Learning to Love Ireland

by Althea Farren

  Much later, we wandered down to join the crowds of holidaymakers on the promenade at Umhlanga Rocks. ‘Umhlanga’ is the Zulu word for ‘Place of Reeds’, a reference to the reed-lined lagoon where the Umhlanga River meets the Indian Ocean. It’s one of the loveliest and safest beaches on Kwa-Zulu Natal’s north coast.

  A magnificent new structure had been constructed since our last visit. Ian told us that the 80 metre-long pier with its guard of honour of towering pylons shaped like whale ribs concealed a continuation of the culvert carrying storm water from the town. In order to protect Umhlanga’s miles of pristine golden beaches from contamination, this water was being redirected into a deep-water channel at sea.

  In the afternoons, Ian might play golf or watch cricket. Larry would work out at La Lucia’s Virgin Active Gym or watch cricket with Ian. Glyn and I would join the tanned shoppers ebbing and flowing through the festively decorated La Lucia Mall. It was such fun having someone to shop with again. I loved trying on snazzy denim outfits in Swanky Mode, selecting fresh fruit and vegetables from the wide variety on offer and sipping delicious (and healthy) carrot, cucumber and apple smoothies.

  After Christmas we headed off to the Drakensberg Mountains for three days. Glyn had promised me skies full of stars, hikes on mountain trails, bracing air and spectacular scenery. Each thatched bungalow at Thendele Camp had a magnificent view of the Amphitheatre, a sheer rock wall over 5 kilometres in length and, at its highest point, 3,050 metres above sea level. In the evenings, we sat on the veranda watching the mountains on either side of the Amphitheatre gradually lose definition as the light faded. The massive wall at the head of the gorge was the last to vanish. Then the stars appeared, sequins sewn into the vast expanse of the night sky above us. The baboon sitting on the rock became a dark sentinel watching the valley. He’d long since finished the two loaves of bread he’d stolen from our bread bin.

  We came back to a Europe gripped by the most vicious winter in decades. Gorey was an icy region of perilous streets. It felt as if we were trapped inside a freezer that had never been defrosted. A number of shops and businesses were still shut a week after Christmas – people simply couldn’t get to work. I had suddenly turned into an elderly person terrified of slipping and falling. Larry and I would shuffle off in our mountain boots to buy groceries with me clinging to him and complaining if he went faster than I thought was safe. Just a week before, we’d spent hours hiking confidently in these same boots in the Berg, sweat soaking our clothes, looking forward to an ice-cold Appletiser and a refreshing shower.

  The ‘Honeymoon Phase’ hadn’t lasted long.

  When I first arrived in Gorey, I had revelled in the sense of freedom, freedom that everyone in Ireland took for granted. We hadn’t seen a single house with burglar bars – not even in the town centre where doors and windows opened onto the street. There were very few high walls and fences. Most gates were ridiculously low and were seldom shut. Obviously, crime wasn’t a serious problem. And I didn’t have to watch what I said any longer. No one would have locked me up if I’d criticised politicians or their parties. I’d have been applauded...

  The countryside around Gorey was beautiful – there were indeed at least forty shades of green. The shops were wonderful. Groceries like flour and sugar that had been luxuries in Zim were never absent from supermarket shelves in Ireland. You could buy every imaginable permutation of a potato: potato chips, potato croquettes, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes. And there were so many different varieties: Rooster, Kerr’s Pink, Maris Piper, Golden Wonder... You could choose between olives stuffed with almonds and olives stuffed with cloves of garlic. If you were in a hurry you could buy ready-made Chicken Kiev, Chicken Chasseur or Chicken Maryland.

  I’d known that adjusting to life in Ireland wouldn’t be easy. But I hadn’t expected that it would be so difficult.

  Larry was invited to attend the RTÉ programme ‘Questions and Answers’ after he’d written a controversial letter to the Irish Times. When he observed from the floor that he was distressed by the opposition’s opportunistic behaviour, he was accused by Charlie Flanagan (a member of the panel) of being a Fianna Fáil ‘plant’. John Bowman, the presenter, had scoffed at this. Larry was, quite obviously, of foreign extraction – he didn’t have an Irish accent. He’d also pronounced the word ‘Dáil’ incorrectly, much to the amusement of those sitting near him.

  Who were we?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Just before we were due to leave for South Africa, Cynthia had told me about a women’s gym in the centre of Gorey. Curves is the largest fitness franchise in the world, and I’d never even heard of it. It took five minutes to walk there from Tara Close, thirty minutes to complete a session and five minutes to get home again.

  I’d never enjoyed going to gym. I’d always preferred jogging, walking or playing tennis. Being cooped up for an hour riding a stationary bike and doing the boring exercises Larry, Sean and Brian told me I should be doing, wasn’t my idea of fun. I didn’t like standing in line to use weights or equipment. I disliked the narcissistic compulsion that glued people to the mirrors. The girls who asked the best ‘built’ guys (often the married ones) to spot them annoyed me. The instructors who chatted up the hot chicks and ignored everyone else irritated me.

  Gyms were also intimidating.

  Our gym in Bulawayo would still be packed at 6.30 p.m. I would be riding my bike wondering whether I should make lasagne or shepherd’s pie for dinner when I’d notice that it had become unbearably hot. The instructor had turned off the fans and shut all the windows, because he wanted to leave early.

  After one such incident, I decided that I’d had enough and that I’d leave the men to get on with it. I’d lose weight worrying about whether or not we’d be able to deliver our diaries on time.

  And I wasn’t really fat. I just wasn’t as trim as I’d like to be. Who was at 60?

