loins.

“I’ll tell you so, this hour is right for the making of a king on a queen like yourself”.

The words hung for a moment in the air between them and Cathbad could see the sudden intake of breath that their meaning made the girl take.

“Is that the truth now, or are you trying to take advantage of me, with that big thing there you have on you?”  The girl’s voice was husky and Cathbad felt a thrill run down his spine and, despite himself, his eyes dropped unashamedly to the prominent bulge under his cloak.

“By Lugh and all the gods that you and I both know, I swear that this is true.  A son conceived now, his name will be sung forever in this land and his actions will shake the world.”

Ness hesitated for a moment, looking nervously over her shoulder in the direction of Eamhain Macha and then made up her mind.  There was no one near them, certainly no other men, and the drooping branches of the willow formed an almost perfect screen.  The day was less than half over and Fachtna would not return before nightfall.

“Right so, come over here to me then” she whispered and felt again the grip of those pale blue eyes as the man approached her.

His hand felt rough but touched her breasts gently and she felt her nipples harden, his breath sweet on her cheek as one strong arm encircled her waist and lifted her off her feet before lowering her gently to the leaf strewn ground.  Her breath quickened as he pushed her tunic up over her hips and quickly she spread her legs, her hips arching up to meet his stiffened bod, already twitching with the life inside it.

His hands caressed her milk white body, while a flow of liquid fire suffused her and she thrust her loins up hungrily.  Her lips sought his and she wriggled deeper against him as his tongue, sweet and sharp, thrust into her mouth, mirroring his fierce and rapid thrusting, her hands gripping his shoulders to pull him more deeply into her warm, moist lips.  Again and again he pounded into her, his eyes alight with that strange blue fire, the sweat from his bare chest dripping onto her belly, oiling the two of them as their rhythmic thrusting and rocking brought the pair of them to the brink of no return.  Her legs locked tight around his calves, his pelvis ground into hers bringing her higher and higher as if she were mounting a never-ending spiral until Ness felt that she was looking down on herself from a great pinnacle, watching her own body twine and coil with his. Then deep inside her, she felt the hot rush of his seed and she knew the truth of what he had claimed.


Fergus Mac Rioch was sure of many things – he was a man hardened by fighting and brawling, knowing the way of the spear and the sword, hand to hand, face to face, smelling and feeling the hot gush of red blood from his opponent’s body in fierce mortal combat – but of this one thing he was not so sure.  He loved Ness.  Ever since Fachtna’s death, he had desired his widow, the cool, aloof Ness who somehow always, contrived to avoid his demands upon her.  He could have beaten her and forced her into submission, tied her like a slave or an animal and used her that way.  But he hadn’t.  The blood-lust part of him urged him to attack her, to subdue her physically and violently take her.  Ness, on the other hand treated him coolly, managing to avoid his bed while at the same time taunting and provoking him yet there was something cold and hard, some malevolent intelligence inside her that both stayed his hand from fear while at the same time made him crave for her touch. His love for her consumed him and she was in his head all the time.  The thought of the coolness of her long blonde hair, the warmth of her skin, the sweetness of her breath, enticed him while the lure of her nobility galvanized him in ways he did not yet understand.

Fergus had assumed the kingship of the Ulaidh when his brother Fachtna, King of the Ulaidh had died over a minor disagreement in the feasting hall.  Dark and smoky, lit by banked peat fires and rush lamps, the men of Ulaidh ate and drank their fill, sprawled on hides and skins covering the floor of the hall.  Boasting drunkenly of former exploits, Aenghus reached out to take the hind leg of meat for himself and was stopped by an outraged Fachtna.  What should have been settled with curses and dares followed by mere blows slipped instead into bloody violence when an unlucky dagger thrust caught the drunken king under the ribs, ripping open his heart.  Fergus had taken his place then, both through bloodline and seniority and there was no man there, drunk or sober, who could have stood up to Fergus in things physical.  No man, true, Fergus thought to himself, no man right enough but a woman, Ness, mother of the child Conor, had managed to evade his hardening desire for too long now.  That was going to change soon because he had challenged her to a game.  And she had accepted.  She stood to gain anything and everything she wanted, while he knew that he could give her anything for he had it all.  All that is, except for her.  He ached to give her whatever she asked in return for control and ownership of all that she could offer up to him, the cool but puzzling aloofness a thing of the past. As for her, she had nothing to lose!


“Of course he’ll agree,” the tall, lean draoidh snapped.  “Don’t you see he must?  He can’t fight it.  One sight of your paps and you’ll have him drooling like a hound, and then you will have secured a place for the boy.”  Cathbad paused and looked across to where the boy, Conor, was quietly playing with a flat bladed ash wood hurling stick.  Conor was now ten winters old and was accustomed to going on long walks with the draoidh who filled his head with stories and the songs of ancient gods, heroes and their brave deeds.

Ness smiled as she saw the intense expression on Cathbad’s face.  “Yes, but I don’t think even Fergus is that stupid”.

“He’ll do it,” insisted Cathbad, rising to pace excitedly.  “Of course he will, he won’t be able to resist.  Just treat it lightly and make much of how fond he is of the boy.”

That was true enough, Ness reflected.  Conor seemed to have attracted the attention of the king and it would be no great difficulty, Ness thought to herself, to persuade Fergus, in return for her pleasure, to allow the boy to hold the reins of kingship, for however brief a time.


“Oh my honey,” Ness cooed, pouring more of the dark red Gaulish wine into Fergus’ cup while she stroked the back of his neck with a languid hand.

They were lying on a pile of bearskins behind the heavy leather curtain that separated them from the rest of the feasters in the great hall at Eamhain Macha.  

“Don’t you see, you’ll still be the real king, Conor will just be a token figure?  And besides it will only be for a year.”  Her lips grazed Fergus’ rough cheek while her perfume seemed to enflame his senses as the wine soothed and nourished him.  Ness’ hand travelled slowly down over Fergus’ chest and down under his loose tunic towards his groin where his thickening member stirred expectantly at her cool touch. 

“Yes, my darling, anything you want,” he moaned, closing his eyes and leaning back as, Ness, on her knees, lowered her head to give homage to his rising power.


No sooner had Fergus fallen into a deep and soporific slumber than Ness began her search for his fabled wealth so that she could give it away to the nobles and warriors to buy favour for herself and especially her son.  Cathbad had assured her that if she gave away enough rings of silver and jet stone, oxen, ornamented brooches in the swirling new patterns, to the nobles and the tapered iron swords and shining daggers, shields of woven willow reinforced with iron bosses and studs to the warriors, food, drink and patronage to the bards, that she would be able to guarantee her and Conor’s success.

Aghast at the outflow of his wealth and the ever shifting allegiances away from him and over to his ethereally beautiful wife and her son Conor, his foster son, Fergus counted the days until he would be released from his sworn geas and his power and wealth restored to him.

Rising unsteadily to his feet now, Fergus peered down the length of the great hall.  On either side of the hearth-way, warriors and nobles lay or sprawled in groups around food that had mostly been already eaten.  Pots of potent black ale had been generously distributed along with the liquid fire, so honey golden in colour in the firelight.  Ness and her son reclined on Fergus’ left hand and behind them stood the thin gaunt figure of the draoidh, remote and hard.

“Men of the Ulaidh I do, this day and time, by the line of Rioch, hereditary king of the Ulaidh, claim back my kinship from the regency of my foster son, Conor, and my wife, the queen Ness”.

Fergus glanced around the dimly lit hall again.

“Let he who gave all of it away so freely and so recklessly, now let him reclaim it if he must.” The roar came from the back of the hall and Fergus squinted uncertainly in the dim light to see who it was who had called out so ungraciously.

The wink of torch light, the gleam of firelight on naked metal sparked bright in the smoky hall and then Cathbad strode forward, his arms upraised to quell the sudden tumult of shouting that had arisen.

“Lookit here to me,” Conall Cernach lumbered to his feet and grabbed Cathbad’s shoulder but the draoidh spun on his heel, breaking free of the giant man’s grip.

“Would the lot of youse ever wait there now,” although Cathbad’s voice was quiet there was a certain resonance to it, backed up by the humming blur of his staff whirling around his head. “Let Fergus speak.”

As the noise died down, Fergus belched, swaying on his feet, one hand brandishing his goblet, the other hand resting on the hilt of his sword,

“Would youse ever listen to me, your liege lord” were the words he meant to roar in defiance but to his own ears his voice was hardly more than a squeak, an unintelligible keening of sound, almost a bat’s squeak.  Looking around wildly, his feet transfixed to the ground, his whole body swaying as if drunk, Fergus roared silently against the power of the draoidh’s sapphire blue eyes which now held him in their rigid grip.

Sinking back into the robes, Fergus watched mesmerized as Cethirn lurched to his feet and brandished his horn, slopping wine on the men crouched watchfully at his feet. Cethirn of the Red Sword Edge was a warrior known to all, respected by all, including himself, Fergus thought bitterly, not only for his fighting ability but for his voice that could talk a trout out of a stream and into your waiting hand.

“Hold your horses there, my fine bucko, we didn’t like you just handing over the kingship in the first place to a young gossoon just for the asking, but, mind you, he did right by us and was a decent lad, what with all the swords, shields, rings and, I couldn’t tell you what not, that he forked over to us, so stand and defend yourself because if you don’t, we’ve decided that we want to keep Conor Mac Nessa, not you, Fergus Mac Rioch, the Unwise.”

Locked by the tight blue eyes of Cathbad from across the hall of feasting and drinking men, rising to their feet to toast in drunken obeisance their new king of the Ulaidh, Fergus could only struggle within his invisible bounds as the boy beside him rose to his feet, receiving and accepting the roar of the crowd.

And so the boy Conor became – and stayed – king.

1. Breoga

At least there was one thing you could say for the Romans, Breoga reflected sourly as he topped the last rise in the chain of low wooded hills before beginning the slow descent to the neat rectangular camp on the plain below.  They knew how to make a good camp and tonight he would be sure of hot food and a visit to the public bath house before meeting up with the quaesor to haggle over the trade goods he was pulling along behind him in his small mule train.  And after that, he supposed, sour red wine while the minor tribunes would want to hear more stories about the Keltoi.

This camp, he could see, was far more than a temporary marching camp; instead it was a well-fortified base, housing at least two legions by the look of things.  Well and good, Breoga thought to himself – the more the merrier and the better the trading.  From his vantage point on the low hill, he could clearly see the rectangular shape of the fort, its clay ramparts surmounted by a timber palisade protected by a deep ditch cut around the outside, It’s Aquila standard, dwarfing the smaller Vexillium showing the legion’s name and emblem, stood proud against the darkening sky.

Another good thing, he thought ruefully, was the Roman road running as straight as a spear direct from the north to the south gate. Once down from the rough hillside track, he would make good time, even with his tired mules. 

Funny thing about the Romans, though, once you knew the layout of one camp or fort, then you knew the layout of them all, and Roman camps were no stranger to Breoga, a Gallaecian from northern Iberia. He had travelled far and wide with his merchant father and was well used to both the ways of the Romans and the Keltoi tribes, having traded in wine, slaves, perfumes, spices, hunting dogs, medical herbs, weapons, news and technology as well as more mundane goods such as cattle, hides and grain – agricultural produce suitable for an army – supplying many Roman camps in his native Hispania, in Gaul, Germania and as well as the tribal centres, in Brittanica, Dál Riata and Ériu. 

Once inside the main gate, having been cursorily checked by a bored legionnaire, Breoga headed down the via principalis towards the centre of the camp and the parade ground.  One side of the parade ground housed the base commander or praetor and his staff while opposite it was the squat quaestorium, housing the supply officer.  Perpendicular to that was the forum, a small duplicate of an urban forum, where public business could be conducted and where Breoga knew he could offload any of his trade goods the commissary rejected.

A tribune in a blue-banded tunic, accompanied by his scribe, strode briskly into the camp commissary and sat down behind his small desk. Despite his youth, Titus Publius, a narrow banded tribune of the IX legion was a confident soldier, having fought with Gaius Julius in Gaul and beyond in the northern lands.  Nevertheless, he was well aware of his lack of knowledge with regard to the tribes he was in daily contact with and eager for news about them.

