Wish You Were Here

G1
Garrarus Beach, Co. Waterford

Today was a smashing day here in Co. Waterford and I had the most delicious swim out at Garrarus Beach early this morning.

While I was soaking up the sea and sun, I was half thinking about son Harry who has hopped over to England for the weekend. Part of the hopping involved him driving me into Waterford in the wee hours so that he could catch a bus to Dublin Airport. Little did I ever think that he’d be doing the driving like that but it’s been our Summer of ‘mother/son’ driving with Bruce Springsteen keeping us company.

Back at home, the little fluffy dog (a cross between at least a sheepdog, terrier, King Charles, Alsatian….)  that Harry rescued a few years ago had clearly been doing a lot more than half thinking about his beloved owner. He had worked himself up into a complete tizzy and practically scratched his neck off.  I suppose I should have anticipated some drama like this as the last time Harry went away the dog almost bit his paw off.

Back to the same vet who mercifully assured me that the neck damage is curable but that the bond between the dog and Harry was quite another matter! Basically if H flees the nest, the dog will have to go with him.

Waiting for Godot
Waiting for Godot

As dusk turned to darkness, I was beginning to wonder about H’s promised phone call. I was here at the computer and called out to hubby if he’d heard from him. He replied as casually as anything:

Oh yeah, he rang a good while ago and said he’s grand. He got cut off so wasn’t on for long.’

The little dog has been bopping around since the phone call and I’m still wondering if fathers have anything like the same bonds with their boys as little dogs and mothers do?

Unexpected Consequences of Motherhood ~Gatherings from Ireland # 343

Running Repairs by the Life Guards’ Hut in Tramore, Co.Waterford

There I was down the beach the other evening taking a few photographs of  kite-surfers at sunset when another sort of glowing orange dug its way into my peripheral vision.

That JCB catapulted me back to years when the whole landscape, real and imaginary, was about Moving Machines, everything from diggers, dumpers, tractors, JCB’s, fire engines, trains, articulated and not-so-articulated trucks, and most of all bin lorries.

Yes, there was a time when Mondays meant waiting, no matter what,  for the bin lorry to arrive in all its glory and watch it heave, slant, empty and return our bin and then jump into the car and follow it around Tramore to gain even more insight into its inner workings.

I’d spent over thirty years  running away from bin lorries as they squeezed and crunched the town’s rubbish but a little son who needs to know EXACTLY how the bin lorry works somehow (and I still don’t quite understand it) transforms bin lorries into magical machines with a delicious aroma.

Santa even got wind of this magic and brought the best present ever … a bin lorry with two  silvery bins, just like ours,  that could be emptied all through the Christmas holidays and every single day for years after.

Flash forward 15/16 years and we’ve arrived at Driving Theory Tests and L-Plates. How has this happened?