Staying home in an age of coronavirus 1

I have just posted a note on the front door to the effect that we are "Self Isolating" and asking all, but the postman, to ring the bell and leave their packages by the front door. And why not the postman? Because he has a long established official status, and it might be the case that an item has to be signed for, before it can be delivered. Yes others sometimes need a signature, but the way things are working just now, and for good reason, they are taking it on themselves to signin on our behalf.

Where we grew up, by the sea, on the north Antrim coast, and not far from our house, and with its back to the view, stood a "pillarbox", (letterbox), that from my earliest years established itself in my psyche as a status symbol: none of my friends had such an important and useful symbol by their front door. And here's a truth; some "young bucks" who had more testosterone than good sense, tried to establish a reputation for themselves, by vaulting over it. And talking of the "pillarbox", memories are flooding back.

One that has to do with Christmas, is of the postman, still on his rounds, being invited, and willingly coming in for a whiskey. And another, is of the speed with which the postal service could operate. If my mother sent a currier down the steps to post a letter to me at 4 pm, I was reading it in Southampton, next morning, at eight. Now I have always attached a high importance in life to the capacity to wonder, a gift that no one should  allow to become redundant; and this speed off delivery, in those days, had me, - wondering.

Well of recent times the postal service has been privatised, and as a consequence I suspect that postmen, and women, are not as fit as they used to be. Today they park their red vans at strategic points along the way, upload their trolley with the appropriate red bags, and then, three wheel them from door to door. Not long ago, before privatization, you couldn't help but admire them, and especially when they passed you going up hill with fully laden satchels slung on either side of the bike: and always, whatever the weather, in shorts.

Now in the absence of anything else to share with you about post perssons, operatives, or whatever else you might like to call them, here is something to enjoy, and dare I say it, think about, and read slowly; and please do not turn off if you are not religious, psalms are poetry, and this, from the Jewish scriptures, (in the pre Christian era), is Psalm 107/108. I have read it many times before, but it had a greater impact yesterday, perhaps, because we are in "lockdown." It is a little on the long side, but in those days they had the time, and we, at this particular time, have more of it than we are used to.

"O give thanks to the Lord for he is good;
for His love endures forever."

Let them say this, the Lord's redeemed,
whom he redeemed from the land of the foe
and gathered from far-off lands,
from east and west, north and south.

Some wandered in the desert, in the wilderness,
finding no way to a city they could dwell in.
Hungry they were, and thirsty,;
their soul was fainting within them.

Then they cried to the Lord in their need
and he rescued them from their distress
and he led them along the right way,
to reach a city they could dwell in.

Let them thank the Lord for his love,
for the wonders he does for men.
For he satisfies the thirsty soul;
he fills the hungry with good things.

Some lay in darkness and in gloom,
prisoners in misery and chains,
having defied the words of God
and spurned the counsels of the Most High.
He crushed their spirit with toil;
they stumbled; there was no one to help.

Then they cried to the Lord in their need
and he rescued them from their distress.
He led them forth from darkness and gloom
and broke their chains to pieces.

Let them thank the Lord for his goodness,
for the wonders he does for men:
for he bursts the gates of bronze
and shatters the iron bars
                   II
Some were sick on account of their sins
and afflicted on account of their guilt.
They had a loathing for every food;
they came close to the gates of death.

Then they cried to the Lord in their need
and he rescued them from their distress.
He sent forth his word to heal them
and saved their life from the grave.

Let them thank the Lord for his love,
for the wonders he does for men.
Let them offer a sacrifice of thanks
and tell of his deeds with rejoicing.

Some sailed to the sea in ships
to trade on the mighty waters.
These men have seen the Lord's deeds,
the wonders he does in the deep.

For he spoke; he summoned the gale,
raising up the waves of the sea.
Tossed up to heaven, then into the deep;
their soul melted away in their distress.

He stilled the storm to a whisper:
all the waves of the sea were hushed.
They rejoiced because of the calm
and he led them to the haven they desired.