 “And what wild stories do you have for me now, concerning our barbaric friends here and in Britannia?” Titus Publius inquired.  “You’ve been there, I gather, and speak enough Gaulish and other tongues to make some sense of what you see and hear, is that right?  Are the inhabitants of that mist shrouded isle so different from the tribes we deal with right now?”

“A thousand apologies lord,” Breoga raised his joined hands to his bowed head in a gesture of supplication, “but since we last met I have spent so little time in Albion, which you refer to as Britannia, that I fear there is nothing that I can tell you that you do not already know.”

Initially contact between the trader and the young Roman had been confined to the trading of small amounts of luxury goods in exchange for minerals and grain under the watchful eye of the quaesor, the supply officer, but the tribune learned he could gain much information of interest from the garrulous old trader about the lands he knew the Republic would soon wish to annex.

Titus rose from behind his writing desk and strode the length of the room impatiently.  “I know it is only a matter of time before the legions finish their work here in defence of our allies, the Remi. Then we will push further west across the narrow sea into Britannia and north into Dál Riata.  They say the Pictish tribes there are small, stunted little warriors, fierce, quick to scorn and always ready to back up their oaths with blood and violence?  Is that so? Could they overpower our legions were we to go there?”  Picking up a flask of wine, Titus waited until Breoga’s cup was empty.

The trader drained his beaker of the sour wine which the tribune seemed to favour and considered.  “Were the legions to go where no Roman legion has ever gone before, my lord, they, no doubt, would be as successful as all such forays by the legions have been and will be forever.”  

“They say our enemies, the Nervii are the fiercest warriors among all the Keltoi, some of them fighting buff naked,” Titus added, hoping to draw the old man, filling up his cup with more of the dark brown wine.

Breoga put down his beaker and looked up at the tribune before continuing, “But even beyond Britannia and Dál Riata, there lies the far flung western isle, so remote and untouched by Roman civilization and there, they say, the fiercest warriors of the Keltoi, the Craobh Ruadh, remain, in wild and wooded country, ruled by warlike kings, greedy queens, fierce warriors banded together by loyalty and honour in defence of their kingdoms and demi-gods, intent on seizing and maintaining power by warfare, conquest and cattle raiding.”

“This far-flung isle you speak of, is that what we Romans call Iuverna?” Titus asked eagerly, his young face flushing as he displayed his worldly knowledge.

Breoga reached down to the sack at the side of the low table and withdrew a bulging leather wineskin.  “Try this wine, my lord and I will tell you what I know of that isle you speak of, for I have been there many times, ever since I was a child, accompanying my father there in the hopes of acquiring one of their fearsome hounds.”

Titus picked up his beaker and allowed Breoga to pour a jet of wine before sniffing suspiciously at the liquid.  There appeared to be a faint sheen on the surface, as if oil floated there, mingled with a strong smell of resin, with which the inside of the leather wineskin had been coated.  Putting it down untouched, he turned to face the trader.

“So, tell me, when did you first go to Iuverna?”

“I first set foot on that far-flung western isle when I was a child.  I remember it well, looking back now that I am in my middle years, but I’ll tell you this much, that isle was a place of wonder and magic and awe.  The green hills, forests thick with wolves, elk and boar, swept down right to the edge of that cruel, grey sea and the wind would cut the face off you.  But the people, did they notice the cold and the wind and the rain that would tear the flesh off your very bones?  They did not.”

The old man paused and drank deeply before continuing.

“Certainly, they were the men that would tramp barefoot over the thorny ground, splashing through the icy bogs and not a bother on them.  And weren’t their women folk as fierce? Often they would be fighting alongside their menfolk, the lot of them stripped down to the pelt, the bodies smeared with ochre and other dyes, the hair on the heads piled up and stiff as a helmet, the long swords hacking and cutting while the wolfhounds would tear the throat out of a man and without as much as a snuffle, they’d bound on to the next warrior, the jaws on them as high as a tall man’s shoulder.  Sure, didn’t I see lions in Sumeria that looked like pups compared to those hounds and the noise and the brassy bellow of their trumpets and the roaring out of the lot of them would freeze the blood of a mortal man?”

Titus picked up his beaker, sniffed at it again before taking a tentative sip.   “Go on,” he said.

“I remember the first time my father took me there from our home in Hispania.  Wolfhounds, he’d say, those are the hounds I want and the high king, or Ard Rí, they call him there, a fierce ould bollix, would demand more than his fair share of the fine amphorae of wine that we had brought, aye, wine and more than that.  We would sit in the great hall, night after night, listening to their vaunting the exploits of warriors and champions.

“But could you get your hands on a hound that easily?”  Breoga laughed harshly before turning to spit into the brazier. “Not for nothing did we ply the ould’ fella with the latest artifices and I couldn’t tell you what not but it wasn’t until the young fella took the throne that we felt we had the chance.” 

“Do you mean Conor Mac Nessa?” Titus asked, a quickened note of interest in his voice, 

Breoga stopped and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulder as he inched closer to the brazier.  A mottled hand hooked the beaker of Falernian wine closer to him and not until its position was adjusted to his satisfaction on the low table before him, did he look up at his interlocutor.

“Aye,” he nodded.  “Conor Mac Nessa, and yer man, the real power behind the throne, the draoidh, Cathbad the seer.  A quare ould’ bollix he was, always there when you didn’t want him and never there when you did.”  


I stopped of at an Italian cafe nearby recently and had an excellent coffee – a macchiato – and then spoiled myself with one of Tony Soprano’s* favourite treats, a chocolate filled cannolli – a hard, crunchy, flaky pastry tube filled with a succulent chocolate – Nutella? – filling

Inspired by all things Italian, I decided to try my hand at something more savoury today and opted for baked Cannelloni but when I fished out the box of dried cannelloni tubes, most of the tubes were broken, cracked and cockroach nibbled and in disgust I threw the lot out, along with another (already opened) box of dried lasagne sheets. I know they say that it is a poor man who can’t support a mouse but I draw the line at cockroaches – and in my dry foodstuff pantry too! 

So, for the first time ever, I bought soft pliable sheets of fresh pasta from an Italian deli down the road, as well as a tub of Ricotta cheese. I had fresh spinach at home, actually probably about a week old, as well as grated cheese and shaved parmesan along with a variety of nuts and a vague memory of spinach and ricotta cannelloni.

I remember when I was in Naples – Napoli 1980 or thereabout – I fell in love with these pasta tubes stuffed with luscious, voluptuous  fillings. I don’t know if they were  a speciality of the region but I rarely came across them elsewhere in Italy. Anyway, back in the day as it were, I remember them being served with two sauces – white and red while the pasta tubes nestled in the white, creamy sauce lavishly sprinkled with grated nutmeg and then topped with a rich tomato sauce and melted cheese. I also remember the hassle of trying to fill the pre-bought hard pasta tubes (so much enjoyed by my unwanted house guests), shoving the mixture down the tubes with the end of a spoon or with two chopsticks reversed so the blunt end could press the filling – sometimes with beef or pork minced meat – and spilling more than I could cram into the tubes. The obvious answer was to use a a pastry bag and funnel! 

Anyway, I am sure that somewhere over the last few decades I have cooked my attempt at Canelloni and with two sauces. I don’t remember the filling but it was probably spinach and ricotta and that is what I decided to do tonight. But not quite, because I wanted to do other things and I wasn’t prepared to make my own red and white sauces so I took a few shortcuts. And then, as I was getting the spinach and the cheeses out of the fridge, there was packet of my old standby – Serrano Ham, sliced ever so thinly – so I thought I would throw that in as well.

The spinach was a bit sad looking, I admit so I gave it a good soak in cold water before spinning it dry and chopping it finely. It looked a lot sadder then, I have to say.

A couple of cloves of finely minced garlic, half the tub of ricotta, a handful of pine nuts and some shaved parmesan, a fresh egg, a good dash of freshly ground pepper and a good hard mix with a fork took care of the filling.

The fresh pasta sheets were designed for lasagne and were much too big to use for cannelloni so I cut each sheet into quarters, and put a wafer thin slice of Serano on each square, followed by a dollop of the spinach & ricotta mix and rolled up the contents into an open ended tube.

Instead of the, I think, traditional white bechemal sauce the cannelloni would be rested in before being covered with the savoury tomato and cheese sauce, I opened a jar of commercial pasta sauce – Tomato and Basil, I think – and poured a bit into an oven proof dish before laying the filled cannelloni, seam side down, in the dish. A sprinkle of cheese and the remains of the bottled sauce spooned over the top. Into the oven form about 25 – 30 minutes at 175 degrees.

A fresh sprinkle of Cheese a few minutes before taking out of the oven.

Gorgeous – the ham melting into the pasta, the spinach and ricotta lushious on the tongue

  • The Sopranos – an HBO TV Serial from a good few years ago concerning Tony Soprano, his family and associates. While purportedly in the ‘waste disposal’ business, in reality, Tony, the family man, is an unscrupulous Mob boss heavily involved in prostitution, enforcement, loans and much more. A super tv show, with stellar performances from all the cast, including Tony’s aged mother, – a withered harridan whose main purpose in life seems to be to make everyone’s else life a living hell.



The very last of the blackberries and haws had long withered off the stark brambles as a final reminder that the old fruit was truly over and Imbolc, heralded by the blooming of deciduous plants, was not far off. The imminent feis, the time the old gods demanded sacrifice to ensure the birth of animals, renewed crops, along with the rejuvenation of all living things in the coming fertile time of the land, should be a time of joy but Emer knew the preparation for the feasting her father and brothers demanded meant extra work for her. She lived with three older brothers and her father, Forgall Monach the Cunning, in the dreary ráth, on the promontory defended on three sides by the cold grey sea while triple defensive ramparts protected its rear.

Hemmed in by the sea and wattle palisades, Emer longed to leave, to see and be part of the life at the court of Conor, king of the Red Branch warriors at Eamhain Macha, the sacred heart of the Ulaidh, tales of which she had overheard from Breoga, the trader, and she ached to go there.   She hated everything.  She had never known her mother who had died of the bloody flux when Emer was yet an infant and she hated that. She hated her home here – the only place she had ever known.  

She despised and feared her father who either ignored her or vented some unknown rage on her, usually after drinking too much of his favoured black brew.  She detested her hulking and brutal brothers who treated her badly even though she was a fully-grown woman, scaring off possible suitors and bullying her with their constant threat of unprovoked violence. Recently, Scibar, her eldest brother, in a fit of rage at the lack of barley beer he liked to drink, smashed the supporting branches of seasoned ash she used for her loom. Cursing her mindlessly, he had hurled away the heavy stones used for pulling down the strands of wool and scattered her precious purple and red vegetable dyes and the tiny strands of ochre that produced a glowing yellow which Breoga claimed were the stems of flowers.  

Endlessly turning the heavy top stone of the quern to grind the wheat and barley for their pottage and stews, Emer felt irritated beyond all measure by her brothers’ grunts and bellows as they practiced at arms, stamping round and round the trampled yard so it was hard to know if it was two against one or all three against each other. Impulsively, she stood up and wandered down the muddy, rutted track leading from the porch outside the hall to the palisade gates, the woodland sounds of the nearby forest replacing the clash of wooden training swords against light wicker shields.  

From where she sat, outside the entrance to the ráth, she could smell the richness of the soil as the bondsmen tilled their fields of barley and oats bordering the forest where the Ailibine river, swollen now with runoff, marked the end of the territory of the Fingal in the hilly country to the south.

In the other direction, Emer could see the ancient burial mounds of the Fir Bolg at Cerma, which lay, she had been told, north from her home here on the promontory of Benn Etair, to the sacred site of Teamhair and on to Eamhain Macha and she was determined to go there. She knew that she could do anything and was equal to any task.  What she lacked in strength, she made up for with intelligence; what she lacked in skill, she made up for with flexibility and speed.

