Our house, our wee island, has been buffetted by squalls and stinging horizontal rain. The doors rattle and the windows mist up and a stale scent clings to our coats. The mother-in-law says it's the dog and suggests airing our coats on a nice day. When is it ever nice?!

Obviously the mother-in-law has recovered from covid, which we managed to evade, and I feel a twinge of guilt when I think how calm and relaxed I had been when we couldn’t be in the same room for longer than it took to pour a cup of tea.

//

In this weather, I have taken to dressing like a sailor, like Captain Ephraim Lockstocking, erstwhile father and South Sea island king, in breton shirts tucked into stiff black jeans under heavy jumpers and navy duffel coat. Beneath a yellow knit hat, I scowl as I stomp around the the town in the drizzle with Sam who pauses to sniff every piss mark from Teapot Lane to the star fort, while cold and terrible airs darken my heart.

My bad mood is partly due to the terrible dreams I've been having. One night I dreamt someone slit my throat while I was sleeping, and another night I dreamt I found two large lumps in my left breast. However my niece has not been dreaming at all; after discussions at school about the invasion of Ukraine, she stays up at night thinking about the children hunkered in basements or fleeing away from the places they had called home.

//

Through the fog in my mind, I sense signs of land: the whiff of manure from a lorry passing through town, and buds on the magnolia tree, and daffodils around the star fort. Ahoy!

//

I like the French name for Breton shirts: marinière, which I assume is or related to the French word for mariner. While googling, I also came across moules marinière, a dish of steamed mussels in white wine, garlic, parsley butter, onion, and cream. I was reminded of eating this dish, perfumed with Pernod and accompanied by crusty bread, maybe 16 years ago(!?) while looking out toward the sea through a small window in a restaurant perched right at the edge of the estuary in Galway Bay. Ever imperilled by rising sea waters, the restaurant is often flooded on spring's full moons.

<<