You could call it a lot of things, but my name for it is Co-ordination and, let's face it, it's not really a game, but a way of life.
It must be getting on for a year now since work started on the site just along the road from my front window. Ages were spent preparing the ground in the first place; then, as the building itself began to take shape on one side of the site and I began to wonder whether it was going to be a commercial or residential construction, on the other side came an almost constant rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat. I thought it was a pneumatic drill and I wondered what could possibly need all that drilling; curiosity got the better of me and I strained to see what was causing that loud and repetitive sound. It was a digger, fitted with a sort of giant tea-strainer, sifting the big lumps of concrete from the demolished building out of the finer stuff so that one could be loaded in a lorry for one destination while the other went somewhere else. It was all highly organised.
Tradesmen of one sort and another came and went and, eventually, the building was - to my untutored eye, at least - finished. Far from being a block of flats, it had become obvious that it would be a showroom and as spring passed an enormous SEAT sign appeared. I was at one point expecting a great Easter Opening event, but nothing happened. A selection of shiny new vehicles has been occupying the front arena for several weeks, but no more positive announcement has appeared than 'opening here shortly'. My latest guess is that they are waiting for the new 20 registration to make some spectacular promotional offers. However spectacular, I fear they will be well beyond the range of my finances.
But the excitement continues. For quite a while now, living as I do by a road with several car showrooms in the immediate vicinity, a familiar sight is the comings and goings of car transporters ... magnificent vehicles capable of carrying nearly a dozen cars at a time. Since my retirement has brought with it the option of walking into town past these prestigious establishments, I have been more impressed by the efficient way the drivers of the transporters go about the business of unloading their cargo. Often, if I'm not in a hurry, I'll stop and watch the sequenced performance of what some would see as 'street theatre'.
This week, in conjunction with the forthcoming opening of the new showroom, I haven't even had to go outside to watch this fascinating operation. With a transporter stopping right outside my window, all I have to do is walk across the room. The more I watch, the more I become aware of the skill these drivers possess, not just to drive such enormous articulated vehicles around, but also to unload them when they get to their destination! There is a definite sequence of which car can be removed first and, if their consignment is not all for the same showroom, someone has to know whose cars to place whereabouts within the framework so that unnecessary shunting off and on is avoided. And then, with my eye for detail, I notice that the engineer has to know not only which pistons to operate and in what sequence to move the correct ramp into place, but which of the myriad of levers available will achieve this. To say he has my admiration is something of an understatement.
I spoke the other week of tweaking my trusty holiday planning spreadsheet ready to organist this year's excursion to the Emerald Isle. That process may have sounded like a polished procedure simply waiting to be engaged. It was devised when I had the motorhome, and usually involved little more than two or three activities to be catered for having once settled on a site. This is the first year I have taken responsibility for a whole series of exploits to be undertaken in a foreign country, not only involving opening hours, travel times and days of admission, but also the matter of finding suitable places for meals and other considerations. Inevitably, a system built for one purpose needs amendment to be used for another, and as another requirement has come to mind, further refinements have had to be made. On more than one occasion I've thought 'I wouldn't start from here', and at least one phase has had to be completely re-drafted in order to be effective.
As I move through the final days of preparation, actually beginning to put my plans into operation, I find myself reflecting on the methodical operation of those car transporter drivers, successfully loading and unloading thousands of pounds-worth of cargo, dealing with everything from negotiating the roads to folding the straps neatly after releasing each individual wheel from its secure mounting point, and I've wondered whether, given a couple more decades of working life, this is a job I could have done ... and enjoyed.
If all goes 'according to plan' - or, conversely, if I manage to 'wing it' - there will be no blog next week, but if you are desperate for an update, think of me in a different environment, being very glad that 'going foreign' won't mean being without English-speaking help and guidance if I find myself in need. And in any case, I'm hoping that 'need' won't involve the use of the techniques I've been praising here!
Friday 31 May 2019
Saturday 25 May 2019
Don't Just Say it ...!