Let them thank the Lord for his love,
the wonders he does for men.
Let them exalt him in the gathering of the people
and praise him in the meeting of the elders.
                    III
He changes streams into a desert,
springs of water into thirsty ground,
fruitful land into a salty waste,
for the wickedness of those who live there.

But he changes deserts into streams,
thirsty ground into springs of water.
There he settles the hungry
and they build a city to dwell in.

They sow fields and plant their vines;
these yield crops for the harvest.
He blesses them, they grow in numbers.
He does not let their herds decrease.

He pours contempt on princes,
makes them wander in trackless wastes.
They diminish, are reduced to nothing
by oppression, evil and sorrow.

But he raises the needy from distress;
makes families numerous as a flock
The upright see it and rejoice
but all who do wrong are silenced.

Whoever is wise, let him heed these things
and consider the love of the Lord.
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If you have read my previous blogs, "Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus", you might recall me telling you of how, when walking Amber at the crack of dawn, I met a man coming in the opposite direction. The dog, as I told you, was not much bigger than a cat, and as it was desperately trying to get at Amber, the good man was telling it to "behave." Well we met agins this morning, with the little dog barking madly, and the good man still trying to impress upon it, the meaning of "behave." Well as we passed, (with more than the width of a broom handle between us), the gentleman looked across and said, "he thinks he's a rottweiler!"
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   ©   Cormac E. McCloskey

Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus 4

      When I last counted, which was yesterday, we had 21 and one half toilet rolls; not because we are hoarders or selfish, but because when purchased as part of our normal shopping, they come in bumper packs. So what are we to make of a nation, obsessed with toilet-paper, when, in the context of COVID-19, it is not a must have item?
      Well,  yesterday, over a plate of beef-stroganoff, I explained to Jenny, that should stocks not last, I have a plan,  though I did not say, nor was I encouraged to say, what it was. So I suppose you could say that the theme for today is - coping; but before we get to that, let me tell you that we have more than enough high quality kitchen-towel, (that on account of it's plastic content) you can't flush down the toilet; but there is enough of it, for Greta to make a sail for any boat that she might care to travel on. That said, on the subject of coping, let us begin at the beginning, with Amber.
      The experts tell us that routine is vital to a dog's well being, and while Amber is enthusiastic about the new regime: getting up and out at the crack of dawn, there are clear signs that her internal clock is struggling to catch up, hardly a surprise, when for a long time now, she has had her day nicely parcelled out, knowing when it is in her own best interests, to be in Jenny's line of sight, rather than in mine. But at the moment, by ten o'clock or thereabouts, she is there at my feet, curled up, patient, watching, and waiting for something to happen, forgetting of course, that she has already had her walk.  As for her capacity for planning for the future, here is how it worked under the old regime.
      I'm sitting on the sette reading, or maybe having a snooze, when she come in, jumps up, does an about turn, and settles down with her rump pressed so tightly into me, that there is no credible way in which I could claim, not to have noticed that she was there. It's 2:30. By four o'clock, or thereabouts, she is up on her front legs  looking out at the passing traffic, then back at me, and yet again, back out the window. Now on all fours, and not getting a response from me, she becomes agitated, does a little shuffle, gives a little plaintive cry, and asks with incredulity, "What the hell is going on?" At that,  my powers of resistance crumble. "Are you ready for you walk?" I ask, slowly getting up, and sure enough, before I can get my self orientated, her back legs are disappearing over the arm of the settee; a ritual, that under this new regime, is no longer played out, for the walk has been rescheduled for eight o'clock, when it is dark, and sometimes wet, and cold, but when it is safe to assume that those who had gone out to work earlier in the day, are back home.
      Now a few days ago I couldn't help laughing at Jenny on the phone, she was clearly getting frustrated, and I knew why. In rapid succession it was,  "No! No!! No!!! but, as is always the sase, the automated telephone answering service, was hard of hearing.  As for how she will cope with "lock down", only time will tell, for a rich social life has been brought to a halt. She is one in a group of friends who are never averse to going for a coffee, or better sill, out for a meal,  or getting together for a DVD evening, or meeting to talk about books they have read, or what they have gleaned in their research for the History Miscellany group. And there are whole day, and half day outings, on top of which she plays Bridge, three times a week. Well, these good ladies are all IT literate, and messages are going back and forth, but as far as I know, they haven't yet set up a global network that will allow them to do what they most enjoy, - talking!
      And then there are those things that thee pair of us enjoy doing together, and that sometimes also involve her friends: trips to the theatre, orchestral concerts, and virtuoso performance: a piano recital, that leaves you feeling  privileged to have been there. But strange as it might seem, we have a shared interest that no one else in this very diverse group of friends are interested in: the performances given by Norwich Baroque.  Roughly speaking, (for nothing in an historical sense is ever that precise), the music belongs to the period 1650-1740, and among the great exponents of the craft are: Bach, Handel, Telemann, Buxtehude, Boyce and Vivaldi. It is a particular sound, played on period instruments, and more often than not the music is vibrant, competitive, stylish and conversational. And the performances come with programmes beautifully illustrated, and rich in detail.  I have two of them to hand, "Italy before Corelli,", and here's a snippet of what they had to say:

