AH SURE AZURE

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  • Forty Years, really?

    Forty Years, really?

    River Lee Hotel, Cork

    Forty Year Reunion  15th November 2025

    We spent three years together.

    sitting in lecture halls, standing outside waiting for the professors, sitting around styrofoam cups of coffee in the Rest, near each other, together even if not engaging.

    Ninety percent of communication is body language. We got to know who was standing beside us without looking, we knew the backs of each other’s heads from a distance of forty feet.

    We recognised a laugh across the quad and we were all equally part of what was going on, welcomed, brought up to date, , always with a laugh or a smile. because times were good. 

    We were young, ambitious, and mostly healthy. The world was our oyster. So we partied, those of us living at home envious of the students who came up from the country, who lived in flats they shared with classmates, where the parties happened.

    Twelve lectures a week, some tutorials and library study when we felt inclined, with one set of exams, at the end of the third term. 

    No contiuous assessments, no papers to be submitted mid term, just a massive cramming three weeks before and after Easter.

    We formed our groups, girls and fellas. but always fun interaction, flirting and hilarious laughter. Always the light touch to lift us out of a rainy Monday morning, we fed off the levity in the air.

    Whether from a Kerry man with an incisive sense of humour, or a Corkman stating the obvious, it was always good natured and supportive.

    This is what has lasted down the years. 

    This is the gem that refuses to fizzle out when we meet. the ready smile of interest and curiosity, when we all have forged our way in life in our various ways. This meeting changes nothing in the direction of our lives. It doesn’t threaten us, we’re all coming with different baggage and life experience. 

    What we can share is a past, a memory of times when we moved a bit quicker and the world was our oyster.

  • I Don’t give a fig about Peaches

    I Don’t give a fig about Peaches

    It’s that time of year again – fruit ripens as the summer moves slowly into Autumn. Anything that survived the onslaught of the sun seems to burst into fruit.

    Picked on my walk this morning. 

    I’ve watched this peach tree get it’s blossoms in April – before any leaves, it gets flowers- then it drinks in the sunshine all summer, until the peaches ripen around now. They’re small and many have fallen on the ground and they taste delicious.

    Peach tree

    The figs are ripe on some trees, not on others. The ones that are ripe dribble sticky juice on to your hand.

    Now I’m waiting to see whether any blackberries fatten enough to be worth picking…

  • Day 1 – Cape of Good Hope, Penguins, Hout Bay

    Day 1 – Cape of Good Hope, Penguins, Hout Bay

    Penguin colony at Simonstown

    I was met at Cape Town airport by the taxi transfer I had booked in advance, and went straight to the Victoria and Albert City Lodge. It’s being renovated so there was noise of drilling, but I slept anyway after the long travel time.

    Next morning, we assembled after breakfast to sign indemnity papers etc and finally meet our travelling companions.

    Time to introduce the cast of characters.

    First of all, the guides. Swise, the driver is a 6’ tall descendant of the Zulu tribe, unruffled and calm, clearly used to dealing with a bunch of needy clueless tourists.

    Tawanda, a Zimbabwean, is shorter than his colleague, but makes up for it with his thickset build. He talked about smiles and he has the perfect example of a broad South African hospitable face, crowned by short dreadlocks. 

    The Group;

    a Welsh couple

    a couple of stout German damen

    a German couple on their second marriage in slightly later life

    a young German couple who are on their honeymoon

    a retired English accountant

    another retired English man

    a single German female

    Me

    I had already met some of the English speaking people and we quickly realised we were in a minority! My Leaving Cert  German would have to be dredged up from the inner recesses of what passes for my brain these days.

    Thankfully there were no towels on the seats of the bus and we set out for the southern part of the Cape. 

    First stop – Hout Bay – used by English ships as a safe harbour.

    Also important for the timber that used to surround the area until the settlers cut it down for house and ship building. Manganese was a large part of the trade here at one time. Now it’s mainly cray fishing and we saw the fishing boats in the harbour. There is a fabulous beach there and I took the opportunity to paddle. The whole area is dazzlingly beautiful.