One of the delights of my weekend is to settle down on Sunday evening and listen to folk music. There's a two-hour programme on BBC Wales that has been regular listening for me for quite some while and it's followed by another two hours of equally pleasant easy listening and light opera which, in the words of the presenter, make me 'warm and relaxed, and ready for sweet dreams later on'.
I listen to these via the internet but, before I can do so, I have to log in to the BBC website. So much these days is dependent on 'logging in'. If I want to read my e-mails, or see what my friends have posted on social media, I have to log in with a user name or my e-mail address and a password. And then there is this infuriating little box marked 'Keep me signed in'. I say 'infuriating' because, however often I check that box, you can guarantee that within a couple of days - sometimes within only a couple of hours - it's back again, asking me to confirm once more my continuing wish to use the site.
This technological phenomenon is only one example of something that seems to have become more and more common in recent years ... or is it that it has brought to my attention something that has always been present in life in one way or another? I'm sure you'll realise that what I'm talking about is the concept of the unfulfilled undertaking. For instance, how often do you say to your spouse, or to a teenage child, "would you do so-and-so for me please?"? They respond in the affirmative but the 'so-and-so' doesn't get done until a reminder is issued ... and sometimes not even then, despite the willingness initially expressed.
We have recently enjoyed - many would say 'suffered' - our annual dose of politics in action, as we (some of us, at least) have voted in our district council elections, and this weekend in the elections to the European Parliament. It is a matter of some notoriety that politicians will commit to all sorts of things to gain our vote but, once elected, seem rarely to fulfil those pledges. There are many reasons - many quite valid reasons - why some pledges can't be fulfilled. Some are simply impossible, others depend on a level of finance that's just not available, and some require the co-operation of other parties - which may not be forthcoming - for approval. The end result for the man/woman in the street is the same, however: 'said, but not done'.
Of course, as you will imagine, a particular experience has brought these thoughts together. Almost a year ago, I decided to change my internet provider. I couldn't fault the courtesy of the salesperson and of the installer who visited my home. As an incentive for the changeover, I was given a year's introductory discount from the monthly payments and it had been suggested that, if I were to talk to their customer services people before the anniversary of the contract, I could probably renew this discount for another year.
So that this valuable concession should not be overlooked, I had made a note in my diary and this week, after making several abortive attempts, I managed to navigate all the telephonic menus and speak to someone for this purpose, only to be told not only that any arrangement of that nature will not be possible until after the introductory discount has expired, but also that it can all be accomplished on line! If only the woman I was speaking to last year had got her facts right ... half an hour of frustration and embarrassment could have been avoided!
I listen to these via the internet but, before I can do so, I have to log in to the BBC website. So much these days is dependent on 'logging in'. If I want to read my e-mails, or see what my friends have posted on social media, I have to log in with a user name or my e-mail address and a password. And then there is this infuriating little box marked 'Keep me signed in'. I say 'infuriating' because, however often I check that box, you can guarantee that within a couple of days - sometimes within only a couple of hours - it's back again, asking me to confirm once more my continuing wish to use the site.
This technological phenomenon is only one example of something that seems to have become more and more common in recent years ... or is it that it has brought to my attention something that has always been present in life in one way or another? I'm sure you'll realise that what I'm talking about is the concept of the unfulfilled undertaking. For instance, how often do you say to your spouse, or to a teenage child, "would you do so-and-so for me please?"? They respond in the affirmative but the 'so-and-so' doesn't get done until a reminder is issued ... and sometimes not even then, despite the willingness initially expressed.
We have recently enjoyed - many would say 'suffered' - our annual dose of politics in action, as we (some of us, at least) have voted in our district council elections, and this weekend in the elections to the European Parliament. It is a matter of some notoriety that politicians will commit to all sorts of things to gain our vote but, once elected, seem rarely to fulfil those pledges. There are many reasons - many quite valid reasons - why some pledges can't be fulfilled. Some are simply impossible, others depend on a level of finance that's just not available, and some require the co-operation of other parties - which may not be forthcoming - for approval. The end result for the man/woman in the street is the same, however: 'said, but not done'.
