At the first Spring meeting of the Ratheniska Coven, Myrtle, whose application for membership had just been accepted the previous Autumn brought up the issue of two-tier Coven membership. She noticed the different coloured name badges on the members. Her own was green for example whereas Miss Agatha’s was a gleaming gold. All members of the Coven paid the same membership dues. “Chairman, I was curious about the fact that some of our members wear gold coloured name badges and others wear green. Surely, we are a small enough group that we don’t need name badges at all unless we attend convention or invite in outsiders,” she said when invited to speak. Miss Agatha cleared her throat, “Well, Myrtle, some of us are native to this place and we know better what is best for the community than more recent arrivals, so naturally our opinion is more valuable and carries greater weight in decisions making regarding Coven activities” said Agatha with a tight little smile as she looked at Myrtle over the rim of her glasses.
Myrtle was stunned, “surely proposals are accepted on merit regardless of the source?” “Of course, it’s just that proposals from the native born usually have greater merit. And the next item on the agenda is a fundraiser for earthquake refugees. Ideas anyone?” Myrtle was slack-jawed and speechless at that reply, but anyone who knew Myrtle knew that she wouldn’t be for long, the way she flicked her pencil back and forth indicating a tension that would lead to action, but she said nothing further that night. After the usual tea and biscuits that closed their meeting, Myrtle made her way back to the 1.5-million-euro mansion she had built locally and looked up a list of all the recent arrivals to the locality and their numbers. She certainly wasn’t going to allow the old brigade to dictate policy on community affairs to her!
Agatha watched her leave the meeting that evening and something about the way Myrtle walked told her that there was trouble afoot and she called after Beatrice, “just wait a minute, dear, there is something I’d love to discuss with you,” as Beatrice was donning her cloak and preparing to leave. Beatrice cocked her head, raised her eyebrows but put her broom aside and sat down again. “What?” “It’s that woman, Myrtle, who does she think she is? Questioning the way we do business here? That’s some nerve for a newcomer! Who proposed her for membership, I’d like to know!”
‘Well, I did warn you dear, that those coloured name tags were provocative, after all, those blow-ins pay the same subscription as ourselves.”
“Never mind that now, what are we going to do to clip that one’s wings!” Said Agatha. Beatrice just raised her eyebrows, picked up her broom and left.
In the meantime, Myrtle was busy contacting every other newcomer and canvassing them regarding the injustice of the two-tier membership system and asking for their vote for the position of Coven Chair in the upcoming elections, promising that the first thing she would change was that insulting two-tier system. They all seemed enthusiastic for the change and Myrtle went to bed happy, encouraged by the support and confident that she had enough votes to carry the day. The next meeting wasn’t due for four weeks and she thought she had the matter sorted.
But Agatha was busy also, meeting up with the old native daughters of Ratheniska outside the chapel on Sunday, she reminded them that there was very little work from the newcomers for the community efforts that mattered, such as the youth club volunteering, community hall maintenance, graveyard upkeep, chapel cleaning, and yet they were in charge of most committees in the locality. By the time she finished speaking, most were in agreement that it would be a shame if the last bastion of native influence, the Local Coven were to fall to the control of a newcomer. So, Agatha called a meeting for the following Wednesday night, and somehow forgot to inform Myrtle. She proposed a change of constitution for the Ratheniska Coven. She proposed that only members in good standing for over ten years were eligible for the offices of Chair, Secretary or Treasurer and as it happened, it was passed unanimously. Needless to say, Myrtle heard about the matter within the hour, such was the efficiency of the bush telegraph in Ratheniska.
Agatha was delighted but surprised at the ease with which this motion passed and wondered was there something going on that she was unaware of. The answer was presented to her when she went to collect her grandchild at the school gate some days later. She overheard one of the mothers discussing the local news. The woman was just saying that there was a new group starting in the parish which she proposed joining – the Ratheniska Womanly Witches Society as the Ratheniska Coven was too much of an old hags’ group for her! And guess who had started that group? Yes, you’re right, none other than Miss Myrtle. Agatha just shook her head — outwitted by a blow-in, oh, the shame of it!
Myrtle was delighted with the attendance at her inaugural meeting of the Ratheniska Womanly Witches Society, which was held during the Under Elevens football training on Sunday morning, a welcome excuse to come in from the cold on the sidelines of the football pitch and help themselves to a hot drink in the community hall kitchen. “Welcome, ladies, to the first meeting of our society,” said Myrtle as she passed around the clipboard for signatures, “as you know we are here to form another and more up to date and relevant witches’ group than the Ratheniska Coven, not replace them, mind you, age still has its value, of course, but that group just doesn’t meet the needs of the younger community members and their families. So, without further ado let us proceed to the election of officers.”