    Hout Bay Yacht Club
    Hout Bay Beach

    As we drove out of Hout Bay, a shanty town was visible to our right. 

    Tawanda drew our attention to it, referring to the two sides of South Africa- the poverty beside enormous wealth.

    The coastline is dotted with lavish homes taking advantage of the stunning views over the sea.

    Next to Simonstown to visit the colony of African penguins.

    This was cuteness overload. Wooden platforms have been built at either end of the beach to allow viewing, without disturbing these little guys.They have specially built little lairs in the undergrowth on land.

    African Penguins

    It’s unusual to have penguins in such warm areas. 

    Oh I do like to be by the seaside..

    They have adapted by cooling down via a gland above their eyes that allows them to release the heat of their bodies. They also have bare patches on their faces and hold their little flappers out from their bodies to cool down. They dive to cooler depths to lower their body temperature too, and despite all this, they are an endangered species. This is due to Man’s intervention and the depletion of guana piles that they use for breeding in. Most penguins breed on ice. These guys evolved only 2.4 million years ago, whereas their Antarctic counterparts are around for over 6 million years.

    The day was still young and we drove on to the Cape Reserve National Park.

    There , we climbed to the summit of Cape Point and down again, grabbed takeaway lunch in the restaurant and tackled the 1.5 hour trek to the Cape of Good Hope.

    Protea flower

    I will let the photos tell their own story. It was breathtaking and quite emotional when I actually got my photo taken at the Cape of Good Hope.

    It is a landmark in global sea journeys. I thought about all the explorers who passed by and also those not so lucky who were shipwrecked there, helpless in the face of the wind in the wrong direction, with no engine, GPS or radio to assist them.

    We gladly boarded the bus, exhausted, and made our way back to the city. 

    Next came a flavour of the way our days were to become action packed.

    We were given 2 hours to prepare for dinner in a restaurant with a live African band.

    We got our first flavour of African fare- kudu, Springbok and ox tongue were among the choices. An accompaniment of african beans, millet and maize was annoption, which was really a meal in itself.

    The band was amazing, totally percussion, playing Dave Brubeck’s Take Five on a wooden xylophone with a band of wooden percussion behind him. Fantastic version.

    This is a taste of what they played earlier…

  • Sweeping Southern Africa in Twenty One Days

    Sweeping Southern Africa in Twenty One Days

    Cape Town to Victoria Falls. My Itinerary

    It started with a cocktail in the tranquil setting of Domes Miramare, in the heart of South Corfu, where the date palms tower above the bamboos that lead to the sand and the blue sea stretches away allowing us to imagine and dream.

    ‘A three week tour from Cape Town to Victoria Falls, passing through the Okavango Delta – sounds marvellous’ my friend Jan said

    ‘ it does ‘ I replied ‘ I’ve only been to Africa once – Kenya- 1985…’

    (at that stage I had never heard of the Okavango Delta)

    ‘Would you be interested – really?’

    ‘Of course. Lets look more closely at the itinerary’

    And that was it. Plans were made, Deposits sent, vaccinations booked. Then disaster. Jan had a fall, leaving everything undecided while she had physiotherapy As the weeks went passed, Jan made steady progress, but not enough to allow her to travel.

    So I’m going on my own. In a group of twelve. I’ve packed already. I’m using things directly from my washbag. A real sign of excitement. The only way not to forget things.

    It’s a 21 day trip, on a lorry. The safari vehicles used by the company look a lot like lorries. They are custom built to withstand the roads of Africa and have air con, fridges and cooking stove. Large windows to allow you to get a good view. I wonder how they decide who gets to sit by the window. Maybe it’s rotated.

    My first leg of the journey is to get to Athens. From there I take a four hour plane ride to Doha, thence to Cape town on a nine hour forty five minute minute leg. Basically, we fly the whole length of Africa. What an enormous continent to say it takes almost half a day to fly over. That’s overnight tonight so I’ll be wearing my eye mask and hoping to get some sleep. It’s fun to think I won’t be driving a car for three weeks.