Sitting by the gates, plaiting her long golden hair, she was pleasantly alarmed by the sight of a chariot skilfully driving over the corrugated log track emerging from the forest.  Squinting into the glare of the noontime sun, she could just make out the seated charioteer, a yellow band around his forehead.  Standing behind him on the open framework of the chariot was a slight figure.  Almost unconsciously, Emer noted his handsome muscled frame and his cocky self-assuredness but what really struck her was his startlingly dove grey eyes which seemed to transfix her.  A flush crept up from her neck, tingeing her creamy pale cheeks with a soft hue while the charioteer reined in his horses effortlessly with one hand.  The youth, beardless and black browed, his hair, thick and smooth as if a cow had licked it, three hanks hanging down over his muscled shoulders, stared at her in open-mouthed admiration, his gaze dropping shamelessly to her breasts pushing up over her tight bodice

Annoyed by his blatant stare, she recovered her poise and stood up, flinging her long plait back over her shoulder.

“May your road be blessed, stranger,” she said boldly, forcing him to meet her eyes. 

“May the apple of your eye see only good,” he replied, dropping his eyes again to gaze at her breasts.  “I see a sweet valley where I could lay my weapon to rest,” he smiled, lighting up his sombre face and showing the dimples in his smooth cheeks.

Blushing despite herself, Emer pulled her linen cloak firmly around herself but before she could reply to his insolence, Scibar, and her two other brothers, Connad and Ecet, appeared from inside the ramparts, still clutching their notched and battered wooden training swords.

“Who is this beardless brat and what does he want here?” Scibar rudely demanded while Connad and Ecet sniggered and grinned, jostling forward to enjoy the stranger’s mortification at the rough hands of Scibar.  

“Put a guard upon your tongue, grimy one, or the tongue that runs so glibly in your head should run the very head off your shoulders,” the stranger replied casually, looking the three brothers up and down from tousled head to dirty feet before returning his gaze to Emer and giving her his full attention.

With a roar of rage, Scibar raised his wooden training sword but before he could begin the downward swing, the stranger vaulted one-handed over the side of his light chariot, stepped inside the swing and punched him hard in the mouth. 

Scibar rocked back on his heels and before he could recover, the stranger with a lithe movement, slipped behind and kicked his legs out from under him, while snatching the wooden training sword from a startled Ecet and smashing the heavy hilt up into his nose, sending a sudden mist of blood to splatter across Connad’s incredulous stare.  

Flipping the sword in the air, the stranger caught it by its blood-smeared hilt and slammed the flat of the blade once, then twice, across Connad’s ribs.  The rounded tip of the training sword digging suddenly into the base of his neck suddenly arrested Scibar, stunned by the suddenness of the attack, from struggling to his feet while the youth winked insolently at Emer,

Before she could gather her wits, Forgall the Cunning, attracted by the noise, appeared at the entrance to the palisade.  Taking in at a glance his bruised and battered sons, he held up a commanding hand to stop further fighting while the youth bowed his head courteously to the older man.


Dusk was falling when Forgall, disguised as a pedlar, was admitted through the gates of the great hill fort at Eamhain Macha, home to the Red Branch, defenders of the Ulaidh, before they were closed for the night.  Progress had been slow since leaving the promontory fort until he reached he great road leading directly to Eamhain Macha itself – but even then, it had been a long trek across the plains of Brega and crossing of its numerous fords had all taken time.

Common hospitality now saw his admittance to the hill fort and the heavy packs of trade goods slung on his mule ensured it. Once the gates closed, guards and dogs patrolled the gates and walls and no one would be admitted unless first acknowledged by Scél the gatekeeper but, at last, Forgall smirked, he was inside and led to the lodge of the Craobh Ruadh. Here in the great feasting hall of the once boy king, Conor mac Nessa, it was custom for all visitors to Eamhain Macha to pay their respects in the great feasting hall.  Forgall glanced around the crowded benches where boys, supervised by older women, oversaw the spits on which oxen roasted. Dogs lay panting, around the hall, all looking towards the main fire pit. The trestle tables were almost full and most men were drinking, waiting for their meat.  Girls, the skirts hitched to avoid the soiled rushes strewn on the beaten earth and to avoid the outstretched dogs, scurried among the benches keeping the men’s mugs topped up. Most were drinking the dark drink of hops and barley, flavoured with honey and heather from the western mountains.

 Good, Forgall thought, the pup was there, talking to that old fool, Fergus Mac Rioch. Fergus, who by right of birth had been king, had thrown it all away for the lures of Ness, daughter of the yellow heel, Conor’s mother. Conor became king, for a year once, and then that year had extended until today.  That was many years ago now and people whispered that at the time, Cathbad, the draoidh, had influenced the situation in, as yet, unseen ways. Hunching down slightly, Forgall pulled the hood closer around his face and assumed the humble look of an honest peddler looking for favour from a noble host.

Conor showed the effect of his debauched youth. Long, lank, greying hair framed a foxy narrow face. Thin and restless, he seemed to almost squirm in his seat, bored with the tales of his lords, Conall Cernach the Victorious, red-faced and solid as a block of oak and Bricriu of the Bitter Tongue on either side of him.  Forgall took a space on a bench further down from the head of the hall.  Opposite, but to his left, Phelim the harper, father to the hapless Deirdre long promised to Conor, sat talking to Dáire, lord of the bull of Cooley. Fergus sat further away beside his queen, Ness who was talking to the slack faced youth on her other side.  Other warriors, unknown to Forgall, jostled each other, already noisy with the drink in them. Trenchers of bread were being laid on the tables and Forgall took the opportunity to grasp a serving girl by the wrist as she passed and obtain a mug of the dark brew the men were drinking. Ness, he saw, held a delicate vessel of some semi translucent material into which she had a kneeling girl serve her from a flagon of Gaulish wine.

Deichtine, Conor’s step-sister – or some say, Forgall sniggered to himself, his one time lover and favoured chariot driver – amused herself by the antics of a wolf hound pup rolling on its back at her feet.

Conor’s eye fell on the hooded figure and he leaned forward on the table, rapping the flagon in front of him with the ivory hilt of his knife to gain attention. 

“So, peddler, from where do you come and what news do you bring us from your travels, for we have not seen you here before?” he called out in a high, piping voice.

Standing and bowing slightly but keeping his face averted, Forgall called out, 

“I come from the land to the south of the border with the gracious lady, queen Medb of Connachta and have marvelled at the bounty and grace of the noble lady but rarely have I seen such splendour with which King Conor is surrounded.”

“Well spoken, peddler,” broke in Bricriu, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he sloshed down his mug, “but still we have not heard your news.”

“I am just a plain peddler with some trinkets that might amuse the ladies but I fear I have little of interest for the lords of Eamhain Macha, except, perhaps, tales of a young hero to whom Queen Medb has shown favour.”

“Heroes,” roared Conall Cernach, his stentorian voice in booming contrast to Bricriu’s high-pitched tones.  “Who needs heroes when we have champions enough, for every man here,” he glared along the table, “is a champion while our boys in the Red Branch will take the red cloak of the warrior soon enough?”

“So who is this hero that Medb favours, do tell us, another young bull to add to her herd?” cut in Conor, his voice flat and disinterested.

Forgall paused, taking in quickly the rapt attention of the young man at Fergus’ side – the beardless pup, who did he think he was to attempt robbing Forgall of his golden haired treasure?

“No, my lord,” he murmured.  “A true hero sent by the Lady Medb to train in far Dál Riata, with Domnall Mildemail. Only such a man is fit to be called a hero, much less a champion, one who has mastered the arts of war shown by Domnall the Soldierly. They say,” Forgall paused and glanced sideways at the youth, “he has been promised the hand of Emer, daughter of Forgall Monach, the lord of Ben Etair on his return.”

Fergus looked up and grunted, “Aye, I have heard of Domnall of Dál Riata and the warriors he trains at his fortress there.  No finer men would you find in a long day’s march. Aye, I met Domnall in long days past – a hard man, I’d say.”

“His fortress of stone and solitude,” scoffed Bricriu, “a barren wasteland with no pasture for cattle. Let him keep his kingdom there and stay in peace for if the men of the Ulaidh were to rise up, this narrow sea between here and Dál Riata would evaporate from the heat of our passage and reveal the fullness of the dark stone causeway.” boasted Bricriu.

“No doubt that is true,” the peddler assented, his head still bent submissively, “but they say only the hero who has mastered the skills of warfare at Domnall’s rough hands will win the love of the lady Emer.”

“Surely everyone from this kingdom is better than the best that this Domnall can train?” The dark haired youth beside Fergus suddenly erupted angrily.  Up on his feet, one bunched fist grinding against the trestle table in front of him, he glared around the hall.

“Good man, Cú Chulainn,” Bricriu jeered. “You’re the very man to uphold the honour of the Red Branch and Ulaidh.”

Pushing back from the table so that he stood fully erect, before all eyes, the boy shimmered and changed, no longer a callow youth who sat submissively at the side of his sworn lord, his body contorted and transformed into the lean, muscled form of a warrior with the blood lust on him. The thick hanks of dark hair falling to his shoulders caught the light from the tallow lamps behind him and appeared edged with fire while his eyes, hard and grey, flicked from man to man with the harshness of slingshots, dominating the room. Hushed, lords and men, serving girls and even the dogs seemed suspended in motion, like dust motes caught in a ray of sunlight in a darkened porch.

“What talk is this, men of the Ulaidh? Let no man among us, even beyond the borders of the five fifths of Ériu, dare say that Ulaidh does not have a warrior who exceeds any man that this Domnall of Dál Riata can train, excelling even over the hard Domnall himself.”

Cú Chulainn paused and glared down the hall, his immense shadow flickering and shifting on the panelled wall behind him.

“Should any man here doubt that the Ulaidh has the equal and the best part of any so-called hero that comes from the rocky, barren coast of Dál Riata, I myself, Sétanta mac Súaltaim, the hound of Culann, will undertake the voyage over the cold, grey sea to meet and best this master of warfare before returning to the Ulaidh to claim the prize of the hand of the lady Emer.”

“Well spoken, Cú Chulainn, my favoured nephew, but no one here could ever doubt the ability of one such as yourself.” murmured Conor. The momentary silence following the king’s pronouncement was interrupted by a discreet cough and the king turned his jaded eyes on the peddler.

“Well and bravely spoken, young master,” Forgall began hesitantly, as if reluctant to speak frankly of the thoughts that all would behold to be common truths.

“Yes, go on; speak your mind, man,” rumbled Conall.

“Well, it is known that Domnall only accepts the best of the best, men at their battle prime and even then,” Forgall paused for regretful respect, “many are the men who do not return from their training and I say men, because no beardless youth such as the young lord here, could possibly master the feats – the shield vault, and the arts of slaying unknown to most – to even dream of being admitted to such a testing environment.” 

Forgall bowed his head lower in mute subjection to the favour of the king, but not before he saw the youth, now returned to his early form, tense again, only to be restrained by the cautionary hand of Fergus.  

“In fact,” the peddler continued quietly, “I have heard that Lugaid Mac Nois is preparing to undergo the challenge and all know that Lugaid is well–seasoned in the art of warfare and raiding.”

At the mention of Lugaid’s name Cú Chulainn sat up straighter and glared at the hooded peddler.


“So, what happened then?” Ferdia mac Damáin, fostered at Eamhain Macha since childhood, had become fast friends with the small, dark-haired boy when he had arrived so unexpectedly at Eamhain Macha the first time. Now, he had ridden up to the heights of Sliabh Fúait, bringing stirabout made with fresh milk and wheaten meal flavoured with honey as well as a flask of red wine, to hear more of Cú Chulainn’s tales from his recent trip south to Laighain.

“Well, the old man made it clear that only a hero would be worthy of his daughter’s hand and that as far as he was concerned, I wasn’t exactly hero material,” Cú Chulainn began.

“But you’d just beaten the cess out of his three sons, wasn’t that enough for the ould fool?” Ferdia put in.