Of course, as you will imagine, a particular experience has brought these thoughts together. Almost a year ago, I decided to change my internet provider. I couldn't fault the courtesy of the salesperson and of the installer who visited my home. As an incentive for the changeover, I was given a year's introductory discount from the monthly payments and it had been suggested that, if I were to talk to their customer services people before the anniversary of the contract, I could probably renew this discount for another year.
So that this valuable concession should not be overlooked, I had made a note in my diary and this week, after making several abortive attempts, I managed to navigate all the telephonic menus and speak to someone for this purpose, only to be told not only that any arrangement of that nature will not be possible until after the introductory discount has expired, but also that it can all be accomplished on line! If only the woman I was speaking to last year had got her facts right ... half an hour of frustration and embarrassment could have been avoided!
Friday 17 May 2019
Tentacles ... and a Mystery
It's time I wasn't surprised when I find that something innocuous that I'm doing today has tentacles stretching back years, decades or even further. Last night I watched the last few of a set of DVDs that I collected over a period of some weeks back in 2004. They were produced by the Daily Mail - a newspaper that I would normally avoid, and almost certainly haven't bought since then - to mark the 90th anniversary of the start of the First World War. The DVDs reproduced a series of programmes broadcast by the BBC over twenty-six weeks to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary in 1964.
They were screened immediately after something I watched regularly and were introduced by an horrific original photograph of a soldier in a tin hat sitting in a trench across from some dead comrades. As the titles rolled week after week for half a year, to the accompaniment of dramatic theme music specially composed by Wilfred Josephs and played by the BBC Northern Orchestra, as an eager teenager I would long to broaden my education by watching this presentation. And week after week, my mother - if she wasn't already in the room, my mother would hear the music and immediately appear - denounced it firmly as "that old war programme" with the inevitable follow-up as the TV was switched off, "we've had enough of war!"
When it came to discipline in the home, mother's word was law. Sometimes I could wheedle, or offer a logical persuasion for something I wanted to do but when that programme came on, however much I might hope to the contrary, there was something about her tone of voice that said there would be no discussion and I knew not to argue. At last, decades later, I would be able to watch them. But the busy life of a courier - how I managed to get to the newsagent's every day for a month or so to buy the paper, I just don't know - and later of a busy retiree, had meant that only recently had I picked up the habit of watching the occasional episode from where my initial enthusiasm had left off.
Hearing those haunting strains again brought back mum's voice from the past and I am far more able now to understand why, scarcely twenty years after the death of her beloved brother on the other side of the world during the successor to that 'war to end all wars' which wasn't, she was unwilling to be reminded yet again of that loss.
One of the episodes I watched last night presented a brief summary of the war in the Middle East, with the need to protect the route to India and to secure the oilfields that could make or break the functioning of a navy that was ever less dependent on coal for its fuel. It told of the action of the Indian Expeditionary Force from Basra towards Baghdad in 1915. By September 1915, the British and Indian force had reached Kut al-Amara, about 100 miles south of Baghdad and, after a defeat further north, retreated there to await further support. This never came, however and, after a siege of 147 days, they surrendered to the Ottomans on 29th April 1916. At the time, it was the worst defeat of a British army but, unlike other great surrenders at Yorktown (1781) and Singapore (1942), the consequences were not so strategically significant. A stronger and better-resourced Mesopotamian campaign was initiated at the end of 1916; Kut al-Amara was retaken in February 1917 and Baghdad the following month.
My father's two eldest brothers served in the First World War, but when they were demobbed, neither of them returned to live in the family home, so I'm not sure what he knew of their experiences. As I watched that episode of The Great War last night I recalled the only instance I can remember when he ever spoke of the service of either brother in the war. What prompted the comment is now lost to me, but the fact that I remember them so clearly speaks of their very rarity. Referring to the younger of the two brothers, who was some eight years his senior, dad told me, "Will was at Kut."
I said that my mother's was the voice of authority in the home; this was so much the way of my childhood that it hadn't occurred to me until this very weekend to wonder what dad made of that. I recall his willingness to administer discipline when my behaviour required it but I don't think I ever heard a cross word from him to mum. Rarely did he express any personal emotion ... at least not in my presence. But now I'm wondering whether he would have shared his son's desire to follow that series on TV. He made no comment, however, and the TV was always switched off.