Business attended to, Myrtle went off home after the meeting, pleased as punch with herself, only to find a letter on the mat inside her door. It was addressed to Ms. Myrtle, Chair of the Ratheniska, Womanly Witches Society. Myrtle felt a frisson of excitement at being so addressed and tore open the envelope. It was from the CEO of the DAA, and it read:

Dear Ms. Myrtle,
I got your details from Ms. Agatha of the Ratheniska Coven as the person most likely to be able to help us in our present dilemma. Dublin Airport has been shut down repeatedly in the last few months with unauthorised drones flying in the vicinity of the airport. The transport minister doesn’t seem to be able to deal with the matter in the short term, he’s too busy dealing with pileups in the cycle lanes. Could you and your ladies come to our aid?
Yours faithfully,
CEO of DAA

Myrtle was aghast, the group had an offer of employment which they were in no position to respond to, none of her group had as yet taken even a preliminary course in broom flying, she had hoped that their first assignment might be something simple like making honey and lavender drinks for the elderly, but here they were, being asked to save the nation from the embarrassment of being the only country in Europe who hadn’t made plans to tackle this menace. Myrtle made herself a cup of tea while she considered her options, eventually her patriotic spirit won the day and she swallowed her pride and brought the letter to Agatha’s house.
“Agatha, something has come up and I’d value your help,” she said as soon as she accepted Agatha’s offer of a seat while she made the tea.

“Oh, I doubt if I’d have anything useful to offer, so old-fashioned as I am,” said Agatha with a smirk.

“It’s the DAA, they’re looking for help dealing with the drone menace,” said Myrtle.
“Ah a nice modern problem, just up your alley I’d imagine.”

“Well actually, no, none of our ladies have got their broom flying licenses yet. And I was hoping you could help us,”
“How exactly?” Agatha asked.
“Well, come with us and intercept those drones, of course,” said Myrtle,
“And what exactly will your ladies be doing while we do all the work?” Asked Agatha.
“Well, we could report the successful conclusion of the operation to the DAA, couldn’t we?” Said Myrtle.
“Only if you can actually conclude the work, I’d say”
“So, you won’t help us then?”
“Well, I certainly won’t do your work and leave you take the credit, Myrtle.”
“I was sure you would be more public spirited about this.”
“I believe you would be best to contact the DAA and let them know that you are unable to help on this occasion, and you are handing the matter over to more experienced practitioners.”
Myrtle gritted her teeth, she didn’t think Agatha would be quite so bloody minded as to rub her nose in it like this, she seemed like such a sweet little lady when she first met her. But she knew she had to put the country’s interest before her ego.
Her shoulders sagged as she whispered “right so.”
Agatha hid an evil little smile behind her tea cup as she thought, “ah yes, age and cunning beats youth and enthusiasm every time.”

The Witches of Dysart Parish 

           If you take the Timahoe road out of Portlaoise, after about three miles you come to a turn where the road rises, and just there if you glance upwards and to the left you may see the majestic tower of the ruin of Old Dysart Church. And if you decide to explore that ruin, and stand beneath the tower, and look out at the stunning vista before you, take a deep breath of the pure air scented by the wild flowers in the meadow, and you will wonder why people could ever have abandoned this site.