“Arragh, I could have done that with my eyes closed and one arm behind my back!” Cú Chulainn boasted. “Anyway, as I was leaving, Emer, … oh Ferdia, she is so beautiful, if I could just rest my head between … I mean on …” 

“Yeah, yeah, but go on, Emer what?” Ferdia demanded, passing over the wine skin to his foster brother.

“Right, as I leaving, I managed to have a few words with her and she told me that her father would not tolerate any suitor for her hand unless he had killed a score of men at every ford on the river Ailibine and done the salmon leap carrying twice his weight in gold.”

“Is that all?” Ferdia laughed.  “You’re right, you’d have to be a quare ould hero to do all of that stuff, right enough.”

“It’s no laughing matter,” Cú Chulainn snapped, glaring at his friend.  “To make matters worse, she told me that the whole thing is just her father’s way to get rid of suitors.”

“What did you say then?” Ferdia asked, more sympathetically.

“What do you think?”  Cú Chulainn gulped more wine, a trickle running down his smooth chin.  “I said I would do it all and more for her and nothing would keep me from her and she promised that she wouldn’t even look at any other men until I returned for her.”

 “He’s not called Forgall the Cunning for nothing, is he?” Ferdia said, clunking his mug gently against Cú Chulainn’s.  “Does that mean you are going to do it, crazy as it sounds?”

Cú Chulainn paused, gulped from the mug before getting up and pacing up and down beside where Ferdia sat.

“That’s what the peddler said,” he continued. “A suitor to Forgall’s daughter’s hand has to complete training with the warrior chieftain Domnall Mildemail the war-like and the chieftain, Scáthach the Shadowy One, in Dál Riata, as well as being able to perform other wondrous feats, that sort of stuff.” 

“Well, you know, look at it this way, a bit of travel, see a different world, meet new people …, it could be a chance to have some fun.” 

Ferdia leaned back against the boulder and stared up at his friend.  

“She must have been very special, I’ve never seen you like this before, what’s this her name is, again?”

“Emer.” Cú Chulainn spun around and stared at his friend, “I tell you, when I first saw her sitting there, the blue of the sea dulled by the beauty of her eyes as bright as flowers, as I came down the track from Magh Brega, I just knew, she has to be the one. She has the most amazing…,” Cú Chulainn stopped and started again “…she looks so … she’s …,” words failed him and he suddenly sat down opposite Ferdia.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“What can I do? I promised to return, I told her.  You would too if you could have glimpsed that sweet valley.” Cú Chulainn drained his mug and banged it on the ground beside him. “I said that no father or brother or any man alive would stop me the next time I come looking for her.  And I meant it.”

“Lookit here to me,” Ferdia suddenly said, “Cú Chulainn, I’ll go with you, we’ll watch each other’s backs, what do you say?  We are foster brothers, aren’t we, sworn to each other by blood oaths and firm friends?  We’ll go together and take on all comers and make our own mark in the world for how else are heroes made? Not by sitting on our arses here, that’s for sure.”


Dusk was falling and Scél mac Bairin had herded the lactating ewes inside the lambing enclosure and was hobbling around inside, busy lighting rush torches in the courtyard around the Craobh Ruadh in celebration of the lengthening days and the early signs of the passing of Samhain.  The flares from the torches and the blackthorn fires reminded Cú Chulainn, recently returned from Dal Riata, of the return of warmth and the increasing power of the sun over the coming days and Cathbad had already noted the new sprouting of leaves, and the appearance of the first crocus flowers.

Scél, his diminutive shadow bobbing against the wall of the Red Branch lodge, cackled with pleasure at the thought of badgers coming out from their den now that the dark days of Samhain were coming to an end until Cú Chulainn barked at him to find Ibar the charioteer.

Cú Chulainn sat back by the camp fire of blackthorn wood, which burned slowly with good heat and little smoke, his long, dark hair tinged with crimson from the firelight, thinking of the girl he had promised to find when he had returned from his training in Dál Riata. 

Lugaid mac Nois had openly admitted the night before that he had been invited by Emer’s father to court the girl but had manfully refused when Emer had told him of Cú Chulainn’s prior interest.  Cú Chulainn looked up from the flames at the sound of a discreet cough and saw a small man waiting respectfully nearby.

“My father told me to tell you that he can’t come.  He sent me instead.  He’s got a bit old now and says he is not up to your tricks.”

Cú Chulainn glared at the young man for a long moment before he understood the glimmer of humour in his eyes.

“And I suppose you think you are up to it?” he demanded, standing up and pushing the youth in the chest.

Laeg remained stock still under Cú Chulainn’s jabbing finger. He was barely taller than the homunculus, Scél the gatekeeper, but he was broad chested and long limbed with strong arms and he stood firmly on stout legs.

“My name is Laeg mac Ibar mac Ringambra and like my father and his father before him, I wear the yellow band of the master charioteer now,” he said proudly “and anything my father could have done, I can do – and better,” 

“Right then so,” Cú Chulainn grinned, clapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly.  “I need a driver who knows how to leap chasms, not afraid to use the goad and able to back up straight without me being a backseat driver. I fight, you drive, and if you want to give advice, I’ll ask for it.”

“When do you want to leave?” Laeg asked, pleased with Cú Chulainn’s obvious acceptance of him.

“First light in the morning, harness the sickle chariot and we go to Ben Etair in the kingdom of Laigheann where there is a girl I fain would see now and let no man or beast prevent me from doing so!”


Laeg hopped onto the open front of the chariot, taking the reins in his left hand, his right shoulder against the right forward side arch of ash wood with one foot braced against the opposite arch, his right foot extended onto the pole leading to the yoked ponies.  At a nod from Cú Chulainn, he expertly guided the light chariot over the coarse grassed, bumpy plain, rutted with old chariot tracks, to the north of Brúgh na Bóinne and forded the Boann river heading south towards Luglochta Logo, the iron-shod wooden wheels sending up gouts of water on either side of the chariot, drenching Sétanta, who balanced easily on the interwoven strips of rawhide which made up the springy strap work floor.

“Hold on,” shouted Laeg, the cold wind whipping his long hair back as he urged the ponies on and over the first of the horizontal logs which made up the corrugated trackway of oaken beams laid over the boggy ground stretching before them. Cú Chulainn grunted and allowed his knees to bend slightly to counteract the jolting although the rawhide straps supporting the body of the chariot provided a rough suspension.

The watcher on the highest platform behind the palisade blew a long, wavering note on the horn to signify the arrival of armed strangers.  The palisade, Cú Chulainn noted, had been reinforced with outward pointing, sharpened stakes and a crude watchtower had been erected atop the wall beside the gate and he could see the hulking figure of Scibar pushing shut the entry gate to the triple walls closing off the ráth on the promontory. 

“It doesn’t look like they want to see you,” Laeg commented drily, swinging the chariot around so that its left side challenged the watchers on the wall.

Cú Chulainn made no answer but climbed nimbly onto the rim of the chariot and leapt on to the chariot pole and ran its length until he stood astride the yoke as Laeg thundered past, the clods of earth thrown up by the sickle wheeled chariot hammering the walls.  Twisting in the air, Cú Chulainn leapt like a salmon at the first wall, hauling himself up and over in one fluid movement and landed lightly on his feet, his sling shot already sending whirling death to Ecet, Emer’s brother, who was crouched beside an unyoked chariot, feinting with short spear thrusts. Cú Chulainn dropped his slingshot and grabbed his fallen spear and charged the still open gate in the second wall, panicking Connad by his sudden attack.

Connad lunged his spear towards Cú Chulainn’s groin but he swept the point away and down with the butt of his spear before raising it and ramming the iron-tipped point into the man’s unprotected gullet and bounding past him. Sweeping more men aside, he flailed the spear like a staff before him, keeping his movements quick and sharp, blocking thrusts and stabs and immediately attacking faces, throats and groins before moving on towards the final, inner wall. Running forward swiftly, Cú Chulainn reversed the spear in his hand and thrust the pole end into the dirt before the wall and completed a salmon leap so that he was inside the court.

Scibar was waiting there for him, a long iron sword in his hand.  “So the beardless pup is here again,” he bellowed, charging at him, sword extended and Cú Chulainn spun on the balls of his feet to ward off the attack of the overhead swing. Stamping forward, he slashed his blade at Scibar’s ankle before wrenching the keen-edged blade up between his open legs. Scibar staggeredd back, ashen faced, as blood poured from under his tunic, pooling on the ground at his feet. Snarling, he lurched forward, swinging his sword up so that the point flicked towards Cú Chulainn’s throat.  Cú Chulainn swayed to one side, avoiding the cut and moved forward, inside Scibar’s range and thrust his own blade forward into Scibar’s throat. Scibar let his sword fall with a clang from his powerless hand and his breath bubbled wetly in his throat. Cú Chulainn twisted the sword, using both hands before wrenching the iron blade out from his throat so that the blood ran down the grooved blade, streaming over his hands.

Forgall, seeing his sons fallen and his fort taken, scurried around to the back of the ráth, and scrambled up a ladder leaning against the inside wall onto the parapet overlooking the grey sea at the side of the promontory on which the ráth was built, hampered by the heavy sacks of valuables he was lugging over his shoulder. 

Cú Chulainn stopped and looked at the older man, noting the trapped, desperate, look in the old man’s narrow eyes.

“Stay back,” Forgall screamed, waving a short bladed knife in Cú Chulainn’s direction.

“I offer you safe passage in return for the hand of your daughter,” Cú Chulainn cried, thrusting his bloody sword point down into the ground at his feet. 

Forgall turned back to glare at the still warrior,  “Bad cess and short life to you. Never will I surrender my daughter or my gold to your blood-stained hands,” he screamed. The old man scrambled away along the parapet but the weight of the sacks he was carrying caused him to slip and fall to his death on the salt-washed rocks below. 

Cú Chulainn spat after him, plucked his sword from the ground and went to look for Emer in a small area off the main hall.

Retrieving the two sacks of gold and silver Forgall had dropped and putting one bag under each of his oxters and tossing Emer over his shoulder, he leapt the walls again to where Laeg was waiting for him.  Forgall’s men, enraged at the death of their ring-giver and liege lord, pursued them until they reached the ford on the river Ailbine, and Cú Chulainn killed a score of them there. 

Again, they were overtaken at another ford on the Boann, and Cú Chulainn pushed Emer down from the chariot, so that he could more easily follow his enemies along the bank of the river. 

At each of these fords Cú Chulainn killed a score of men, and so he kept his word to Emer, and they came safely to Eamhain Macha, toward the fall of night.

Favourite bands, musicians and albums


I don’t know when I developed an interest in music per se. After all, throughout my primary and lower secondary school years, during Music classes, I had always been kept in the section called ‘offnotes’ (after being rapped across the knuckles with a heavy tuning fork) and told to ‘sing silently within my heart’ and then ignored while Mrs. Morris, my primary music teacher, got on with her job of teaching the others. Anyway, at some point my eldest sister bought something called a radiogram. This was a long rectangular pine box which practically filled our small living room. The lid, coffin-like, opened to display a built-in am / fm radio with big speakers, a storage area for L.Ps and a turntable to play the albums on. I remember something by Nat King Cole and another sister bought Bridge over Troubled Waters, while my mother used to buy discount albums at the local supermarket where the range covered Mozart’s Best Hits to Best of the Swingin’ Twenties and on through the genres.

Before, during and after the advent of the radiogram, I relied on a small blue transistor radio, in a genuine leather case with a strap. I used to listen to a pirate radio station on board a ship called Radio Caroline and Radio Luxemburg both of which broadcast modern ‘pop’ music and sometimes, instead of using headphones, I would put the tranny under my pillow and fall asleep listening to a shipping weather forecast describing end of the earth places like Finisterre, Faeroes  Malin and Fastnet.