"We are starting 2018 with an exploration of Italy in the 1600s - a little further back in time than usual. You will have become familiar with the names of Vivaldi, Corelli, Geminiani, and the like appearing in our programmes, the big hitters of the Baroque period who had huge influence on their contemporaries and on those who followed. But what was happening in Italy BEFORE Corelli?"

And the other? "Baroque Banquets", an idea that speaks for itself, which I have marked with stars, as perhaps the best Baroque performance that we have been to.
      And what about me, in all this upheaval. Well, you don't need to worry. Being a man, and solitary, (as compared to women), I only go out on my own, once a month, to talk to like-minded people about poetry, and that apart, I have enough personal projects here at home to be going on with, and that will take me well beyond this bout of coronavirus. So let me tell you very briefly about two of them, or should it be three?
      Having printed out almost all of my blogs I have begun to set out the best of them to be published, sometime in the future, in book form, to say nothing of a mound of personal notes and research material, printed out, and still in the cloud, related to people and events that have helped to shape who I am, and for better or worse, almost certainly,  you as well, material that I hope to craft into a book-length poem. But more immediately, I am working to prepare a blog, or series of blogs, on The Timelessness, or, Timeless Nature of Truth,  and to that end, I am ensconced in the writings of two of the great mystics: Catherine of Siena, and in particular her, "Dialogue", (a conversation with God), as well as the writings of Saint Faustina: a Polish nun, and chosen soul, whose task it was, and is, to present to the world, (while there is still time), devotion to the Divine Mercy.
      Whatever the topic, (sacred or secular), you can't beat a good intellectual challenge, but what it all comes down to in the end, as God told Faustina, and through her, us, is that grace comes to us through our neighbour; there is no other route, not even by way of prayer, fasting, or flagellation. If we don't have a love for our neighbour that mirrors His love for us, a love that is sincere: self-giving  and relevant, when the time comes, nothing else, of itself, will count.

THE END
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    ©  Cormac E. McCloskey

Catherine of Siena 1347-1380
   Dialogue of St. Catherine of Siena
   Aziloth Books 2012

   Saint Maria Faustina Kowalska 1905-1938
      DIARY: Divine Mercy in My Soul
      Marian Press 2019

Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus 3

      Yesterday I was mulling over possible themes for today's blog: anatomy, (the skeleton and other things), holidays, (Turkey), and memories, (salient moments from the past), all of which, one way or another could be linked to the present crisis; and then as life would have it, "events dear boy" kicked in; and chief among them was the news that our irrepressible friend Tony, has been diagnosed with lung cancer. He is a man who likes a "flutter" (a daily bet on the horses,) so his first priority, after an early morning cup of tea, is to scour the sporting pages fore races, runners and riders. It is a disciplined way of life, that as far as I know, has never got him in to trouble, and with the betting shop just around the corner, he can be present by his absence.  As for the future, little is known until they see the oncologist in a week or so. But yesterday, Margaret told us, that he was sitting up in bed with a cooked breakfast, and the Racing Post.
      Now thinking about Tony it seemed that a good theme for today would be - the reality check - and sure enough it can be linked in, with ease, to the theme of
"Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus", because for those of us in "lockdown," a term I loathe, perspective is everything.
      Well today at the crack of dawn, I didn't see yesterday's dog walker, the man with the dog not much bigger than a cat, who was anxiously steering it away from Amber, and telling it to "behave." But what I did see in the maze of quiet residential streets, were luminous satchels passing at speed: girls, and boys, whose job it was to push the morning paper through the letterbox. And the bins were out for the refuse collectors. In the "old days" we used to call them "bin men," and such was the disgusting state of the bins, that the "operatives" must have been immune to every disease known to man. As for the return leg of the journey, our walk takes us along a busy artery along which was a steady flow of traffic. And yes, (for those of you who read blog 2), the manager of the funeral home was in and at her desk. And there is work going on nearer home, in the garden of a man I know to talk to. I once had a chat with him about his battery powered lawnmower, and then went out and bought one; and I recall him telling me, that before she died, his wife had asked him to be sure and take care of the garden. But age must be taking its toll, because while keeping his borders and central shrubs in place, new classy brick surrounds have been put down, ready for the laying of artificial grass.
       Now we were not long back from our walk, when Jenny came to tell me that the Covid19 droplets can stay in the atmosphere for up to three hours, the point being, that in my early morning walk someone, (unseen), might have passed by and I, unwittingly, have picked up the virus. In reply, and sensing the anxiety in her voice, I suggested that we had to be careful not to become over anxious, and that this early morning routine for walking Amber, was the best we could do; and in response, she readily accepted that not walking Amber, was just not an option. And so, in that moment of anxiety, I didn't tell her of the woman who came past as we were walking through an alleyway; she was bright and cheerful, but oblivious to the fact that she should have stayed back until we had reached the top of the alley. Fortunately, I had my back to her as she passed, and further up the alleyway, she coughed.
      As the song says, "what will be will be" and as a consequence of being advised to stay at home, and Jenny having a compromised immune system, we will not be travelling to Yorkshire for her mother's funeral. Slowly, but surely, friends, who would have attended, have dropped out,  and now it is our turn to be there in spirit via a video link.
      Now such is the state of affairs that we have canceled and reclaimed the fee that we paid for accommodation to airbnb, and the taxi, that in April would have taken us to the airport for a holiday flight to Turkey, and I couldn't help but be mindful, that our cancellations were but a mirror image of what is going on on a grand scale. And the good news, for there is some, Saga are refunding the full cost of the holiday.
      Now as it would be remiss of me to leave you feeling depressed, so here are a few exciting themes, left over from today, that I might write about tomorrow, or whenever: Why I wear boots to Church on Sundays, whatever the weather. How it has come to pass that the colour of my eyes no longer match, to say nothing of  which bits and pieces in the body, are surplus to requirements, and how it has come about  that I am especially intrigued by this passage from the Canticle of Zechariah :

"In the tender compassion of our God
the dawn from on high shall break upon us,
to shine on those who dwell in darkness, and in the
   shadow of death,
and to guide our feet into the way of peace."