           Miss Sophia is one of the few people who could tell you that story. Sophia was a petite, anxious, elderly little Witch who lives a cottage nearby and every time she looks up at that ruin her heart breaks a little, because all Witches carry their foremothers’ memories in their hearts so she knows about Dysart’s  glory days when it was the hub of the local community’s commerce and social life. And she knows what happened there.

          So on that bright September morning, as she sipped her morning coffee and caught sight of that ruin again she felt she had to do something about that sad derelict looking site, but couldn’t think what, so she decided to pay her old friend, Miss Beatrice, the Chair of the local Coven a visit, as she rarely acted without the blessing of her friend. So, after breakfast, she reversed her  broom out the door of her cottage and flew over the hill to Ratheniska.

          Sophia parked her broom against the holly bush in Beatrice’s garden, brushed up against the lavender growing near the back door and with a light tap on the back door she entered with a cheery “it’s only me.” She smiled as she drank in the smell of baking. Tall, stately Beatrice, was a gifted baker, and usually made her scones at this hour. With a warm smile the hospitable Beatrice, invited her to sit down while she boiled the kettle for tea and scones. “Thank you,  Beatrice, that would be lovely,” said Sophia and she took a seat at the kitchen table, and  while Beatrice made the tea,  she took a deep breath and started, “You know, I woke up this morning, thinking about Dysart and wondered what we might do …”. 

          “Oh, for goodness sake, Sophia, just let it go, there is nothing that can be done to restore that place!” interrupted  Beatrice, putting the tea pot down with a thump, annoyed that Sophia was spoiling her lovely morning by harping on about Dysart yet again.

         Sophia, was a natural people pleaser, but her feeling about Dysart were such that she just couldn’t let things rest there, but she gave a pained smile and took a sip of her tea, and waited for Beatrice to take the scones out of the oven before she continued, “but we’ve got to do something, Beatrice, we haven’t had a day’s good luck since that Church was abandoned and the Sisterhood scattered. The strange goings on in the world today could all be related to that—Brexit, Trump, Boris, Climate change, the Hadron Collider…” 

           “Oh for heavens sake, Sophia, I never heard anything so ridiculous! Where on earth did you come by such a notion?” Beatrice  interrupted again, sharp enough this time. Sophia was hurt by Beatrice’s attitude, but didn’t argue with her old friend. She had always assumed that Beatrice felt the same as she did about making Dysart great again. Well, she would have to revise her opinion about that! Still she saw no point in arguing about it this early in the morning! She would just have to change her plans and look for other allies to restore the fortunes of that old ruin. So in her usual honeyed voice she changed the topic and said, “Just think, it’s that time of year again, the local music festival is in town. Are you going to the Electric Picnic, by any chance?”  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the thought occurred to her: “of course, the Electric Picnic, that’s  where I might find descendants of the original Dysart Coven!”

         A frisson of excitement washed through Sophia as she drank her tea, a plan was evolving in her head, but she maintained a gentle flow of local gossip while as she and Beatrice enjoyed their morning tea and scones. Afterwards she waved Beatrice goodbye and  let herself out the way she came in, helping herself to a few lavender flowers before getting on her broom and flying back to her cottage. 

        This was Sophia’s plan: she would go to the Music festival, seek out descendants of the original Dysart coven and rally them in a campaign to restore that old Dysart. How she would recognise them or how she would rally them to her cause she had no plan for that. She was sure something would occur to her. Anyway, she prepared for an evening of music and fun and headed over to Stradbally that evening.

          Sophia tingled with excitement as she alighted from her broom at the Festival, in the cool breeze that Friday evening. The beat of the music, the laughter of the revellers with their brightly painted faces and scanty clothes, swaying to the music, all added to the alcohol- fuelled festival atmosphere. She almost glided along on an air of euphoria soaking up the atmosphere when suddenly her attention was caught by the sight of a Witches Wagon in the field. “Bingo” she thought “I’ve hit the jackpot” but as she got closer, and read the billboard outside this wagon, she stopped in her tracks. It read; “Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble etc…”  A typical 17th century Witches spell, in short!  Nowadays, of course, Witches took the Wiccan equivalent of the Hippocratic oath, all spells were for good and they ended them with the words “…and this be done that it harm no one,” so seeing something as malevolent sounding as this was quite a surprise.