Disc jockeys* on the BBC TV programs like Top of the Pops at 7:30 pm on a Thursday night introduced a variety of live acts into my living room and put faces and identities to the sounds and music I was used to hearing on the radio. The early sixties  were a prime time for all the big bands of the day to emerge – Herman’s Hermits, The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, of course, Gerry and the Pacemakers, The Who, The Troggs, and the Tremeloes. Of course, hearing a band on the tranny was very different to seeing them perform on TV, even if it was black and white and very grainy signal. Anyway, right from the start I was a Rolling Stones man. Long used to belting out ‘this could be the last time, the last time oh yeah’ or moaning about not getting any satisfaction (something I could readily sympathise with) I was completely overwhelmed by Jagger’s swagger, Charlie’s deadbeat, emotionless face, the lead guitarist’s face hidden by long hair but his body language spoke eloquently of the force within. I disliked one of the early members of The Stones as a bit of a ‘poseur’ but I liked the path the band took after his death and influence petered out. I don’t know if it was my father’s scorn or the deliciously threatening tone of the music, lyrics, antics, on and off stage, or lifestyle (if only!) but I was definitely a fan. Compared with the Beatles, also scorned by my father – ‘Would you ever look at the head of hair on that one. Is it a man or a woman or what?’ – who sang about wanting to hold my hand, the Stones blatantly suggested speaking the night together with all that implied, thanks very much.

Then, during late high school, I started going out to dances, held at regular periods in the Tennis or the Rugby or the Yacht Club and began to really distinguish between actually live performances by local bands in contrast to a disco held, perhaps at the Golf Club, and became more aware of musicians, all home-grown, of course in the sense that they were small bands from Dublin and the rest of the country. 

I don’t actually remembering buying any L.P’s but I suppose friends lent me some. I certainly bought singles or E.P’s, I think they were called, which played at a different speed on the turntable to the larger L.P’s. Mony-Mony by Tommy James and the Chaundels was a favourite as was Ring of Fire, not by Johnny Cash but by some one-shot weirdo – The Crazy World of Arthur Brown? I’m pretty sure The Sloop John B by the Beach Boys was another one.

 However, the single which stood out the most was one I certainly did not buy. It had an orange inset label and there was a different song on each side A and B. I don’t remember which side the track Positively 4th Street was on but the voice and the power blew me away. I was used to going to, god help me, trendy Poetry Readings and sometimes the earnest poet – nearly always, bespectacled, bearded, pale, wearing drawstring pants and plaid shirts – would read their compositions with verve and even dramatic gestures. However, the scorn, the disdain and the pure venom expressed by Bob Dylan was extraordinary – ‘How I wish, for just one moment, you could stand inside my shoes / then you could see just how much I despise you’, or words to that effect. Amazing, virulent stuff.

Not having sufficient funds – or the interest – to splash out on L.P.’s or cassettes and copying to and from them was not yet feasible so I fell back on what my immediate neighbourhood had to offer. Besides the dances held at the various clubs around the area, there were also dedicated venues like The Top Hat Ballroom, whose patrons often woke me as they walked past our house late at night long after the last bus service had stopped. I never went there (my mother said they were a very rough crowd!) but instead to Stella House, in a more genteel area, which doubled as a cinema and a concert venue. Near that was The Barn, another dancehall with concert features i.e. stage, sound system and lights. These were far more professional than the rugby club venues and attracted more popular acts. Dublin was a small city and for someone to break through regular appearance had to be made at all of these clubs, concert and dance Halls and so on.

A band called Them fronted by Van Morrison who howled and wept and begged his way through Gloria and Mystic Eyes, while Rory Gallagher of Taste was the self (?) proclaimed best guitarist in the world.

Tin Lizzie’s Boys are Back in Town fronted by Phil Lynott while on the traditional Irish scene, modern approaches were taken with traditional instruments and bands like Horslips and Planxty produced not only beautiful love songs, stirring tales of rebellion but also evocative and lyrical descriptions of countryside. 

However, it was the album Astral Weeks by Van Morrison that made me a ‘Van the man fan’ for life – ‘I was conquered in a car seat / not a thing that I could do…’ but it was Van’s incredible use of repetition that was so amazing. He could take a line or a word – or part of a word – and just drag it out magnificently, as in the fade out on Madame George, or the incredible track, Listen to the Lion on St. Dominic’s Preview, where he grunts, growls, gibbers, stutters and wails over the lines Listen to the Lion for more than three minutes. (I just listened to it again and timed it this time!) 

From the time I finished secondary school until I was done and dusted with university, I left Ireland every summer and worked somewhere in Europe – factories, train stations, hotels – to earn enough for the next year’s fees and to treat myself the occasional luxury like a portable radio cassette player where I quickly built up a library of both bought and borrowed music. Inevitably my library was top heavy with copies of Rolling Stones albums like Hide Tide and Green Grass along with The London Years collection. Sometime during those years, late one night at party somewhere or other, most people had gone and a few of us lay sprawled around, sharing the last of the booze, cigarettes and other miscellaneous intoxicants and I became absorbed in the lines –‘You’re an idiot babe / it’s a wonder you still know how to breathe’. Wow, strong words. Dylan again and then at a much later period in my life, once again sprawled on a rooftop apartment in Sevilla, watching the pelicans build clumsy looking nests on adjacent rooftops, two of Dylan’s albums, Blood on the Tracks and Desire seemed to resonate with me. I enjoyed sitting in a sun-baked plaza, watching random dogs scuffle and play while listening to ‘Hot chilli beans in the noonday sun … shot down in the cantina..’ or ‘I helped her out of a jam I guess but maybe I used too much force’

Joni Mitchell made an appearance around that time too and again each and every song seemed to be like a Gestalt or cloze passage where I could fill in the missing bits to make it fit exactly my life or predicament or pleasure at the time. ‘Come on down to the Mermaid Cafe and I will buy you a bottle of wine / and we’ll laugh and drink and smash our empty glasses down’. 

Then, after several years in audio darkness, a friend gave me an album by The Sisters of Mercy which I immediately referenced back to a song of the same title by Leonard Cohen but this was a different kettle of fish. Pounding drums, a driving guitar and the anger of ‘I’ve nothing to say / I ain’t said before / I’ve bled all I can / I won’t bleed no more …’ led by a Goth influenced Andrew Eldritch. 

Nevertheless, the Sisters of Mercy led me back to Leonard Cohen but the album called The Future was in direct contrast to the early stuff like Suzanne – ‘and she feeds you tea and oranges that come all the way from China / and just when you want to tell her that you have no love to give her/ she gets you on her wavelength …’ or the beautiful break-up line  – ‘It’s just the way love changes / like the shoreline with the sea …’ whereas here, in  The Future, the scorn and contempt ride high above the tenderness and love of earlier albums. ‘I have seen the future, brother and it is murder. … Take the only tree that’s left / and stick it up the hole in your culture … and now the wheels of heaven stop / you feel the devil’s riding crop / get ready for the future / it is murder’.

So, to return to the basic topic of this article – Favourite Bands, etc, let’s see if quantity is anything to go by and indicate who my favourites are – currently in my iTunes library I have the following

Bob Dylan – 24 Albums

The Rolling Stones – 20 albums (I could include the stand alone albums by Keith Richards and that would bring the Stones level with Dylan.

Van Morison – 14 Albums

Leonard Cohen – 8 albums


* Top of the Pops  D.J.’s included Pete Murray, Jimmy Saville, Alan Freeman among others.

A quick and simple fish dinner

Fish, along with everything else seems to have jumped in price. Here in WA, with several thousands kilometres of coastline and an incredible range of seafood, prices seem to vary between 60 to 70 dollars per kilo for fish fillets. I remember  … God! When I first came here in 1992, fresh local octopus off Rottnest Island was less than $3.50 a kilo. Now, you are lucky to find it for $40!


I bought some fish a bit cheaper today – Silver Perch (another name for some type of snapper fairly abundant around here but what’s in a name?) – at just over $60 a kilo. (Actually, I only bought 300g.) 


Rather than flouring the fillets and frying or grilling or even baking them  in a fish pie, I opted for sprinkling some Mediterranean flavourings on the fillets before wrapping them in slices of Seranno Ham (my new go-to favourite ingredient)



and then gently frying them in a little olive oil for about 4 minutes a side, so that the ham is approaching crispness while the fish inside is still moist and succulent. Of course, you could use good old salt and pepper, or anything else you like – fresh herbs, dried chilli, and so on, endless permutations! 


I served it up with baby, baked potatoes and a (ready-bought) Asian style salad. I didn’t know a dressing was included so I made my own – 1 spoon of olive oil, one of soy sauce, one of sesame oil, (two spoonfuls would have been better but that was all I had), 1 spoon of Mirin or any white vinegar, and a teaspoon of sugar, mixed and then shaken thoroughly in a jar.

The fish was superb. Moist inside, flaking on the fork and almost (!) crisp on the outside. A winner for a gorgeous Friday night dinner – even though it includes ham!

As it does, thinking of fish brought couplets to mind, where things just go naturally together,

Fish n’ Chips, (d’you want vinegar with that?), 

Rock n’Roll, 

Tomatoes n’ Basil, 

Bangers n’ Mash, 

Peaches n’ Cream

Rags n’Bones

Salt n’ Pepper

Any others spring to mind?

Clay Feet 

Billy was only a little boy when his mummy died; he was so little that he couldn’t remember what she looked like, except that she had a nice smell. Sometimes, in the evening, his daddy would take him on his knee and tell him stories about his mummy and how nice she was. Billy’s daddy’s name was also Billy but the grown-ups always called him Will. Billy called him Bill though because his daddy said he was too big a boy to call him Daddy. Billy liked it when his daddy lifted him up on his knees, especially in the summer when they would sit outside on the porch and watch the boats go by on the river. Billy’s father would drink a funny yellow—brown drink from a big bottle and after a while his breath would have a funny smell. The drink also had a funny taste and Billy was not sure if he liked it or not. Once when he had a pain in his tooth and was crying, his daddy came into his room and picked him up on his strong arms and sang to him and when that didn’t make the pain go away, he dipped some cotton wool into the yellowy brown drink and then put that on the sore tooth. That helped a bit and the next day he want to the dentist with his daddy and got a needle stuck into his gum but it didn’t hurt because his daddy held his hand the whole time. Later, when he got home, he put the bad tooth under his pillow and when he went back soon afterwards he found a shiny piece of money and his daddy told him the faeries had put it there because he was a big, brave boy and didn’t cry when the dentist stuck a needle in his gum. For a few days after that, he could stick his tongue into the hole left by the tooth and it felt soft and jellyish there. He couldn’t see it properly because it was in the back of his mouth and he wasn’t sure if he liked the feel of it or not. Billy could never decide if he liked new things or not. He liked his daddy though and he liked the house he and his daddy lived in. It was a nice house with a big garden with two trees in it. On one tree his daddy had made him a swing with a red seat and Billy liked to just sit there and look at the river which was at the end of the garden. He liked the river also and sometimes he and his daddy would go swimming there when it was very hot. Afterwards they always played football and Billy usually won because his daddy couldn’t run fast because he had hurt his leg when his mummy died and the motor car was taken away by the men in the truck with the crane in the back of it.

All the men in the boats that sailed up and down the river knew Billy and his daddy and they always waved when they saw him in the garden. Billy felt very proud then as he waved back and he sometimes wished he had friends to see him waving to the men in the boats. When he grew up, he and his daddy were going to buy a big boat and sail up and down the river as well and Billy’s daddy said he could be the captain. Billy never felt lonely except when he had no friends to see him waving to the men in the boats. Then he would go in and talk to his daddy. His daddy was always at home, tapping away with his big, brown fingers on a black box with letters and numbers written on little squares. It was called a typewriter and sometimes Billy would sit and watch his daddy working and listen for the little bell that rang every few moments and reminded his daddy to pul a little lever so that the letters would keep on coming in straight lines after lines after lines.