I've puzzled from time to time over those words. A few years ago I attended a talk on the war in Mesopotamia at the National Archives and chatted afterwards to the speaker but to no avail. Given that my uncle was born in July 1898, it seems most unlikely that he could have been one of those captured after the siege in 1916. If he had lied about his age, it is just possible that he could have been in the force that re-took the town the next year, but without knowing what regiment he served with, nor any other details, it's impossible to say.
They were screened immediately after something I watched regularly and were introduced by an horrific original photograph of a soldier in a tin hat sitting in a trench across from some dead comrades. As the titles rolled week after week for half a year, to the accompaniment of dramatic theme music specially composed by Wilfred Josephs and played by the BBC Northern Orchestra, as an eager teenager I would long to broaden my education by watching this presentation. And week after week, my mother - if she wasn't already in the room, my mother would hear the music and immediately appear - denounced it firmly as "that old war programme" with the inevitable follow-up as the TV was switched off, "we've had enough of war!"
When it came to discipline in the home, mother's word was law. Sometimes I could wheedle, or offer a logical persuasion for something I wanted to do but when that programme came on, however much I might hope to the contrary, there was something about her tone of voice that said there would be no discussion and I knew not to argue. At last, decades later, I would be able to watch them. But the busy life of a courier - how I managed to get to the newsagent's every day for a month or so to buy the paper, I just don't know - and later of a busy retiree, had meant that only recently had I picked up the habit of watching the occasional episode from where my initial enthusiasm had left off.
Hearing those haunting strains again brought back mum's voice from the past and I am far more able now to understand why, scarcely twenty years after the death of her beloved brother on the other side of the world during the successor to that 'war to end all wars' which wasn't, she was unwilling to be reminded yet again of that loss.
One of the episodes I watched last night presented a brief summary of the war in the Middle East, with the need to protect the route to India and to secure the oilfields that could make or break the functioning of a navy that was ever less dependent on coal for its fuel. It told of the action of the Indian Expeditionary Force from Basra towards Baghdad in 1915. By September 1915, the British and Indian force had reached Kut al-Amara, about 100 miles south of Baghdad and, after a defeat further north, retreated there to await further support. This never came, however and, after a siege of 147 days, they surrendered to the Ottomans on 29th April 1916. At the time, it was the worst defeat of a British army but, unlike other great surrenders at Yorktown (1781) and Singapore (1942), the consequences were not so strategically significant. A stronger and better-resourced Mesopotamian campaign was initiated at the end of 1916; Kut al-Amara was retaken in February 1917 and Baghdad the following month.
My father's two eldest brothers served in the First World War, but when they were demobbed, neither of them returned to live in the family home, so I'm not sure what he knew of their experiences. As I watched that episode of The Great War last night I recalled the only instance I can remember when he ever spoke of the service of either brother in the war. What prompted the comment is now lost to me, but the fact that I remember them so clearly speaks of their very rarity. Referring to the younger of the two brothers, who was some eight years his senior, dad told me, "Will was at Kut."
I said that my mother's was the voice of authority in the home; this was so much the way of my childhood that it hadn't occurred to me until this very weekend to wonder what dad made of that. I recall his willingness to administer discipline when my behaviour required it but I don't think I ever heard a cross word from him to mum. Rarely did he express any personal emotion ... at least not in my presence. But now I'm wondering whether he would have shared his son's desire to follow that series on TV. He made no comment, however, and the TV was always switched off.
I've puzzled from time to time over those words. A few years ago I attended a talk on the war in Mesopotamia at the National Archives and chatted afterwards to the speaker but to no avail. Given that my uncle was born in July 1898, it seems most unlikely that he could have been one of those captured after the siege in 1916. If he had lied about his age, it is just possible that he could have been in the force that re-took the town the next year, but without knowing what regiment he served with, nor any other details, it's impossible to say.