          Sophia’s curiosity got the better of her and she entered the wagon. She gasped when she saw who was inside, a Witch with the Blanche Deformity! The very image of Blanche of Loughteague with the mark of the stocks on her feet! Witches never forget what happened to their foremothers. It’s imprinted on their hearts, and all local Witches knew the story of Blanche of Loughteague. Sophia clutched at her neck with fright and felt weak and dizzy as  the events of that awful day in 1769 started playing out in her head as though it was happening in the present. Holding on to a bar in the wagon, she managed to stop herself from falling as  in her mind’s eye she could see Blanche of Loughteague as she had been on that frightful day, imprisoned in the stocks outside Dysart church!  And the look on the faces of all the Sisterhood, terrified of opening their mouths, no one stepping forward to support Blanche! 

         Sophia could feel the  eyes of the witch in front of her boring through her skull, her knees jellied and she could no longer support herself as she sank to the ground of the wagon and she felt herself transported back in time to 1769. “Do you remember it, Sophia, remember it all, everything that happened to Blanche” said the witch and tears came to Sophia’s eyes at the memory of all Blanche’s suffering, and her cheeks burned with shame. How could the sisterhood have allowed it to happen without as much as a protest? She tried to open her mouth to protest “but they were different times, and who are you anyway?” But no sound came, it was as though she was trapped back in the eighteenth century and the trauma of the events around young Blanche of Loughteague was happening right here and right now. As she lay on the floor of the caravan, her surroundings changed and she could see only Dysart with its cottages and hovels and the Church standing proud on the hill. She could see Blanche, her hair wild and the sound of her wailing piercing the air, being dragged to the stocks outside the church.

        And what was Blanche’s crime?- she had buried her dead baby in the Dysart Church grounds without paying the £5 fee to the vicar! How shameful not to have supported a Sister in those circumstances.

                Pretty, vivacious Blanche was widowed when her husband died following a fall from a horse, leaving his wife and baby son almost destitute. The Sisterhood of the Parish sympathized and supported as best they could and Blanche managed fairly well until her little boy John, contracted Typhoid fever. Doctoring back then was done by Sophia’s foremother, another Sophia, a stout, elderly lady who was skilled with herbs and healing and Blanche turned to her for help. Sophia came and did her best, but baby John passed away to his mother’s inexpressible grief.

                Now, in 1768, the year prior to the baby’s death the Parish Vestry Committee agreed to the vicar’s request that a 5£ fee be levied on anyone wanting burial for their loved ones in Dysart.

 Poor folk couldn’t afford this but naturally wanted their loved ones to rest in hollowed ground so they buried their dead at night under cover of darkness, but the anger and humiliation at having to resort to this was keenly felt.  Local women, who thought that the fee was unjust, helped the mourners as much as they could, by providing food and  lookout for the church warden. They also helped dig the grave, and these ladies also came to help Blanche in her grief. 

            And so the women of Dysart Parish accompanied Blanche up Dysart hill, softly chanting their ancient lament as  they carried  the corpse of little John wrapped in an old cloak on a cold dark night. Blanche carried with her thirteen crocus bulbs which she intended planting on her baby’s  grave.

          They dug the grave close to the tower and John’s little body, wrapped in the cloak was gently laid in the cold earth, the women covered it with the freshly dug clay and Blanche, pale and grieving,  thrust her cold hands into the earth and  planted those bulbs, on that cold moonlit night.

The group silently dispersed, old Sophia accompanied Blanche back to her cottage, a witness to the young woman’s distress and devastation.