Once a man with a camera came to the house and took a lot of pictures of his daddy sitting beside the typewriter and then they talked for a long time in the living room and drank some of the browny-yellow drink that his daddy called malt and when the man went home, he shook hands with Billy and said the best of luck, Mr. Doyle. A few days later, Billy’s daddy showed him a picture of himself in the newspaper. Billy didn’t think the picture looked a bit like his daddy but he pretended to be pleased because his daddy was very pleased and he said that one day, Billy might have his own picture in the newspaper. Billy wasn’t sure if he wanted his picture in the newspaper if it wasn’t going to look like him. That night they had cake for tea and afterwards sat watching television and Billy’s daddy drank a lot of the malt and fell fast asleep in his armchair with his legs on a small stool and Billy saw that the bottle beside him was empty. Billy couldn’t wake him up when the television was over and the man on it said good night to him. His daddy was snoring very loudly and Billy could see the black hairs inside his nose move gently, just like the strands of river weeds move under water when the boats went by.

Billy didn’t really mind his daddy not waking up because he knew his daddy was very happy. The next morning when he got up for breakfast, his daddy was awake and didn’t mind him eating the rest of the cake, left over from the night before, for his breakfast. His daddy didn’t have anything to eat except for two cups of black coffee and two aspirin from the bottle in the cupboard because he said he had a splitting head. When Billy was a very small boy, he thought that people’s heads actually did crack open when they said that but now he was a big boy and he knew that his daddy only meant that he had a pain in his head.

Later in the morning, they got the little red bus into the village because Billy’s daddy had to buy some food and afterwards, as a surprise, his daddy bought him new ball because he had lost his old one a few days ago. Then they went into the front room of a house where there were plenty of small tables and chairs and a few men drinking. Billy’s daddy had a big, black drink with a creamy white head on it and Billy had an orangeade. Billy’s father laughed and said that the black and white drink was a hair of the dog that bit him. Billy laughed too but didn’t understand what his daddy meant and when he asked him where the dog had bitten him his daddy only laughed again and the man who gave them the drinks laughed too. Billy felt a bit silly then so he laughed too as if he had understood the joke.


The weather was very hot and it hadn’t rained for days and days. Billy lay in the garden all day and became very brow and he swam a lot. His daddy was very busy and said he only had time for one swim a day. Every night, after Billy went to bed, he could hear his daddy tap-tapping away on the typewriter and quite often when Billy came down for breakfast, he found his daddy asleep with his head on the table beside the typewriter and there were pages and pages scattered on all the chairs and on the floor as well. But there was no bottle of malt or anything else on the floor and when Billy asked why, his daddy smiled and ruffled his hair and said he had no time as he had to make a deadline. Billy had to make breakfast, dinner and tea for himself and his daddy but he didn’t mind. He was a very good cook as his daddy had shown him how to fry eggs and rashers, spooning the hot fat carefully over the yellow of the egg until he could see a pink tinge to the yellow. Tea and coffee were easy to make and it was simple to heat up tins of beans and spaghetti. Once he cut his finger when he was opening a tin of sardines for the tea, but he didn’t cry as he know his daddy was very busy. However, when his daddy saw the blood on his handkerchief, he kissed Billy and said he was a very good little boy but he must promise to tell his daddy immediately if anything that like that ever happened again. His daddy put a big bandage on his finger and kissed it better and said he didn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have Billy to look after him.

After the tea, Billy’s daddy said it was time that he had a rest from work so they left all the dirty dishes piled in the kitchen sink and went out for a walk along the riverbank. It was nice in the cool of the evening to walk slowly along and watch the ducks floating quietly along. Billy knew the proper names of the ducks because his daddy had once told him their names and proudly now, he pointed out the brown and green mallards and the speckled widgeons and his daddy said he was the best boy in the world. After a while, they stopped for a rest as daddy’s leg was hurting him and Billy skimmed stones across the water. He could nearly always get a stone to jump over the smooth surface of the water at least once or twice but he could never make the stones jump as far as his daddy did.

On their way home they saw a man sticking up a big coloured poster on the tree beside the road and his daddy waited for him while Billy ran to see what the poster said.  It was a big orange poster with pictures of elephants, lions, dancing horses, clowns and lots of other things and the man told Billy the circus was coming to town next week for one night only. Billy stood staring at the picture of the elephant, balancing on one leg on top of a bucket while horse with girls standing on their backs galloped around in circles for so long that his daddy had to call him several times before he heard. When Billy ran back to him he was so excited  that he had to wait a few minutes until he got his breath back before he could tell his daddy the news.

Billy had never been to the circus or to a zoo and he only knew the animals through his picture books or through the television and he longed to really see all the strange animals. He was little bit frightened too, although he would never have admitted it to anyone, just in case the animals, some of whom were very fierce, ever got loose but he knew that if he was with his daddy he would be as safe as when his daddy tucked him up in his bed.

His daddy was nearly as excited as Billy was and he said that it had been a very long time since he had been to a circus. Billy looked up at his daddy’s face  and realised that he was an old man, far, far older than Billy himself was. Now that he thought of it, on his daddy’s birthday cake last month, there were no birthday candles because, Billy now supposed, there was not enough room to show all the candles needed for his age. As they walked back home, his daddy told him stories about circuses which travelled all over the world and were welcomed wherever they went. Billy half closed his eyes and held his daddy’s big warm hand and listened to the descriptions of all the strange and exciting sights he would see himself next week. He decided that, first of all, he would like to be, when he grew up of course, a captain of a big boat on the river. Then, if he got tired of that, to be like his Daddy who knew such an awful lot about everything and then, perhaps he would like to be the circus ringmaster dressed in a big black coat with a shiny topcoat, cracking a long whip as all the horses danced around him. He was still thinking about the circus when his daddy came into his bedroom later that night to tuck him in.

At breakfast the next day his daddy told him he had a nice surprise for him. Billy couldn’t think of what could surprise him after all he had seen and heard about the circus the previous night. His daddy put down the letter he was reading and told him that his Auntie Fran was coming to stay a few days and that she was especially looking forward to seeing Billy since she hadn’t seen him since he was a tiny baby. Billy wasn’t quite sure if this was a nice surprise or not. Certainly, it was not as nice or as exciting as the circus but it might turn out to be just as good. Billy couldn’t remember Auntie Fran; in fact, he didn’t know any of his uncles or aunts although his daddy had told him he had three or four. A long time ago, Billy didn’t remember when, as he was only a little boy, but his daddy had said it was after the time his mummy died, all his uncles and aunts had stopped coming to visit them. Billy certainly hadn’t missed them and he didn’t think his daddy had either. When he asked his daddy if he were happy Auntie Fran was coming to visit, his daddy gave him a small smile and ruffled his hair and said of course he was, but Billy couldn’t make up his mind. While he was eating his toast and marmalade, his daddy told him about Auntie Fran. She was his mummy’s sister and she lived in Dublin. Her husband was dead and she was very rich. She lived in a very big house with a very small garden with no trees in it at all  near the centre of the city. There was river near her house too, but his daddy said it wasn’t the same type of river that ran past their garden. It was a very big river and the water was dirty and you couldn’t swim in it where Auntie Fran lived. Billy had never been to Dublin and had never seen the big, dirty river  but it didn’t sound very nice. His Auntie also had a large, black car and a man called a chauffeur to drive it but she wasn’t coming down in her big car, his daddy said, but by train instead. When Billy asked why she was coming to visit them, his daddy scratched the side of his face and said that was a very good question but that he didn’t know the answer.


Billy had taken his shirt off and was sitting on the swing because it was too hot to play when the taxi drove up to the gate and a fat woman in a long brown coat got out. Billy suddenly felt shy and ran to hide behind the hedge before she could see him. She looked very fat and she had four brown cases with her, three of them were  very big, and the other was quite small. She had a very loud voice and Billy could clearly hear her telling the taxi man not to scuff her cases as he carried them up the path to the hall door. Every few moments she said she wondered where in goodness Will could be and the taxi man didn’t say anything. Then Billy’s daddy came out of the house and gave some money to the taxi man  and Auntie Fran said well it has been a long time Will, and his daddy first of all looked up at the sky and then down at his shoes and said something that Billy couldn’t hear.

When he came in for his tea a while later, his Auntie was saying that the house was like a hovel. Billy didn’t understand what hovel meant but he guessed his Auntie was annoyed about something, maybe because their house had a bigger garden with trees in it, but he wasn’t sure. Then he saw that she was pointing at the kitchen sink with all the dirty dishes piled in it as well as the empty tin of steak and kidney pie they had had for their lunch. His daddy was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and was saying nothing. His Auntie stopped talking when she saw him and they both continued to look at each other for what seemed to Billy to be the longest time. He meant to say something polite to his new Auntie and his daddy had earlier suggested that he ask her if she had a pleasant journey down from Dublin but Auntie Fran was so big that Billy felt a little afraid of her.

His Auntie Fran smiled at him then and asked if he had lost his tongue and was he not going to say hello to his Auntie? Billy didn’t know what to do then and he decided she didn’t have as nice a smile as his daddy had but he said hello without looking at her. He looked at her shoes instead which were brown and seemed to squeeze her fat feet.

‘Say hello properly, Billy’ his daddy said and, with an effort, Billy tore his eyes away from her feet and looked up at her. He meant to ask her how she was but instead blurted ‘When are you going back to Dublin?’ Later his daddy told him that  it wasn’t a nice question to ask someone who has only just arrived.

Auntie Fran didn’t say anything to him but turned to his daddy and said, ‘I declare to my judge, Will, I don’t know what kind of little boy you have here. He doesn’t seem to have any manners on him at all.’ 

Billy wanted to say that he wasn’t a little boy and that he did have manners but his daddy caught his eye  and shook his head slightly so Billy didn’t say anything.

‘Aren’t you going to give your Auntie a kiss, like a good boy?’

Billy slowly went over to the chair where Auntie Fran sat and pressed his lips against her cheek. His lips came away powdery and he rubbed them with the back of his hand.

‘Isn’t he a real man?’ his Auntie Fran said, laughing.’He takes right after you, Will. I must say, however, that hair is much to long for a little boy. If you saw him from behind, you’d think he was a little girl. We’ll have to see about getting it cut nice and short, won’t we?’

Billy was horrified by the idea. He liked his hair long and his daddy often said he looked like the picture of Cu Chulainn that Billy had in one of his books.

“The child likes his hair the way it is, Fran and I see no harm in it’. Billy’s father said quietly from the corner.

‘Nonsense, we’ll have to get it cut in the morning. That’s the way all the corner boys are now in Dublin with long hair and spitting out of them.’

After tea, Auntie Fran said she would make a start on cleaning up the mess and after she had gone into the scullery, Billy’s daddy frowned at the wall and said nothing. Billy excused himself and ran into the living room to watch television but occasionally, when the draught from the open window blew the door into the kitchen open a few inches, Billy could hear his daddy and Auntie Fran talking. Later they both came into the living room and Billy’s daddy offered Auntie Fran a drink. She said she’d have a small sherry but Billy’s daddy only had Malt in the cupboard so she didn’t have anything. For a long while they all sat in silence watching a cowboy film on television but when Billy’s daddy reached for the malt bottle to give himself another drink, Auntie Fran said quietly, ‘Easy Will, remember the last time you had a few drinks’.

Billy didn’t understand this as his daddy had a drink every night and nothing ever happened. Even if something had happened last night or the night before, Billy reasoned, how could Auntie Fran know, seeing as she had only arrived that afternoon.

‘For God’s sake, Fran, don’t rake up old memories. That was more than five years ago. Things are different now.’ his daddy said, a little bit annoyed, Billy thought

‘Even so,’ Auntie Fran insisted. ‘Even so. Anyway, it’s a bad example to give to the child. These are the formative years you know.’

‘He’a no longer a babe in arms, Fran, as you can see and he doesn’t mind me taking a drink. He is quite used to the idea. There is no harm in a man having a drop or two after his tea.’

‘But that’s just the point, he’s not even seven yet and to see you, every night, I suppose, could have a very serious effect on his life later. Anyway, I think you know who is listening so we will talk later.’

‘Fran, there’s no point in …’ Billy’s fathers voice tailed off and Billy looked up but his daddy was looking into the glass he held in his hand.

When the cowboy film was over, Auntie Fran looked up and Billy asked her if she wanted to watch the other channel instead. 