Saturday 11 May 2019
All in a Day's Work!
I sometimes wonder about the 'sayings' we use: idiomatic phrases that have no literal connection to the meanings we attach to them. A good example is 'that's nailed it!', which has nothing to do with hammers and pointed metal fastenings but everything to do with coming to an agreement and securing it by a quayside bollard. I thought yesterday about London buses.
What's that about London buses? I hear you ask. Well, if you can wait for hours for one and then they all turn up at once, as is said to be the case, it would be a marvel if anyone could get around our capital city at all by public transport! But yesterday was just that sort of a day for me. I'm not sure about a long wait for any of them, but a number of exciting things all happened in one day.
When I started working as a volunteer at the local hospice's distribution centre, I made it clear that, after many years as a same-day courier, not knowing from one day - often one hour - to the next what I would be doing, I was looking for variety. Hence, I normally spend a day a week at a computer screen, and half a day a week helping on a van visiting our shops to collect donations that have been handed in. This was all arranged with the proviso that I will readily act as a relief driver if required.
So it was that, last Friday, one of the regular drivers announced that he would be taking a day off yesterday and asked me if I would mind taking his place for the day. He had organised the work to be done and all I had to do was follow instructions. That suited me well and, although by the end of it I felt as if I'd had a good workout in the gym, it all went smoothly according to plan. All, that is, apart from one shop where we found our way blocked by the combination of a supermarket artic. making a prolonged delivery on one side of the road and blue-badge holders legally parked on double-yellow lines on the other. One of my colleagues suggested that we negotiate our exchange of goods for sale and donations collected by walking them around the corner. This we did and were on our way again before the artic. driver had finished.
This day of excitement occurred against a background of sleep-reduced nights. Another saying comes to mind, this one corrupted by someone's lateral thinking: "One good turn deserves all the blankets!" In my single-bed situation, the problem is not someone else making a 'good turn' of that kind, but lots of twisting and turning shedding the duvet onto the floor! Last week I spotted an item on Freecycle that prompted thought of a possible solution. Why not have a double duvet, so there is enough hanging over both sides of the bed that I'm not so cold in the first place? It was worth a try, I decided. I collected the offered quilt cover last weekend and explored the acquisition of the quilt to go inside it. Yesterday lunchtime I found an e-mail saying that the courier had now delivered the quilt to my doorstep, so I popped home to secure it before resuming my driving duties. The first trial last night was only partially successful, but shows promise.
"In other news ..." yesterday's post brought two more items of interest. Each had been awaited for a while without a specific date for delivery, but hey! ... why not turn up along with all the rest? The first tangible preparation for my holiday has now arrived. I knew when I saw the postmark "Baile Átha Cliath" what the envelope would contain. It's my visitor's ticket to Dublin's suburban transport system, which is now sitting in my wallet, patiently awaiting the Euros that I haven't got round to ordering yet.
And the final arrival was my postal vote for the European Parliamentary Election. Although it's as yet by no means certain whether or not the MEPs we elect on 23rd May will actually take their seats, it's important that we exercise our civil right to identify who we would like to represent us at that level if given the chance to do so. So do remember to vote!
What's that about London buses? I hear you ask. Well, if you can wait for hours for one and then they all turn up at once, as is said to be the case, it would be a marvel if anyone could get around our capital city at all by public transport! But yesterday was just that sort of a day for me. I'm not sure about a long wait for any of them, but a number of exciting things all happened in one day.
When I started working as a volunteer at the local hospice's distribution centre, I made it clear that, after many years as a same-day courier, not knowing from one day - often one hour - to the next what I would be doing, I was looking for variety. Hence, I normally spend a day a week at a computer screen, and half a day a week helping on a van visiting our shops to collect donations that have been handed in. This was all arranged with the proviso that I will readily act as a relief driver if required.