           Next morning, the Church Warden opened the Church as usual and saw the freshly dug  grave, and thought, “Here’s another one avoiding the  5£ charge!” and filled with righteous indignation  he resolved to sort out the matter once and for all.  So he set off to the vicarage to report the matter. 

           The vicar was a greedy man, his big red nose spoke to his love of good food and brandy. It was he who had insisted on the 5£ charge as a necessary fund-raiser to support his lifestyle. He was disgusted at the Warden’s tale. “Well, this time we’ll catch them and this time they’ll pay”, he said to the Warden through clenched teeth and he instructed the Warden to erect the old stocks outside the tower of the Church. This old fashioned instrument of punishment and public humiliation had long been discontinued by the Parish as cruel and unjustified.

             As they entered the church the following Sunday the congregation were surprised to see the stocks outside, but took their places in the pews never the less. The service commenced but when it came time for the vicar to deliver his sermon he took his place behind the lectern, and instead of the usual commentary on the Gospel, he thundered, “Someone in this congregation has cheated me of my 5£ fee, and others have colluded with that person! I believe the women of the Parish with their misguided soft-heartedness have allowed my authority to be flouted in this disgraceful manner. Proceed Warden and dig up that grave,” and he pointed to the freshly dug grave beside the wall of the tower.

          And with that Blanche, who had come to church that morning seeking solace for her aching heart, shot out of her seat and flung herself on the grave of her baby, screaming “no, no don’t touch him, leave him be.” She was grabbed by two members of the parish council, and dragged out of the Church and put in the stocks still begging the warden to stop and leave her baby alone. And the women of the parish, to their eternal shame, kept silent and uttered not a word of protest. Not so much as a murmur.

           These memories flooded poor Sophia as she lay helpless on the caravan floor at the Musical Festival in 2019 and she  had no control over the intensity of the images of that awful day in 1769.  She pressed her hands to her temples to try and suppress them, but the memories  heat coming. She tried to shout stop as she the sound of the shovels pummelled the ears as the grave was dug up until the corpse of the baby was exposed and grasped with big rough hands and flung out to land near the stocks but just out of Blanche’s reach.

           And Sophia could hear Blanche’s  screams as she writhed, locked in those stocks in a desperate attempt to reach her child’s body, while the preacher sneered at her and snarled, “there will be no resting place here for your little  bastard!” and with that he made ready to leave the church,  mounting his horse which was tethered to a nearby hazel tree  and he rode away. The congregation slinked away in silence, leaving Blanche alone.

          And then the scene changed to starry night in Sophia’s mind’s eye and she could see several Dysart women return to the scene and release Blanche. They found her demented and disoriented with grief and hatred. Babbling, Blanche picked up the body of her child, and gently cradled him and then she  hobbled away,  down the hill towards the Derry road, the stocks having distorted her feet enough to leave her with a slight limp, a deformity. But as she limped away she screamed at the women huddled under their shawls and cursed their cowardice.

          It was at the threshold of the cold season that Blanche left Dysart, carrying her belongings, and the corpse of he baby, and as she left, she vowed trouble and strife on the women of the Parish and on Dysart itself until those  women learned courage.

         The ghastly scene faded from Sophia’s mind, her breathing slowed and gradually she reorientated herself to the surroundings in the wagon. But she knew what happened in Dysart subsequent to Blanche’s departure. Her grandmother had told her. How the women had gathered up the crocus bulbs, given them to Sophia who planted them in her gardens in memory of Blanche, how they never bloomed. And she knew that for years after the traumatic event, the women involved : Aurora, Abigail, Amelia, Charlotte, Clarissa, Clementine, Dorothy, Edith, Georgette, Harriet, Marjorie, and Beatrice used to gather in the parlour of her fore-mother’s cottage for a “sewing circle” afternoon to discuss what happened.

          As they sat around the table with their needlework, they each spoke of their sorrow and shame  at being unable to stand up for young  Blanche, how they felt oppressed by the Vicar’s influence and authority. “Look at us, we all know why we are here really but we pretend to be having a ‘sewing circle’, instead of just calling a meeting like men would do!” exclaimed Sophia.