    Our vehicle for the next three weeks.
    Weaver Bird’s nest

    So follow along with me, and let me share my discoveries along the way. I’ll be finding out more about the bird who makes this nest and why and how if it’s not perfect, the female refuses to use it and the male must start again.

    Me at 2am in Doha en route to Cape Town

    View from my room V and A City Lodge at Waterfront Cape Town
  • Barchetta Day

    Barchetta Day

    A day of touring out of season on the exquisite Island of Corfu.

    The Island is one full of ex pats. Dutch, American, German, English and even a few Irish. The winter is the secret time when all year rounders come out to play. When the roads are clear of hire cars, when the beaches have no more sunbeds and the olive trees are laden with fruit, peace invades the land.

    Where to Madam?

    The mountains are still spectacular, the trees still mostly green and one in fifty tavernas are still open. We can put our noses out, like Moley in the Wind in the Willows after a winter of hibernation, and breathe clear, cool air once more.

    In between the parties, christenings and the get togethers, my neighbour offers her car for a trip around the island. A Fiat Barchetta, no less, one of the few hand made cars, before robots took their place in the assembly line. A nhttp://fiat.barchettaeat roadster convertible.

    My Greek boyfriend nearly faints at the thought, thinking back to the days when he drove one himself. I get a message early in the morning to say it has started, a minor miracle as it’s not taken out much and the battery gets run down.

    We dash up and get hold of the key. My other half is struggling to get into it with the roof in place.

    -How could I do this when I was forty? he groans.

    We wrap up with woolly hats and jackets, figure out the roof procedure and the engine roars.

    On our faces are plastered large smiles, as the air rushes past and the low slung car hugs the road. We feel like tourists.Once or twice the car refuses to start first time, but it always obliges in the end.

    We chose the coast road, with the sea to our right, still and azure as ever it was on a calm summer’s day. We explore a couple of deserted resorts – picture perfect villages with their jetties empty, the tavenas deserted. When we drive all the way to the end of the pier and then slightly off it, on to more uneven ground, it is explained to me that Barchetta is the Italian word for a small boat, so it’s only normal to bring it as close to the water as possible. My panicked face breaks into a smile again and we retrace our steps up out of the village.

    At Kanoni, Church of Vlacherna with Pontikonissi – Mouse Island in the background

    Then along the north coast, stopping for a grill lunch of souvlaki and beer, then on again this time down the island through the mountain range where we see over to the west side and then slide down, down to the central plain and home. Hugging our neighbour in thanks for an exquisite day driving a true touring car that hugged the bends from sea level to 75 metres above in this concertina of an island.

    Still high on the fresh air, we add a new phrase to our vocabulary – a Barchetta Day.

    We love Corfu
  • At Sea in the Ionian

    At Sea in the Ionian

    It’s never too late, no matter what they say about old dogs.

    The first time I took out my boat, I was a nervous wreck, eventhough I had two friends to crew with me. I sat drinking coffee looking over the jetty, while a Swiss couple encouraged me.

    -you will take it out yourself soon-

    This was the farthest thing from my mind as I noticed my two friends arriving, coolbags in tow.

    I nervously introduced everyone and then we abruptly left, the Swiss insisting on standing me the coffee. I tried and failed to relax as we settled on to the boat, and I went through the written out procedure for starting the engine. The throttle was slow to respond, so the rope holding the bow had well and truly sank by the time we moved for ward. I inched out of the berth and past the hundreds of assorted boats, power boats, sailboats and then the superyachts, tied up at the farthest jetty.

    The adrenaline was pumping until we got out into the bay and I was able to take a deep breath. We put out a fishing line and caught a tuna first time, the only one of the summer,as it turned out.