So it was that, last Friday, one of the regular drivers announced that he would be taking a day off yesterday and asked me if I would mind taking his place for the day. He had organised the work to be done and all I had to do was follow instructions. That suited me well and, although by the end of it I felt as if I'd had a good workout in the gym, it all went smoothly according to plan. All, that is, apart from one shop where we found our way blocked by the combination of a supermarket artic. making a prolonged delivery on one side of the road and blue-badge holders legally parked on double-yellow lines on the other. One of my colleagues suggested that we negotiate our exchange of goods for sale and donations collected by walking them around the corner. This we did and were on our way again before the artic. driver had finished.
This day of excitement occurred against a background of sleep-reduced nights. Another saying comes to mind, this one corrupted by someone's lateral thinking: "One good turn deserves all the blankets!" In my single-bed situation, the problem is not someone else making a 'good turn' of that kind, but lots of twisting and turning shedding the duvet onto the floor! Last week I spotted an item on Freecycle that prompted thought of a possible solution. Why not have a double duvet, so there is enough hanging over both sides of the bed that I'm not so cold in the first place? It was worth a try, I decided. I collected the offered quilt cover last weekend and explored the acquisition of the quilt to go inside it. Yesterday lunchtime I found an e-mail saying that the courier had now delivered the quilt to my doorstep, so I popped home to secure it before resuming my driving duties. The first trial last night was only partially successful, but shows promise.
"In other news ..." yesterday's post brought two more items of interest. Each had been awaited for a while without a specific date for delivery, but hey! ... why not turn up along with all the rest? The first tangible preparation for my holiday has now arrived. I knew when I saw the postmark "Baile Átha Cliath" what the envelope would contain. It's my visitor's ticket to Dublin's suburban transport system, which is now sitting in my wallet, patiently awaiting the Euros that I haven't got round to ordering yet.
And the final arrival was my postal vote for the European Parliamentary Election. Although it's as yet by no means certain whether or not the MEPs we elect on 23rd May will actually take their seats, it's important that we exercise our civil right to identify who we would like to represent us at that level if given the chance to do so. So do remember to vote!
Saturday 4 May 2019
That's Not a Paintbrush in my Hand!
I once worked with a lady whose husband was an excellent amateur decorator. Not only did he keep their home immaculate, but he also did work for friends and family. His maxim was that the key to a successful job was 90% preparation and 10% perspiration!
It could be argued that that's my approach to holidays ... at least it is these days. In a way it's like living the holiday twice: once in the planning and then again in the execution. That said, I do sometimes worry that I'm overdoing it and perhaps forget that there has to be a balance between preparing against the unexpected and planning the life completely out of the expedition and removing the possibility of any spontaneity.
Anyway - for good or ill - this has been my preoccupation for the last couple of weeks or more and I daresay will be so for a few more yet. Having booked the ferry and the accommodation before Christmas, I'd parked the whole affair for some while. Then I realised that, with less than a couple of months to go, I really ought to sort out what I'm going to do when I get there. Out came the maps and the travel books. I re-jigged my trusty holiday-planning spreadsheet - yes, Excel rules in this household! - and set to work.
Inevitably some of these printed resources are a little out of date and, checking things on line (isn't it wonderful that Mr. Google is so knowledgeable!), I discovered that one place I wanted to visit in Dublin has now been closed. Fortunately there's another location on the other side of the Liffey that fills the same slot in my interest spectrum, so I attempted to book a visit. Sadly they don't open on the day I wanted to go, so my week is now re-arranged. 14 Henrietta Street is not the sort of place where you can buy a ticket and just turn up. Admission is by organised tour only; I expect there are fragile or expensive artefacts requiring visitor supervision. The next screen asked which tour I want to be booked for and that sent me scurrying back to the bus timetables. When would I get there, and how long would it take me to get across the city?
It was then that I realised that the time between arrival and leaving again wouldn't be nearly enough for me to see all I want to. This added to the uncertainty of finding somewhere to park the car for the day, having driven from my farmhouse B&B to the town to catch the bus in the first place ... not to mention the matter of security. A more flexible solution will be to drive to the outskirts of the city and use LUAS, the tram/light rail system. Conveniently there's a park-and-ride facility beside the motorway junction. Fortunately public transport is nicely integrated, so I can get a single visitor pass which will cover my use of LUAS, DART (the suburban train service, Dublin Area Rapid Transit) and the buses for the week, although I'm only planning to visit Dublin on a couple of days.