 “Will we ever be able to take our rightful place in affairs of Church and State I wonder?!”  And with that Old Sophia produced the crocus bulbs and gave one to each of them. She told them that she had planted them yearly to no avail, that she believed that Blanche had put a spell on them so that they would only grow for women who put the Sisterhood above the Patriarchy. 

They each vowed to pass on the story to their daughters and continue to plant their bulb until someone could get it to grow. 

           Time passed, and one by one the daughters of this group left the district for work or marriage or adventure, but each carried their foremother’s memory with them together with the special bulbs. Few descendants of the original thirteen Coven members live in Dysart nowadays but Sophia was one of them and all this passed like a flash through her  mind as she stood in that Witches Wagon at the Electric Picnic in 2019, two hundred and fifty years after the original trauma. 

            Sophia pulled herself upright in the wagon and stared stupefied at the Witch who was apparently the reincarnation of Blanche of Loughteague! 

             She could only think to say, “Why have you returned, Blanche?” and the Witch replied; “Of course I’m not Blanche, she was my three times great grandmother and I’m here to lay down her burden and bury the bones”.  Sophia gasped, tottered from the wagon and fled to where she had left her broom and flew back to Ratheniska as fast as it could carry her. 

            Jumping off her broom, she rattled at Beatrice’s kitchen window and shouted for her to open the door.  Beatrice was still up, she couldn’t sleep from the sound of the music coming from Stradbally and she hardly had the door unlocked before Sophia started to pour out her story, leaving out no detail of her distressful encounter with the Witch at the music festival.

          Of course Beatrice knew about Blanche of Loughteague, she was also a descendant of the original thirteen and she too carried her foremothers’ memories, and indeed had one of the magic crocus bulbs, which had never bloomed for her! 

          The two women sat at the kitchen table and considered what to do. They thought that perhaps the two of them should accompany this Witch and help her to bury the bones in the grounds of the ruins of old Dysart, but that just didn’t seem right. The path their foremothers had tread all those years ago was gone, part of someone’s farm now. They knew they needed to organize something special.  “ You know, she is probably here to check if we have learnt our lesson and if we have developed sufficient courage to stand with the Sisterhood,” said Beatrice slowly.

 “Well we personally haven’t done much to progress the affairs of the Sisterhood, but maybe some of the other descendants have!” cried Sophie. “But how on earth can we find them at this stretch of time?” 

 “Maybe we should try and follow the trail of the bulbs rather than the trail of the women”, said Beatrice, as she stirred her tea, “I’ll bet those those bulbs only bloom for women who have found their voice and made a stand for something. I’ll bet they bloom for them out of season. We’ll look for out of season blooming crocuses. At least it’s somewhere to start!”

             “Or, it could be just global warming”, said Sophia. 

             “Please, Sophia, if you haven’t a better idea I suggest we follow this line. We can bring back some of those flowers and invite the Witch to meet us in Dysart where she can bury the bones and lay down her burden of anger and hate and we can ask her forgiveness on behalf of our foremothers and show her that things  have changed”.

         “But you and I haven’t changed, Beatrice”, said Sophia.

  “Embarking on this pilgrimage will certainly be a change inducing experience for us, I’d imagine!” replied Beatrice.

 And with that Beatrice put away the supper things and went through a mental list of all the things she needed to do before she went crocus hunting. 

          Of course, Sophia accompanied her, as she didn’t want to face the anger and hatred of Blanche’s descendant alone. She left a note on her kitchen table for the Witch, inviting her to make herself at home until she returned, as she suspected the Witch would make her way there after the music festival.

          It did occur to Beatrice that some of the descendants of the original thirteen might have emigrated and some of these flowers might be blooming far from Ireland, let alone Dysart. She wondered if she should put out a call to The United Witches Federation Worldwide (Horticultural Division) asking for information concerning crocuses growing out of season, but she was already airborne when this thought occurred to her so she decided to leave that for the present, and settled for doing a thorough search of the island of Ireland for those flowers.