And lest I forget, why I have committed to cleaning the house - every second Thursday.
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   ©   Cormac E. McCloskey 

Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus 2

      If you had asked me yesterday what I needed to get me going, I would have said, a bowl of porridge, a pot of tea, toast and honey. But this morning, and  in  response to those who are anxious to save me from myself, because I am over seventy,  myself and Amber were up and out at the crack of dawn, and all on a cup of tea and a slice of toast. As for Amber, getting up early has never been a problem, as it has for me, and once fed and watered, and having scared the birds in the garden witless, she is not at all adverse to going back to bed for a lie-in: stretched out on Jenny's bed for an hour or more, listing, or pretending to listen to BBC Radio 2.
      Now whatever the time of day, there are rules for walking, and chief among them, on the outward  part of the journey, is, that it is Amber who sets the pace. So for me, amid the stopping and starting, standing, and sudden, and at times, arm wrenching changes in direction, there is ample time for reflection on the state of my soul: of how little progress I have made in the practice of patience and self-denial. But on the homeward stretch, the old Adam surfaces, I am in charge, and Amber, walking roadside, knows it. But lest I sound sanctimonious,  let me explain that there is more to the outward bound part of the walk than meets the eye. Often I see dogs, (who, after all, didn't choose to live with human,) walking at pace, and never look left nor right; and when I think about them, I fear, that they mightn't be dogs at all.
      Well this morning when we turned the corner away from the busy main road, what did we see coming towards us, but a man with the same idea as myself.  "I see you have the same idea as myself," I said, "start early!" But he wasn't in the mood for talking, and possibly, because his dog, not much bigger than a cat, kept veering towards Amber, to which the good man's response was, "behave, behave!"
      That was the only dog that we met on our travels, and almost certainly, the refined elderly lady, with established habits, that we sometimes meet along the way, was almost certainly fast asleep. When they meet, herself and Amber never fail to stop for a chat, and Amber never fails to have a peek into her shopping basket, which leaves me to suspect, that this good lady's daily routine takes her up the hill to the supermarket is to get some fresh meat for "Minnie." And I have just remembered, when I told her that Amber, after her walk, gets "Duck Fillets" as a treat, she told me that Amber eats better than she does.
      And we had no sooner passed "Dapper Dogs," (the local grooming parlour) when I recalled that today is St. Patrick's Day, and thinking about the current moral and political condition of Ireland, I couldn't help recalling the words of the hymn, "Hail Glorious Saint Patrick." For me, the tune is terrible, but the words that I recalled, in the context of change, in Ireland, are profound.

"In the war against sin, in the fight for the Faith,
Dear saint may thy children, resist until death,
May their strength be in meekness, in penance, in prayer,
Their banner the cross which they glory to bear."

Well by the time we had got around to Harvey's Funeral Home, it was 7 o'clock, and to my surprise, the manageress was going in. And by the time we got down to THE CROWN, I was feeling sorry for publicians, whose livelihood was pulled from under them yesterday, when the Prime Minister urged people, in the fight against the coronavirus,  to avoid "pubs and clubs." As it happens, this particular pub, under new management, was on the up. But now I was wondering if in the not too distant future, it would be converted into living accomodation. Not a bad location, I thought, with the Co-Op, the pharmacist, and another funeral parlour just across the road.

As for the future, if it goes to plan, I will be taken from there, the funeral home that is, down the hill, past my house, over the bridge and even further down, and up, into the Church of Our Lady and Saint Walstan, for Requiem Mass, and I will be watching, from wherever, to see that there are no picture takers in the gathering, just good people interceding on my behalf. And as the stipend for the priest is the responsibility of the funeral director, I will be watching to ensure that it has been inflation proofed.