    The following week, I was swept along by my friend from Dublin, let’s call her the Dynamo, who showed me the ropes , literally. We sailed the channel from Kassiopi to Benitses, until , passing Corfu town, I said to her- let me take down the sails and steer. I pointed the boat into the wind and when the sails were in and we were motoring up the channel again, I glanced at the Dynamo. She was smiling from ear to ear with satisfaction at her pupil doing so well.

    So the seeds were set. The day the Dynamo left, my eyes scanned the marina to add to the stash of enthusiastic crew. I noticed a sailor heading out on his own, standing tall at the back of his 34′ yacht, so I interrupted his meditations at the bow of his boat one day and asked him how he learned to sail alone.

    He’s a man of few words, and with a strong South African accent he said- Next time I go to Sayada, you come with me in your boat.-

    And so, the following week, I was given an hour’s notice, to leave on a trip south. I stocked up on food, water and for the first time, I slipped my lines myself.

    The fish that were follwing me…

  • The European Project

    The European Project

    The ideal of a United States of Europe was born of a need to control the supply of Coal and Steel, used to make military weapons. The original name is ECSC or European Coal and Steel Community, and was the brainchild of French and German thinkers and leaders, Jean Monnet and Konrad Adenauer, who wanted to make sure there was never another World War. It tunrned out the Atom bomb became the real deterrent, but the ECSC moved in the direction of economic union.

    When Ireland joined in 1972, our Western seaboard was one of the poorest parts of Europe, along with Greece and parts of the south of Italy. How things have changed for Ireland. Standards of living having soared and the country ranks high among the developed nations.

    Brexit coincided with me leaving Ireland for another European country, Greece. The largest number of non Greeks here are British. Very few realised Ireland would not leave the EU when the UK left. It left me with a mixture of disbelief and some anger that our nearest neighbours, and the ones that felt inclined to travel, who you would think had more broadened minds, appreciated so little about British domination of Ireland.

    I became a little notorious for saying ‘there’s no such thing as Southern Ireland ‘ when asked whether I was from Northern or Southern Ireland. Most people just thought I was mad, but some loved the idea of being challenged to think the thing through and enjoyed the banter. I have toned it down a bit now, and I’ve begun to see myself more as a European.

    The body language of Ursula van den Leyn showing Boris where to stand – away from her -at the press conference when they failed to reach agreement, speaks volumes. It were as if she was dealing with a child who needed to be indulged, She was distancing herself from him in more ways than one. Britain will now be just another country, with no special status in Europe.

    What is it in the British psyche that won’t allow it to be one of the lads? Why do they always have to be one cut above? It’s a trend that seems to be led from the higher echelons of society, not the man in the street, who it seems is sick of the idea of Brexit and feels conned. Their beloved holdays in Spain will never be the same. The dreams of a house on a Greek island take on a legion of difficulties and I haven’t met one Brit out here who wants to leave the Union. Most of them are trying to get Irish passports.

    I’m very proud to be Irish. We tend to pick up the Greek language better, having learned a second language from our first day at school and this lends a strong sense of identity. It’s all made me feel incredibly lucky to be Irish and to be here. Or should I say to be European and to be here.

  • A Human Apology?

    A Human Apology?

    A glance, an incline of the head would do. A slight acknowledgement of his existence, would have made all the difference. Ivor’s wife is in the final stages of cancer through misdiagnosis by the State’s Health system. His children are at home, savouring every moment left to them with their beloved mother. He travelled alone to the court hearing to hear the Health Service’s apology to him and his family for their part in the indescribable grief inflicted on them.

    At the end of his wretched journey to the State’s capital, he sat alone in the court. The judge and his registar sat on their elevated seats, the barristers sat facing the judge, busy solicitors concentrated on their papers or scrolled their phone screens.

    The barrister adressed the court, bewigged and shrouded in a black cloak. ‘My client regrets the pain and suffering inflicted on the family. They wish to make a full and formal apology’ . His well- educated tones carried well in the courtroom. Then it was over.