                                               Fishing with my father.

        Each May, my father would take out the big red wooden box where he stored his fishing tackle. Everything was carefully checked, the reels, the flies stored in old  boiled sweet tin’s carefully wound through slits in discs of cardboard. The fishing rods were taken out of their cloth covers and the reels were attached just to check that they were ready for action, then satisfied that everything was in order, Dad would replace all, together with his canvas fishing bag in the red box. 

      Since my brother went away to college Dad usually took off alone on his fishing trips to Connemara. My mother would make him a few sandwiches when she came in from early  Mass while he chose which fishing gear he would take with him. Nothing was haphazard, everything was carefully chosen, the tackle, the rain gear, the boots, and he would set off in the Morris Minor and pick up his friend Scanlon on the way. I don’t know how Scanlon knew to expect him because we had no telephone but he always seemed to be ready when Dad called. And Dad would return in the evening, tanned, relaxed, happy and usually with a few trout in the bag. It was Mother’s job to gut and clean them.

       Mother spent her days in useful pursuits- sewing, cooking and gardening were activities she excelled at. She was a big Church goer also. And I took after her, I was a great little one for “ Filling the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run.” A great one for “finding a job to do.”

        I don’t know what inspired Dad to ask me to go fishing with him that day.     “Can I go?” I asked my mother. I usually referred decisions to her. “ Of course! Have you wellingtons? Bring a coat. I’ll make another sandwich.” I was ready in no time and we set off in the car, picking up Scanlon on the way. I sat in the back with the fishing gear. Dad and Scanlon in front, Scanlon keeping up a flow of conversation, Dad silent. Out past Oughterard, still travelling at that steady 35 miles an hour over that silent landscape, the car bumping along over the dips and rises of the road. It was well past 11 when we parked the car in a hidden secluded boreen beyond Recess. I didn’t understand the need for such discretion then.

         Shoes were exchanged for boots and wellies, Fishing bags were carried cross chest, and the fishing rods were carried in our right hands doing doubling duty as staffs and we set off over the bog to the lake. It was warm but overcast, Dad insisted I bring my rain coat in the bag. “The weather was ever changeable out here,” he said. Scanlon set off in front, Dad next and I brought up the rear. “Step where I step, don’t fall into the bog,” were the instructions and it wasn’t easy hopping from turf clump to turf clump. Eventually we arrived at the lake. Dad set me up, putting the hook on the fishing line and showing me how to cast. I wasn’t much good at that but I did my best, then leaving me with my sandwich and a bottle of milk he set off to the other side of he lake. 

       I soon got bored with casting that line on the water, so I just sat and watched the little ripples on the lake surface, the flies hovering just above its surface and occasionally a fish just breaking the surface to bite. The sun went in behind a carpet of fast racing clouds and I was glad of that rain coat for shelter. I wasn’t long about demolishing that sandwich and wishing I had a few more. There wasn’t another soul in sight, I had no idea where the others had got to. I wasn’t tempted to follow and find them though, too afraid I’d get lost or fall down a bog hole! There was something hypnotic about the almost silence. I heard no human voices, so birds singing, just the sound of the breeze on the bog and the slight lapping sound of the water against the stones at the side of the lake.

             I wished I had brought a book.

             Shortly after six , I reckon, I saw Dad coming back my way.

           “Any luck?” He asked. 

           “No, I got a few bites though,” I replied, “A bit too bright today for them, maybe?” He answered, although I noticed he had a couple of brown trout.

             “Scanlon has gone on to the next lake, he’ll be a while yet.” Dad sat down on a stone at the edge of the lake. The sun had gone in and the breeze on the lake had picked up.      

            “I often came here with my grandfather and Josie long ago.” He rarely talked about himself or his boyhood.  His grandfather must have been dead at least thirty five years at that stage.