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  ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

   

Walking the dog in an age of coronavirus 1

       A few weeks ago, in the dark and pouring rain, I stepped into a driveway to allow a couple coming towards me with a dog, to pass. But as dogs would have it, we had no choice but to stop and exchange pleasantries, and as we stood there talking, and notwithstanding the conditions, it was clear that the lady in question: who was not keen to move on, was in awe of my accent. How do I know? Because she told me; and if I may dare to say so, women in awe of my accent, in the past, has not necessarily been a positive experience. As for the dog's, I was intrigued to discover that theirs, adopted, was from Romania. "Have you been to Romania?" I asked; and while I don't recall her exact reply, it added up to the fact that they hadn't ventured much beyond the boundaries of Norfolk.
      Now as you would expect, from time to time, our paths cross, and I am careful to give them the metaphorical cold shoulder; because apart from anything else, having come all the way from Romania, their dog is not amenable to sharing his space.
      More recently, and in altogether better weather, I stopped to talk to a regular, and notwithstanding the fact that I knew what he was up to, I asked, "Are you having a rest?" His dog  was also resting, as were his metallic walking-sticks. In layman's terms, he has a fusion in the spine, so when he is out and about, walking awkwardly, and with his sticks as stabilisers, and with his dog in toe, he can't be anything other than conspicuous;  and I can not be alone among the public, who, on seeing him, have been in awe of his resolve.
      Now perhaps on account of my age, I don't recall the order of our discourse, but in a short time we covered a lot of ground: his health, the age we live in, (or if you prefer,)  the state of the world as it is now, as compared to what it was when we were growing up, and of course, his dog. And before I go any further it is important to be clear: there is not a trace of self-pity in him.
      On health, and hospitals, of which he has considerable experience, he had taken a call earlier in the day with the news, that of the ten biopsies takens, "five from either side" eight were cancerous. And he was resolute, and he told them so, that they weren't going to cut him up.  "I have my . . . .I'm not afraid of death!" But there was good news as well as bed. The voice on the phone was reassuring: an injection every three months, and some pills would do the trick. And that, the idea of dying, brought him around to the state of the world as it is today. And on that subject, while he took the low road, I took the high, reminding him that there was a great deal of good in the world that never gets reported, and before I knew it, he was reminded of the good samaritan.
      A few days previously, while resting on a bench which was just across the road from where we were talking, a posh car pulled up and a lady got out, and fearing that he might be unwell, wanted to help. "Wasn't that a lovely thing to do?" he said with feeling.
      But what left me scratching my head, and in an odd way feeling pleased, was the news that his, patient dog, was rescued - from Romania.
      "There are a lot of Romanian dogs around here!"

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 ©  Cormac E McCloskey


 

Saint Vincent de Paul

CORMAC SAYS: Today the Roman Catholic Church is celebrating the life of Saint Vincent de Paul. Born at Gascony in 1581 he died at Paris in 1660. As a priest, he spent a lifetime working among the poor, and founded two religious orders: The Congregation of the Mission, for priests, and for women, the Congregation of the Daughters of Charity, through which his work for the poor lives on; as it has, in the lay association known as the Society of Satin Vincent de Paul. Living as we do, in an age of relativism: in which one person’s view is deemed as good as another, and the idea of “revealed truth” is dismissed by many, as absurd, what is striking about the passage quoted below (apart from its spiritual content,) is how, in practical terms, it is as fresh and relevant now, as it was when it was written more than three hundred years ago; the exception being, that we have many more disturbing, and global examples, to draw on, than did Saint Vincent de Paul. And how powerful his conclusion: “They [the poor] have been given to us as our masters and patrons.”

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“Even though the poor are often rough and unrefined, we must not judge them from external appearances nor from the mental gifts they seemed to have received. On the contrary, if you consider the poor in the light of faith, then you will observe that they are taking the place of the Son of God, who choose to be poor. Although in his passion [His final suffering] he almost lost the appearance of a man and was considered a fool by the Gentiles and a stumbling block by the Jews, he showed them that his mission was to preach to the poor: He sent me to preach the good news to the poor. We also ought to have this same spirit and imitate Christ’s actions, that is, we must take care of the poor, console them, help them, support their cause.

