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Get those pesky ancestors off my back

Writing.ie | Member Blog

Deirdre Conroy

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It’s true what those gazillionaire writers like Stephen King and Jeffrey Archer say, you MUST write every day. It’s almost two weeks since I’ve written about Dublinlandlady and I’m already rusty. It’s not that I haven’t written anything at all, it’s just that I went for an escape to the Midlands last week and came up with all sorts of great material, then I was told I couldn’t write about it. That’s hardly fair, as I ended up at a druid ritual on the sacred hill with the spirit whisperer, thinking it would be an interesting experience, so they should have told me beforehand.

 

Signature Roast Fish and Vegetables

Racquel came with me to visit dear rallyracer/pilot/farmer Godfrey, we brought him the makings of fish supreme (my new made-up dish without help from a cookbook) and buxom fillet steak. 

 

With #heatwave going on it was all pretty tables in dappled sunlight beneath ancient oaks, the hum of tractors turning hay in the surrounding fields. We couldn’t wait to meet the other surprise guests. Sitting outside the kitchen on a step in the yard, with our aprons on, having a cigarette, we possibly looked like scullery maids. It was my turn to cook first, it looked colourful and all that, but could have done with a string of butlers to carry stuff from the kitchen. The other man and woman were a bit of a mystery, not a lot going on by way helping, shall we say. It wasn’t until I was penning an article in the wi-fi stables next morning that I got the lowdown from ‘the man’ who said he was a clairvoyant. I was wondering what was sapping my energy these days, I thought it was the three horsemen of the Troika, Auntie Austerity and latterly #heatwave, but apparently it’s my own ancestors hanging around sucking the life out of me until I tell them to feck off.

 

Racquel took time off from sunbathing that evening and got her steaks sizzling with the help of sultry Sebastian, that’s his real name (because he’s a Wwoofer* and he’ll never read this). He’s a 22 year old French lad doing time on the farm and practicing his English. As he was the same age as our sons, there was inevitable mothering, ie. *can you help me with this heavy tray of wine/beer/cider*, *can you wash the potatoes* (we’d dug them), *can you load the dishwasher*. Another dear friend, ski-buddy and Leinster follower, Demelza, joined us. She’s a strawberry blonde and vivacious raconteuse, I never knew that the Belgian government bought land in Meath and settled their impoverished farmers there, who in turn introduced *superior* farming methods in the area. Some fascinating re-zoning has taken place in recent years. Now that’s a story I look forward to hearing more about.

 

The steakfest definitely won the day, the spirit whisperer professed it as the meal he would request as his last one, Racquel muttered *I can arrange that*. Did I mention the priestess was a vegetarian? Never mind.

 

Worn out chefs

And, lest my ancestors are still hanging around, because I’m still waiting for the refreshed, energised me, I will say no more about the assembly of fifteen around the fire on the sacred hill and the painful sting of the nettles when I sat down and sank my hand in them, nor will I mention that standing on uneven ground for two hours is not good for a torn ligament or meditation. I told S.W. if there were still four ancestors hanging on the next morning I wanted my money back. Needless to say, Racquel refused to go. Godfrey’s mother passed away the morning we were leaving. He had many friends around him and it was long expected, you’ve got to admire her timing.

 

*World Wide Organic Farmers

 

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