            “We’d better be heading back to the car,” he said, “Scanlon will catch up,”and he set off the way we had come. First down into the little valley,  and we came to the stream running through it, he reached out his fishing rod which I grasped to give myself a  bit of stability as I stepped on the stones in the stream. We got onto the bank and started the ascent and when we got to the summit of that little rise, Dad stopped and we could see for miles around. Suddenly the   sun came out from behind the clouds, and a slanted shaft of sunlight lit up the bog. He straightened up and I could see his gaze sweeping the landscape. I followed his gaze and I saw the little white balls of bog cotton  bobbing in the breeze, the intense colours of the earth, the browns and the greens and the glisten of tiny pools of water every where. The grey sky had cleared and we were covered by a dome of delicate blue with high white fluffy clouds. The midgets were everywhere. The mountains were pale blue-grey and distant. I saw Dad’s eyes scanning the scene, his breathing was slow and regular. I watched him intensely at that moment keeping my eyes on his face. He seemed to see something I didn’t. 

     “ Such magnificence, its great to be alive,” was all he said.

And suddenly the air around us seemed to expand and become more spacious. It was a sacred moment, something I had never experienced before, and for the first time in my life I realized that there was more to life that “the unforgiving minute” and “sixty seconds worth of distance run.”

It was the first time I had ever seen anyone experience a sacred moment and be grateful for the gift of life. 

         It was a moment of grace. I’ve never forgotten it. We walked on.

              Miss Georgina lifted her right leg to hitch herself onto her broom, and felt that stab of pain in her hip.“Ouch,” she said “I’ll have to visit old Dr. H. And see where I am on the waiting list for that hip replacement,” And so she booked an appointment. Dr. H. Wasn’t at all optimistic about her having that operation any time soon. “With the Covid numbers in hospital so much elective surgery is being cancelled, Miss Georgina, I’m afraid your operation is unlikely any time soon.”

          Totally disgruntled, Miss Georgina put “ cancelled surgical procedures “ on the agenda for the next coven meeting. As Miss Beatrice needed a cataract operation and Miss Julika wanted her bunion seen to, there was a good turn out for the meeting. 

           Straight off, Miss Beatrice declared her interest in the topic but said “ I really don’t see what we can do Georgina, after all if the beds are full with Covid patients, elective surgery just can’t  happen, can it?” “Yes,” chipped in Julika “and as for the ICU’s, full to capacity, this is no time to get seriously ill I reckon.”

            “And that brings me to my point, ladies, in the midst of all out troubles we are forgetting the people who are most discriminated against in this whole pandemic,” said Georgina, there were nods of agreement all around the table, each one thinking she was one of the discriminated, “I mean , the poor unvaccinated, of course!” Georgina continued. Seeing the looks of confusion all around her, she went on, “yes, I know vaccination is free, centres are set up in every town and village, G.P.’s are texting their patients offering the vaccine, The H.S.E are on the television nightly begging people to get vaccinated but still some won’t come forward and most people in the  I.C.U.’s are unvaccinated.” 

             “Where are you going with this, Georgina?”  Asked Beatrice.

              “Isn’t it obvious, the poor things refuse vaccination because thy don’t know what’s in the vaccine and yet here they are, admitted to I.C.U’s being pumped full of drugs they know nothing about, its a scandal, is what it is, something should be done about it,” said Georgina, her cheeks flushed with indignation.

     “So you think they shouldn’t be admitted to I.C.U’s at all then?” said Beatrice slowly.

      “The most useful place where people should have to display their Covid vaccination certificates is at the door of the I.C.U,” continued Georgina, “the unvaccinated should be referred to a special ward with just oxygen masks and not be troubled with Intensive Care, and if that frees up some hospital beds for elective surgery, well, that is just the way it is.”

       Miss Julika was so enamoured with this idea that she volunteered to write to Paul Reid, the H.S.E. CEO, without delay to appraise him of their findings and request that he put this plan into operation.

        Alas, six months later and all three ladies are still awaiting appointments for surgery.