“Since Christ willed to be born poor, he choose for himself disciples who were poor. He made himself the servant of the poor and shared their poverty. He went as far as to say that he would consider every deed which either helps or harms the poor as done for or against himself. Since God surely loves the poor, he also loves those who love the poor. For when one person holds another dear, he also includes in his affection anyone who loves or serves the one he loves. That is why we hope that that God will love us for the sake of the poor. So when we visit the poor and needy, we try to be understanding where they are concerned. We sympathize with them so fully that we can echo Paul’s words: I have become all things to all men. Therefore, we must try to be stirred by our neighbours’ worries and distress. We must beg God to pour into our hearts sentiments of pity and compassion and to fill them again and again with these dispositions.

“It is our duty to prefer the service of the poor to everything else and to offer such service as quickly as possible. If a needy person requires medicine or other help during prayer time, do whatever has to be done with peace of mind. Offer the deed to God as your prayer. Do not become upset or feel guilty because you interrupted your prayer to serve the poor. God is not neglected if you leave him for such service. One of God’s works is merely interrupted so that another can be carried out. So when you leave prayer to serve some poor person, remember that the very service is performed for God. Charity is certainly greater than any rule. Moreover, all rules must lead to charity. Since she is a noble mistress, we must do whatever she commands. With renewed devotion, then, we must serve the poor, especially outcasts and beggars. They have been give to us as our masters and patrons.

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Virtual reality !

Note: Portrush is a peninsuala town on the north coast of Northern Ireland, in close proxcimity to the Giant's Causeway: the consequence of a volcanic eruption that took place some 60 million years ago. This year, in July, this small town will host the oldest golf tournament in the world. The prize, the Claret Jug.
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CORMAC SAYS: Yesterday I went on a virtual tour of Portrush using Google view. I started at the Health Centre, went across station square and down Kerr Street past the harbour with its iconic lifeboat gleaming in the sunlight, and up the hill and down to Lansdowne Crescent car park via the Recreation Grounds. Getting myself in a muddle, I came back around the harbour up Lower Main Street along Main Street and up to the Station and down towards the Coleraine Road, before turning along Croc Na Mac. Interestingly, I travelled along Crock Na Mac on the wrog side of the Road with the result that the car in fron of me kept going backwards until I was able to turn so as to go up Causeway Street. Almost at the top of Causeway Street men in Orange high vis, were spreading fresh tarmac from the back of a tipped up truck. And here's the point. 

Everywhere I went there were men at work, or evidence of work in progress, even if no one was about. At the Recreation Grounds there appeared to be what looked like palets of bricks, or flagstones.  A hole in the Road on Lansdowne car park. Serious workings in front of the Almada Hotel and all the way up Main Street, to say nothing of the rebuilding going on at the Railway Station.

Years ago I complained about the Station Clock GOING! after twenty years of idleness, and lamented the fact that it took a lesser golf tournament to get it going.  Later, I discovered that the people who own the station, don't own the "station Clock."

So why the "spit and polish?" Well for the first time in 68 years, one of the worlds greatest golf tournaments, (the oldest in fact,) is returning to the Royal Portrush Golf Links in July. The competitors will be so busy fighting for the Claret Jug that they won't have time to notice the stunning setting, but the rest of the world will see it, and ho[efully be in awe of it, on TV.

Now one of the splendours of Portrush in the past was Lansdowne Crescent, and 68 years ago when the tournament was last in town, the Edwardian guest houses that faced the sea across an expanse of manacured lawn, were packed with holidaymakers.

On my Google tour I wasn't able to see if anything has changed since I wrote avbout the delapidated and still decaying state of these Edwardian houses, where you could see from the upstairs windows of one house through to the sky, etc, etc, Could it be, that as Lansdowne Crescent, (in the context of the golf) is off the beaten track, the Crescent is still in a state of weeping and lamentation.

I wonder!

And if you want to know, in the context of Portrush, what weeping and lamentation looks like, read my blog ROOTS: In Google, type in Cormac E McCloskey, Blog, Roots, and before you start reading, you will see a lovely picture of the Arcadia at sunrise.

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©  Cormac E McCloskey 
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