    They folded their files and left. Was that for me ? for my family ? Ivor thought. Is this what I travelled here for? To watch a costumed functionary deliver a form of words to a judge? Bewildered, he gathered his coat and made his way back to his car and retraced his steps homeward.

    Later he got to tell his tale on national radio. How many others have gone through this dehumanising experience of being utterly ignored by a person so hardened to human suffering that to look you in the eye as you apologised would seem like a form of weakness? Regretably, this form of callousness is fostered and admired among the legal world. ‘Professionalism’ its called by some. But surely, part of professionalism is compassion.

    Oscar Wilde, in ‘De Profundis’, describes how a man lifted his hat to him as he walked handcuffed between two policemen in to the bankruptcy court. ‘Men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that,’ is how he described this small gesture of humanity. He wrote heartwrenchingly about the depths of despair he suffered while in jail.;

    ‘ Prosperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things.  There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation.  The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse.  It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.

    Would that the ‘hand of love’ had touched Ivor, in our so-called enlightened age of kindness and compassion.

  • Tuneful Tine

    Tuneful Tine

    Scavenging on Ipsos beach today I came across dried bamboos washed up by the tide. Adding them to the fire as kindling tonight, I was surprised at the tune they played as the air rushed through. No wonder they’re used as instruments all over the world.

    Instruments have come on a lot since the basic tube with holes. My neighbour in Ireland took up wood turning during covid and produced this chanter for a set of Uileann Pipes . Made with Maple wood and his first attempt, he sent me this picture today. And he can knock a fair old tune out of the pipes too

    No matter where you go, your roots call to you. The Irish language word for a fire is Tine. Calls to mind the word tines for the points on a fork. But completely unrelated I would think despite the relationship to music.

    Uileann is the Irish word for elbow, used to produce the air for the pipes just like bagpipes. The coordination necessary to move your elbow while playing with both hands on the chanter is bewildering. The sound can be incredibly lonesome or full of joy as a dance tune.

    And the fire lit in record time with the dried bamboo. Such an extraordinary plant -a member of the grass family, it spreads just like grass and grows to an enormous size in Corfu.

  • Concrete and Conservation

    Concrete and Conservation

    When you find yourself on the other side of the globe to your only son, -me in Corfu and him in New Zealand, you give thanks for modern technology that allows you daily chats.

    His work on vast concrete projects involves drastic changes to the landscape as roads are rolled out and huge foundations are dug out and filled with many tons of concrete for tall buildings.The tensions between progress and preservation, making people lives better and ruining ways of life, is never more stark.

    I’ve chosen to live on an island prized for its natural beauty and exotic flora and fauna. Our chat this morning was about damming either end of a stream and draining the middle to allow a construction project to go ahead. One of his duties yesterday, was to listen to a talk on water filtering so that the drained water was uncontaminated when it was allowed back into the water system.

    Before that, however, all the fish and reptiles had been removed. There’s a company that moves reptiles to new habitats. There’s a company that moves fish to new habitats. Halleluiah! Someone cares. The NZ authorities care enough to enforce these regulations and require their contruction conglomerates to employ Health and Safety officers on a range of topics to provide real education to the guys on the ground.

    It feels good to know that far away, on the other side of the globe, the Earth is being cared for in such an enlightened, detailed way. This is the good news for today. You won’t hear it broadcast on any Media channel. It seems like Good News don’t sell.

    Sweet Chestnuts in Corfu

  • Protest as an Effective Means of Change?

    Protest as an Effective Means of Change?

    Resisting something makes you focus on it. It draws you in to it and makes you focus on something you don’t like. Like not using AI. Like becoming incensed when Windows takes over your operating system. It’s a kinetic relationship and you become closer to and more focused on what you don’t like or what you object to.

    Like painting a banner and standing in the street. You become part of the thing you object to. The thing you’re objecting to becomes more objectionable because you can’t change it. Yet you continue to stand, to object, to become a pillar of resistance that won’t relent until someone else does something.