I realised that I shall gain an extra bank holiday this year as a result of my vacation: Ireland still celebrates Whit Monday, which falls in the week I'm there. Uncertain of the difference, if any, that this will make, I'm planning a visit to the western port city of Galway and, with luck, shall be able to drive right to the edge of the ocean, some 60 Km further. My 'Dublin day' was swapped with another trip to the west, to the city of Limerick, stretching along the shores of the island's greatest river, the Shannon. These two visits are yet to be planned in detail, but shouldn't pose so great a challenge as the capital.
Luckily, I noticed in time that my car has number-plates that don't incorporate the EU stars flash and GB indicator. In panic I wondered whether - not wanting to blemish the paint on the vehicle itself - there was any other alternative to getting new, conforming, plates. Luckily I was referred to another shop, where I was able to get a magnetic 'GB' plate that I can easily peel off after it has given service. I'm taking this as a good omen for the whole adventure.
It could be argued that that's my approach to holidays ... at least it is these days. In a way it's like living the holiday twice: once in the planning and then again in the execution. That said, I do sometimes worry that I'm overdoing it and perhaps forget that there has to be a balance between preparing against the unexpected and planning the life completely out of the expedition and removing the possibility of any spontaneity.
Anyway - for good or ill - this has been my preoccupation for the last couple of weeks or more and I daresay will be so for a few more yet. Having booked the ferry and the accommodation before Christmas, I'd parked the whole affair for some while. Then I realised that, with less than a couple of months to go, I really ought to sort out what I'm going to do when I get there. Out came the maps and the travel books. I re-jigged my trusty holiday-planning spreadsheet - yes, Excel rules in this household! - and set to work.
Inevitably some of these printed resources are a little out of date and, checking things on line (isn't it wonderful that Mr. Google is so knowledgeable!), I discovered that one place I wanted to visit in Dublin has now been closed. Fortunately there's another location on the other side of the Liffey that fills the same slot in my interest spectrum, so I attempted to book a visit. Sadly they don't open on the day I wanted to go, so my week is now re-arranged. 14 Henrietta Street is not the sort of place where you can buy a ticket and just turn up. Admission is by organised tour only; I expect there are fragile or expensive artefacts requiring visitor supervision. The next screen asked which tour I want to be booked for and that sent me scurrying back to the bus timetables. When would I get there, and how long would it take me to get across the city?
It was then that I realised that the time between arrival and leaving again wouldn't be nearly enough for me to see all I want to. This added to the uncertainty of finding somewhere to park the car for the day, having driven from my farmhouse B&B to the town to catch the bus in the first place ... not to mention the matter of security. A more flexible solution will be to drive to the outskirts of the city and use LUAS, the tram/light rail system. Conveniently there's a park-and-ride facility beside the motorway junction. Fortunately public transport is nicely integrated, so I can get a single visitor pass which will cover my use of LUAS, DART (the suburban train service, Dublin Area Rapid Transit) and the buses for the week, although I'm only planning to visit Dublin on a couple of days.
I realised that I shall gain an extra bank holiday this year as a result of my vacation: Ireland still celebrates Whit Monday, which falls in the week I'm there. Uncertain of the difference, if any, that this will make, I'm planning a visit to the western port city of Galway and, with luck, shall be able to drive right to the edge of the ocean, some 60 Km further. My 'Dublin day' was swapped with another trip to the west, to the city of Limerick, stretching along the shores of the island's greatest river, the Shannon. These two visits are yet to be planned in detail, but shouldn't pose so great a challenge as the capital.
Luckily, I noticed in time that my car has number-plates that don't incorporate the EU stars flash and GB indicator. In panic I wondered whether - not wanting to blemish the paint on the vehicle itself - there was any other alternative to getting new, conforming, plates. Luckily I was referred to another shop, where I was able to get a magnetic 'GB' plate that I can easily peel off after it has given service. I'm taking this as a good omen for the whole adventure.
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