‘Off to bed now, love, aren’y you? I’m sure you have had a tiring day for a little boy.’ Auntie Fran smiled. Billy was going to say that he never went to bed until the television shut down for the night and sometimes he even stayed up later, on Christmas and on his birthdays but his daddy looked over at him and said, ‘Just this once, Billy, like a good man’.

As Billy was going up the stairs, he could hear Auntie Fran saying, ’Will, this has got to stop. You’re spoiling the child. I’m warning you, you’ll get no thanks for it. He’ll turn into another cheeky little monkey. As it is, he looks a disgrace with the length of the hair on him.’ 

For a long time after Billy got into bed, he could hear voices downstairs and sometimes he could make out parts of a sentence – ‘ … got to be firm …’ ‘… advice … him … boarding school … ‘Nothing wrong … Billy …quite happy … ‘ … wreak and ruin … ‘ … naturally a quiet boy …’ ‘ … needs … some manners … ask me …’.


The next morning, Billy was playing in the garden with his football when his daddy came out and sat on the swing. After a while he asked Billy how it was going. Billy didn’t have to answer and instead threw his ball at his daddy who caught it and threw it back at him, He jumped up into the air to catch it and then fell into the long, dewy grass and rolled over. He liked the feeling of the wet grass and he liked to see the drops of dew shining in the sunlight. He threw the ball then quickly and his daddy missed. Billy shouted ‘D for Donkey, D for donkey.’ 

His father picked up the ball and sat down again on the swing and, instead of throwing it to Billy, turned it over and over in his  hands.

‘If I asked you, Billy, as a favour to me, would you get your hair cut?’

Billy stopped rolling in the grass and looked at his daddy ‘Why?’

‘Because that old … because Auntie Fran thinks you’d look like a much older and bigger boy if you did.’

‘I don’t want to look older and be bigger. I want to stay like this for always. Anyway, I like my hair.’ Billy said stubbornly.

‘I know you do, Billy, but it’s just this once and then you can grow it again when Auntie Fran leaves. She’s only staying a few more weeks. Besides, it’s good for your hair to have it cut now and then, like the grass in the top paddock. It makes it grow all the stronger. However, if you don’t want to do me a favour … that’s all right.’

Billy waited a while to see if his daddy would say anything else but when he didn’t, he got up and took the ball from his daddy.

‘Alright,’ he said carelessly, ’I will get it cut!’. He kicked the ball the length of the garden and ran after it.


The back of Billy’s head felt cold and bristly and when he ran, he could no longer see the shadow of his hair bouncing up and down against the ground. He didn’t like getting his hair cut but, as his daddy said, it was a special favour to him and his daddy very rarely asked him to do  him a favour. Anyway, as a treat, when they left the barbershop, which had an oily smell Billy didn’t like, they went to a café while they were waiting for the bus. Billy’s daddy bought him a bottle of red lemonade which he mixed up with vanilla ice cream in a big glass.The ice cream fizzed and bubbled when the lemonade was poured on top. The mixture was cold, creamy and lovely. Billy thought it was the nicest drink in the world.

When they went home, Auntie Fran said that Billy looked like a nice boy now instead of an old cissy. Billy decided he didn’t care what Auntie Fran thought he looked like and he made up his mind to avoid her as much as possible while she stayed with them.

However, whenever she saw him, at mealtimes and at night when he was watching television, she always had something to say to him about having dirty fingernails or eating his food too fast. He went to bed early every night now and he noticed he was sent off to bed a little earlier than the night before. He didn’t really mind all that much because his daddy had asked him as a favour.

Sometimes, when Auntie Fran was washing the dishes in the scullery and his daddy was in his armchair in the living room, Billy would run to him and sit on his knee and it would be just like before Auntie Fran came to stay. Once she came in when he was on his daddy’s knee and she called him a big cissy.

His daddy frowned but didn’t say anything so Billy got off and sat in his own armchair. Later that same night Auntie Fran told Billy to stop fidgeting in his chair and for a while he stopped but in a few minutes he forgot and started again and Auntie Fran leaned over and smacked him on his bare leg. It wasn’t a hard slap but it was the shock of being slapped in the first place that hurt because Billy’s daddy had never smacked him.

Through the prickling tears that made everything look blurry and far away he could hear his daddy saying if the child needed punishment, he himself would do it and no one else. Auntie Fran said a good slap every now and then did a child a world of good. His daddy didn’t say anything but Billy knew he was annoyed with Auntie Fran.

The next day the circus arrived and in the morning Billy ran down to see the men put up the tents. They all took off their shirts as the sun got hotter  and Billy could see the muscles in their backs and bare arms working as they pulled on the long ropes and suddenly, as if by magic, the big grey tent mushroomed up. People hurried by, shouting and hammering iron spikes deep into the ground but there was no sign of the animals. However, when he asked a man, he was told all the animals were arriving after dinner.

Billy walked home slowly for his lunch but decided he wouldn’t go to the field that afternoon to see the animals arriving because he wanted to see them at their best, parading under the bright lights of the tents. He was so excited about the coming night that he could hardly eat his dinner and Auntie Fran kept asking him what he was smiling at.

After lunch, he didn’t know what to do so he went out into the garden. It wasn’t a nice day any longer, the sky had clouded over with big black clouds and it was very warm but it wouldn’t rain. Billy thought it might thunder and lightning and he hoped it would because he loved to watch it when he was safely tucked up in his bed and could see the trees wildly tossing their heads about in the sudden short flashes of sharp blue light.

The afternoon slowly dragged on and Billy counted each moment of it. After a while, he got tired of rocking on the swing and went in to watch his daddy work. The steady tapping of his father’s fingers on the typewriter, punctuated by the little bell which he could never see, calmed him and before he knew it, he fell asleep, curled up in his armchair. When he woke up it was tea time and immediately after it was all over, Billy wanted to set out for the big field. His daddy, however wasn’t ready as he had to finish off some very important business and besides, he said, they had all the time in the world. Billy was so anxious not to miss a thing that he made his dad ring a man up on the phone and find out the time of the last show that evening at 9:30pm. Restlessly Billy walked up and down the hall, his coat hanging ready on the bannisters.

Then it got very dark and Billy heard a tremendous crash and a noise as if someone was throwing stones on their tiled roof. The thunder began and, pleased with the distraction, Billy ran up to his bedroom and lay on the bed beside the window. It was raining very heavily now and the river was being whipped into a grey and white foam. The next time the thunder roared, Billy was ready and he had only counted three when the room was brilliantly lit with an electric blue light that remained in his closed eyes long after the flash had gone. Sometimes the huge forks of lightning seemed to be coming directly at him and Billy shivered with a terrified pleasure and sometimes they seemed to be running through the sky away from him.

Finally it was time to get ready and Billy ran downstairs for his coat on the bannisters, calling for his daddy. Before he reached the hall, the living room door opened  and Auntie Fran came out. ‘What’s all this noise for Billy, your daddy and I were just ….’

She broke off as she saw Billy struggling into his coat. 

‘I hope you don’t think you are going out into that storm, mister, do you?

‘We’re going to the circus in the field and … 

‘But it’s already well past your bed time  and I am most certainly not allowing you out in this weather, no matter where you think you’re going,’ Auntie Fran said firmly. ‘Will, what’s this nonsense about going to a circus on a night like this?’

Billy’s father came out into the hall and looked at Billy, all dressed and ready to go.’Well’, he said, ‘it is a circus and I did promise the boy …’

‘Are you mad?’demanded Auntie Fran.‘In this weather? Do you want the child to catch his death of cold? Anyway, it is long past his bed time. I really don’t understand you, Will. Just listen to that rain. I’ll tell  you this much – not one or the other of you will leave this house tonight unless it is over my dead body.  There’s more important things than circuses, you know? I’m sure Billy understands, don’t you, love? You can always go to another circus.’

Billy’s dad hesitated and Billy’s heart stood still.

‘I want to go to the circus, Bill, I don’t care,  I want to go. Daddy, you promised’

‘Your Auntie’s right, you know, Billy. Not even a dog would go out in this weather. We can always go to another circus and … ‘

‘You promised’.

‘Besides, Billy, it’s very late and the only place for little boy like you is wrapped up nice and snug in his bed,’ Auntie Fran added.

‘But daddy …’

‘Now Will, you have got to be firm with the child. I told you something like this would happen. You have spoilt him to such an extent that he can’t take no for an answer.’

‘I promise, Billy, I’ll take you to the next circus that comes and that’s a genuine promise, cross my heart, but your Auntie is right, we can’t go out tonight.

For the first time in a long time, Billy made no attempt to hide his tears which flowed freely down his cheeks. Turning, he ran blindly up the stairs, the lightning searing his eyes. 

‘I hate, you, I hate you, you promised me, I hate you.’

Potato Terrine

I’d heard of terrines, of course, compressed dishes of fish or meat, usually served cold and an apparent staple of French cuisine but I don’t remember ever having one. Recently, however, I visited a new, for me, restaurant down on the river between the two traffic bridges.  More of a place to sit and enjoy a drink I felt, while watching life on the river flow past, as the menu was a bit limited and portions were small – more tapas sized than a main meal. I ordered the pulled lamb with the potato terrine and while the lamb was tender and tasty, I was blown away by the slice of potato terrine – a rectangle the same size and thickness of my middle and index fingers together. I have never had anything like it before – it was gorgeous. Ever so slightly crisp on the edges, the slice of terrine with its layers of thinly sliced potato cooked in some type of creamy sauce was an absolute winner. So here is my third attempt at mastering this dish – my first try was adequate, my second one fell apart (I didn’t overlap the layers of potato sufficiently) – I’ve learned from my mistakes – and this, my third attempt, has made up for past errors but can still be improved upon the next time, while adding my own little twist.

IMG_4466Here’s what I had –

a kilo of russet potatoes, washed but not peeled

250 ml cream

salt and pepper


a fresh rosemary sprigs, leaves picked

3 large cloves of garlic, minced

100g Serrano ham

a rectangular oven dish or a loaf tin

grease-proof paper

tin foil

Preheat oven to 180ºC. Place cream, minced garlic, salt and pepper and the chopped rosemary leaves in a small bowl and stir.IMG_4467

IMG_4474Scrub the potatoes, and use a mandolin, if you have one, to slice the potatoes finely. Use a knife if you have to. I used an old late 1960’s Moulinex food processor, liberated from my mother’s kitchen back in the eighties, to cut almost a kilo of spuds into almost transparent slices and quickly dropped them into the cream mixture.

IMG_4481 IMG_4477

Very lightly butter your dish or loaf tin. I use a low rectangular glass dish. If you use a loaf tin, only fill it about halfway, unless you want loaf size slices of the terrine. Then line whatever you are using with grease-proof paper leaving considerable overhang on each side. You’ll eventually fold the paper sides over the top of the dish.

Build up the terrine in layers by taking slice after slice of potato and placing them into the dish. Spoon over the creamy stuff as you go but don’t drown it. Lay every slice down in the same shape and direction. Allow for overlaps and after every second or third layer, I put in two paper-thin slices of Serrano ham.IMG_4476 A few tabs of butter here and there among the layers will later contribute to the firmness. Another few layers of potato and another two slices of the Serrano and so on until the dish is filled to the top. I used all but two of the kilo I started with and six slices of the ham.

Wrap the overhanging greaseproof over the top, then cover the top of the dish with foil. Bake for at least 90 minutes or longer. When you can easily poke a skewer, not through the tinfoil and greaseproof paper, but through the actual terrine itself, you know it is done to perfection.

Cover up again, remove from the oven and allow to cool for about 15 minutes.

Now, weigh down the dish, still wrapped in the greaseproof paper, until you can put the dish, weights and all, in the fridge for at least an hour – preferably over night! The more you wait and weigh it, the more solid it becomes! House bricks are ideal, if you have a few clean ones handy. Otherwise, use whatever you have, tins of beans, bags of rice, barbells, whatever.