    And that is the key. Waiting for someone else to do something is never a recipe for success. There has to be action. I have observed Democrat objectors all across the USA standing with banners, with slogans they thought up that they believe are saying something. ‘No Kings’ – what does that mean?

    It takes a couple of thought processes to realise it means that Donald Trump thinks he’s a king, but we’re saying he’s not. But the fact is, noone thinks Donald Trump is a king.Unless the protesters do. In some strange way, they are conferring kingship on him which I’m sure is not their aim at all.

    As for action, we wait for Democrats to publish a policy manifesto that will inspire people. We wait for a leader to come forward who will unite people. But all we get is resistance. It’s a bit adolescent to be still standing up to your elders. And Donald Trump is the first to sniff this out. It’s called weakness. and he pounces on it like a cat all over a mouse.

    The ideal of peaceful resistance, starting with Ghandi, and continued with the Civil Rights movement in the USA, is a wonderful thing. But it’s not the same as the defeated party in an election garnering consolation by massive demonstrations, saying little except they don’t like the government. Be a party in opposition. Pull up your big boy pants and knock on the door of your congressman – create real action instead of familiarizing yourself with what you don’t like. Put your focus on where you want to be instead of bemoaning the status quo.

  • LIVING IN A SMALL SPACE Reflections on Control

    Moving from a one hundred square metre space to one of forty square metre is exciting. It’s a pretty, cheerful studio with everything one needs. A TV infront of the bed, washing machine next to the sink and a neat mini oven and hob tucked in behind the bathroom door. It’s like being away for the weekend.

    Meanwhile the renovation of the one hundred square metre space is ongoing. Walls are pulled down and the bathroom is deconstructed. Bits lie all over the garden like shrapnel from a bombing. Rubble lies on the floor and the workers take off for the weekend.

    My heart is still in that place and the rubble is lying on my atria, my ventricle is covered in dust. My grazed persona calls the men to please clean up. They do, sweeping through the place with the force of a small army.

    Why is this so stressful? Not living there at present should give me distance and the ability to wait. But I dwell in the present. I don’t have the ability to see or to trust that this place will be cleaned. It will be built back up again, it will be renovated. But for now, it’s a grey dusty place that my personality won’t allow me to see as temporary.

    I look at kitchen plans through dull eyes with a distressed spirit. Yes’ that’s fine, that will do’ is my default. My friends pings me with another Pinterest idea. She’s American and passionate about ‘makeovers’. She jolts me into action with the effectiveness of an electric shock. Her vision is contagious. we see sunken 1960s kitchens, luxurious wooden floors and underfloor heating. My workers see laminate and heaters on the walls.

    Then I miss sitting out, watching the sun rise in the mornings. My studio begins to feel like a prison. I wake up with an urge to get out every day and gallivant in cafes. but even this wish is thwarted because I have to tour the plumbers shops, wander the electrical cooperative and order skips. Then they arrive in the evening, just when I’m breathing out and swtiching on a film. ‘Ela Katerina’, I hear from downstairs, or a knock on the door reminds me the work is only starting.

    All elements of control of my life have vanished down the bathroom sink that now lies in a landfill. There are bright moments, when the guy in the plumbing coop spends two hours patiently going through the steps to creating a bathroom. He gently corrects me if I say somenthing about the sink style – that’s the next step- Oh, I say, of course – that’s the next step. He shows me the glossly tiles, assures me they will be safe and listens with a poker face when I say I want the taps in the middle of the bath in case – you know- noone likes the tap end.

    I reflect on how nice it is to have all this attention paid to my needs and taste. I still can’t see it, though. It’s like homesickness – you think the distressed stage will never end. Is it an inability to see a future? It’s like having your senses cut off so you’re disconnected from the earth and the seasons.

    Renovations here in Greece move with the seasons. As the weather improves, as Easter approaches, magic happens. No wonder the Sun God was worshipped. Stuff happens when he shines and casts his blessing. Meanwhile, we go on thinking we’re in control.

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