IMG_4483Remove from the fridge and bring to room temperature for around 15 minutes. Carefully remove from the dish, unwrapping the paper and unveil a solid block. Tidy it up the sides if necessary, revealing one perfect rectangle, layers exposed.

Heat a pan, and add in any fresh herb – thyme, marjoram whatever – and a crushed garlic clove to the pan for extra flavour. Then cut rectangular slices of terrine and slide them into the pan. IMG_4485Cut side, flat side down? Up to you! Fry gently for about a minute a side as it can burn easily!

Place the finished slices on some kitchen paper to absorb any oil and sprinkle with cracked black pepper, a pinch of coarse sea salt. Super as breakfast with a poached or fried egg. Use it as an accompaniment to any meal, hot or cold.  A dab of chutney or a smear of chilli jam, hmmm, a spoonful of sauerkraut?IMG_4489


The sand in the depression between the dunes near the old wooden jetty, where the kids shouted and jumped, was warm from the late afternoon sun. I was looking forward to watching the imminent sunset. I took my shirt off while Maria carefully positioned her towel on the rug before sitting down. I lay down on the sand, wriggling slightly to fit myself in better.

‘God, what happened to you? That looks such a mess!’ She leaned over and touched my stomach lightly.

I shrugged, ‘It’s nothing really, never mind’ and propped my head on the cooler bag so that I could see the water and the horizon towards which western sun was descending.

‘No, I mean, it looks like you were butchered, really. Go on, tell me what happened, baby.’ 

Pushing up her sun glasses, Maria lowered her self down on her hip so that she could run her hand over my chest and stomach.

‘Well, it was a long time ago,’ I said, ‘and it all started because my sister was afraid of dogs.’

‘Really, Why?’ She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed at me before reaching over and brushing a fly off my shoulder.

‘Dunno. Maybe she was bitten once or something, who knows? Anyway, my parents, in their infinite wisdom, and maybe even after they chatted to a trick cyclist – my father managed a large maternity hospital and knew all the quacks there – decided to buy my sister a dog. What I found one afternoon when I came home from school was a tiny squirming ball of fur which rapidly grew into an amazingly high spirited little terrier – a Jack Russell, in fact.’

‘Excuse me for asking,’ Maria sat up and adjusted her glasses. ‘But what does your sister’s phobia with regard to canines have to do with your butchered stomach?’

She reached over and touched the crude scars the original stitching had left below my ribs and across the width of my waist.

‘Hold your horses there for a minute. I’m getting to it but I have to logically present the situation to you – remember, I told you this was all long ago.’ I closed my eyes and shook my head slightly, feeling the cold hardness in the cooler bag.

‘OK, take your time, baby.’

‘While my sister tolerated Scamp, that was the name chosen by – I actually don’t remember who in particular came up with that – but he was little ball of energy and eventually, I suppose, he became my dog by virtue of us doing everything together.’

‘What about your sister?’

I sat up and pulled the cooler bag over and took out a bottle of chilled Kahlua and two shot glasses.

‘She didn’t seem to mind, as I say, she tolerated Scamp sniffing at her, jumping up on her bed, licking her face, that sort of thing but it was always met with ‘Uggh’. Anyway, the road from the bottom of Eaton Square, where we lived, led straight down Belgrave Road for about 600m before meeting Seapoint Avenue and leading on to the beach there, guarded by a squat, round Martello towers, dating back to the Napoleonic Wars when the French once landed an expeditionary force back in 1768!’ 


‘Was it still military?’ Maria asked, her eyebrows raised in exasperation. ‘Will you please just get to the point.’

‘No, not now of course. Now it is sells ice-cream during the summer’. I passed her a shot glass of the coffee liquor. ‘But yes, it was – one just of many such beacon fortifications along the east coast.’

‘So that’s where you grew up then?’ She sipped the liquor and nodded at me to continue.

‘Yes, and where I learned to swim too.’

‘I thought you told me you nearly drowned three times at Seaport?’

‘Yes, but … I didn’t and … anyway, that’s not the main point.’

‘Ok, Ok, your stomach. Get on with it.’

I lay back and balanced the shot glass on my stomach, staring up at the first fingers of pink beginning to taint the blue of the summer evening.

‘Anyway, a bit further on from Seapoint – The DART Transit System stopped there – but the Irish name is Rinn na Mara  and you might miss it – the next stop was just before the two piers – the east and west which encompassed Dun Laoghaire Bay.’


I sat up again and topped up my glass and waved the bottle at her before refilling her glass.

‘Anyway, I used to walk beside the railway line with Scamp until I got to the bulwark of the east pier bolstered up with slimy, sea-weedy rocks and in the low tide, there were crabs and ratty looking rats scurrying around below the main wall of the pier. To get down there, there were several doorways cut into the huge granite blocks making up the outside wall of the pier itself along with the sloping embankment leading down into the waters of Dublin Bay.’


‘It sounds scummy. Why on earth would you ever go there?’ She shuddered and clutched herself.

‘Ahh, Scamp loved it – chasing after the crabs, which rapidly disappeared into pools of water among the rocks and seaweed, while the rats or whatever they were, were far too fast and fleet-footed for my poor Jack Russell.’

‘Go on, so, for God’s sake. Are we nearly at the end?’ She leaned forward and reached for her bag.

‘Of the bottle? God, no!’ I shook my head. ‘Right. Ok. Anyway, as I was going through one of these entrances from the pier down to the sea side embankment three kids, maybe a bit older than me at the time …’

‘How old were you?’

‘Never mind but anyway as these three blokes came through the narrow doorway, although of course, there was no door, Scamp ran forward and one of the guys just booted him. Actually lifted him up in the air on the toe of his boot and then kicked him into the water.’

‘Oh my God, what did you do?’ She sat up and touched my arm.

‘I don’t really remember but I think I straight armed the guy in the chest and shouted something like ‘what the …’ before I heard the sound of breaking glass. In those days, milk was delivered to peoples’ houses every morning in glass pint bottles, capped with foil. Red for full cream milk, gold for extra cream, and while the bottles had no deposit value, everyone used then, left them out for the milkman to collect the next morning when he delivered fresh bottles. Nevertheless, there were loads of loose bottles lying around all over the place at the time and I was the unlucky recipient of a broken one in the stomach …’

‘Oh my God. Are you serious?’

I pointed at my stomach and continued. ‘As soon as the other guys saw the blood, they dropped the bottle and legged it. I remember Scamp crawling out of the water and licking my face while I tried to hold my stomach together. That’s my new Mickey Mouse t-shirt humped, I remember thinking. There! I suppose you could call that a serious accident.’

‘Are you saying a savage delinquent stabbed you in the stomach with a broken bottle and you call that an ‘accident’.’

‘Well, my scarred stomach speaks for itself and it is obvious it was no accident I didn’t die then!’

‘You know what?’ Maria poked me in the shoulder with a slender forefinger before slowly bringing her other long nails into action. ‘I don’t believe a word. I I think you just made that up. ‘

She leaned forward again and brushed her nails across my shoulder towards my chest.

‘No, really, it’s all true – well the story is, I used to tell it to kids who asked me about the scars but the scar comes from something else.’

‘Oh, go on then, I can feel another whopper coming on now. You better give me another shot of that stuff.’

‘Cheeky! No, this is gospel, cross your heart. It was quite a while ago now, as I look back, when I was working out in the Arabian Gulf.’ 

I reached over and filled her glass.

‘I didn’t know you had been in that part of the world.’

I thought of the sun sinking there majestically into the warm waters of the Gulf in an imagined monstrous burst of steam and hiss while I lay in the sand, sipping Kaklua in the company of a beautiful woman, but the sun seemed to make up its own mind and slipped behind an almost invisible cloud bank or haze on the horizon, yet the rays it beamed across the darkening sky were pastel and ephemeral.

‘Yeah, I went to Kuwait in the late seventies, I suppose it must have been and, wouldn’t you know it, the whole place went dry the day I arrived. Prior to my arrival, apparently, you could buy and drink booze in all the major hotels – Sheratons and Hiltons, that kind of thing. I think Kuwait and Saudi were both considered ideal dry-out zones for the hardened boozer trying to recoup a lifetime spent on booze in this so-called lucrative dry area of the world. However, as I quickly discovered, the kingdom was awash in booze, so it was a pity to see so many old fellas absolutely swamped in pirate piss home-brew and trickier distilled drinks.’

‘Yeah? And?’

‘Anyway a few of us went out on a chartered launch one weekend and of course we had all brought along our own supply of booze – Flash was the raw spirit which we could cut with tonic or soda or coke or something and then there were the large flagons of homemade beer, most of it excellent and …’

‘God, you sound like a bit of a hardened gargler yourself.’ 

She looked at the empty glass in her hand and put it down quickly on the rug. ‘Go on anyway, how is this leading up to your stomach?’

‘I’m getting there,’ I said. ‘Don’t rush me. Anyway, look at that sun.’ 

The sun had finally slipped into the ocean and a pale salmon pink showed where it had once been. 

‘We were meant to be fishing but the day was stinking hot, the sea an oily calm so we sat around under the awning, drinking beer and playing cards. Every so often, someone would get up and throw a bucket of bait or stuff overboard in an attempt to attract something for our rods already secured in posts along the deck but we still weren’t catching anything. I knew I was getting a bit pissed, not only that, I was getting sun-burnt and losing at cards so I staggered off to piss over the side of the boat. The water looked rather attractive and on an impulse, I moved to the other side of the boat where I had pissed, jumped up on the rail and dived into the translucent blue waters of the Gulf. It was gorgeous, if a bit too blood-warm for my liking but I swam leisurely around the launch. Looking down through the clear water I suddenly saw something long and dark, shaped like a torpedo heading directly towards me and I let out such a bellow of fear and panic that I choked on a mouthful of water before I started to churn the water around me leaving an actual furrow in the water as I ploughed my way towards the boat.’

‘My God, what was it? Was it a …?’ Maria pushed up her sunglasses so she could stare at me more directly.

‘My watery shout must have alerted the other guys on board and they were all clustered at the rail, shouting and beckoning me on, while one guy brandished a wicked looking fish gaff.’

‘What happened? Did the …?’

‘Wait. As I said, we had all been drinking and the guys had obviously continued while I was in the water. Anyway, I was almost …’

‘Almost, oh my God!’ She reached over and grasped my arm.

‘I actually had my hand on the rail and the guys were reaching down to haul me up when I felt the most agonising pain in my belly. It was like a burning razor blade slicing and jiggling into my belly and the water turned red as I was finally hauled over the rail, gaffed by the eejit who, not only had he cleaned me out at cards, he practically gutted me too.’

‘God, you are the biggest liar, I swear.’ She let go my arm and sat up straighter.

‘My stomach, if you will forgive the pun, backs me up here? What else could have left such scars, unless you think I did it to myself.’

‘Did you? No, don’t tell me another word.’

‘Well, there was the time up in the Kimberley in the far north of Western Australia when I tangled with a saltwater crocodile, The bugger tried to get me in a death roll and …’

‘Stop! Enough!’

Maria interrupted me and refilled her glass again.’

You really are the biggest liar I know. Just tell me what happened to your stomach, ok?’

‘OK, sure, sorry. Actually it happened when I was born, I might even have been a premie – I was just three days old  – anyway my spleen had ruptured unknown to the quacks but my mother always claimed she knew there was something wrong with me …’

‘I’d agree with her there, go on, what happened?’ Maria interrupted again, draining her glass.

I mock glared at her before continuing. ‘Anyway, my spleen had burst and shifted to my other side so, initially the surgery was explorative to find out why I was turning blue. Anyway, once the problem was located, the next problem was how to do me up – remember I was a newborn and there was not much fat or flesh to sew together and the adhesive tapes they use now were not available then so the best option was to staple my stomach closed – hence the rather clumsy look of the scar. Best they could do and I was kept in an incubator for my first six months of life.’

The moon was ripening in the sky when she leaned forward and quickly slapped me on the arm, before trying to bang her shot glass down on the rug . ‘God, you are so mean, I don’t know what to believe now.’