  More unwanted kilos sneaked up and attached themselves while I wasn’t paying attention. Suddenly it was difficult to pull up my zips. And there was something wrong with my most comfortable slacks. Then Larry bought me an exercise bike for my birthday. The previous year he’d given me a pair of diamond earrings. It was an effort to cycle for even ten minutes in the morning before heading off to work. In the evening I just couldn’t be bothered. A brandy and coke was a much more appealing proposition. Or preferably two of them.

  Larry, Sean and Brian took their gym sessions very seriously.

  ‘So how much do you weigh now, boet?’

  ‘Eeesh, did you check out Barry? He’s got to be juicing...’

  ‘What are you benching at the moment, Bri?’

  ‘Hey Dad, you’re going to injure yourself using such heavy weights.’

  ‘Were you watching the way that guy was hitting the punch bag? Pathetic...’

  ‘I’m thinking about getting another pulse monitor...’

  Men could talk forever about workouts.

  Once I got going at Curves, the inches began to drop off me like bloated ticks.

  The circuit consisted of a series of hydraulic resistance machines designed to exercise the different muscle groups. They had names such as Leg Extension/Leg Curl, Shoulder Press/Lat Pull, Hip Abductor/Adductor. There were ‘double positive’ machines and ‘single positive’ machines. ‘Double positive’ meant that we were exercising two muscle groups at the same time. Positioned between each machine was a ‘low-impact recovery board’ on which some of the ladies jumped up and down, pumping their arms energetically. Others pounded their feet like Jo’burg gold miners performing the isicathulo, for which Wellington boots or ‘gumboots’ were worn by the dancers. I usually did a sedate shuffle in time to the music. When I’d first started, I’d tried to run on the spot, bringing my knees up as high as possible. I’d soon discovered why they’re called ‘recovery boards’.

  A Curves gym is a business-like, self-motivating environment – we weren’t there to socialise – we were there to achieve the targets set for us. The onl
y mirrors were in the changing rooms. The instructors were there to assist and they were genuinely interested. I never felt that they wished we’d all hurry up and go home.

  After several months, I was promoted to CurvesSmart. It was a personal coaching system incorporated into the 30-minute workout. Each machine had a circuit coach, which was programmed with an individual’s resting heart rate, weight, measurements and goals. The machines were linked to a central data source which provided immediate feedback. We could see at a glance whether we were utilising the range of the machine correctly, our energy output and the number of calories we’d burned. The programme adjusted automatically to the body’s endurance level. CurvesSmart computed all the data and supplied a detailed progress report, a survey of muscle strength and a tally of the number of calories burned.

  After three months I had to have several pairs of trousers altered. At first it was just my uniform slacks. Then I was having to haul my jeans up before they slid off my hips or wear a belt to keep them in place. Some of my shirts and jumpers were beginning to look unattractively baggy. Best of all, my bras were no longer the right size – the cups had begun to develop gathers and pleats.

  After six months I’d lost 6 kilograms.

  When our very large, middle-aged maths teacher wrote equations on the black-board all those decades ago, the skin on her arms used to swing about with a life of its own. Our Form One class of squeamish thirteen year olds was both mesmerised and repelled.

  I didn’t want our grandchild to feel the same about me.

  Glorious sunshine. Vapour trails dispersing slowly. Beautiful spring mornings.

  There was a place on the N11 between Ferns and Enniscorthy where a host of spectacular cream and yellow daffodils had taken over the grassy bank at the roadside. Usually it was the lions and the extraordinary rocks painted with colourful spots that demanded my attention.

  Flags flew from tall poles: there was an Irish flag, a Wexford flag and several others (red, yellow, orange, blue and green) all bearing the words ‘Bedford Truck Museum’. Three or four statues of lions and the exotic figure of a buccaneer – or perhaps he was an Eastern potentate – had been planted above the daffodils.

  I liked the rocks best. They looked like cakes that had been iced in bright pinks, yellows and blues and daubed with smarties by a bunch of energetic pre-schoolers. The largest rock accommodated three sly-looking leprechauns, and it had been painted in the Wexford colours, purple and gold.

  One morning I could no longer resist the urge to stop instead of trying to take it all in as I drove by at 100 kph. The fence that rose above me was higher than I’d thought and, in one section, each post ended in a sharpened point, protecting a house I hadn’t seen before because it was set back from the road. I noticed a movement – a very large German Shepherd was watching me. Then I become aware of others – there must have been at least eight of these dogs patrolling the property. The owner would be well-suited to life on a farm in Zim, if his security was anything to go by. Two more enormous lions crouched on either side of the front door to assist the dogs. They were much more impressive than the smaller figures on the bank. And a gigantic Red Indian was scrutinising me from his vantage point in the middle of the yard.

  On another occasion, I caught a glimpse of a man (the owner?) putting a ‘For Sale’ sign on a truck that was parked near the fence. He was tall with longish grey hair. He turned, sensing me hovering, and I guiltily increased speed.

  People in Enniscorthy just shook their heads when I asked questions about him.

  Our book club ladies in Bulawayo would have loved this Wild West Irish frontier establishment. Yvonne would have wanted to paint more rocks with her pre-schoolers. Glenda would have suggested we notify either Harry Bosch or Inspector Lynley. Margaret would have quoted Wordsworth. Colleen and Shirley would have asked if the dogs appeared to be well cared for and happy.

  I still missed my book club friends.

  In August 2009, Larry and I had been intrigued to see posters on shop windows throughout the town advertising an evening of entertainment at The Gorey Little Theatre in aid of famine relief in Zimbabwe. We knew how generous Irish people were in their support for diverse charities, but why was Zimbabwe, of all places, to be the beneficiary?

  We went along to find out.

  Liz Lloyd, a local actress, had assembled a group of well-known stage and screen personalities from North Wexford, South Wicklow and Dublin to read their own poems and stories. One of the stories featured a young Zimbabwean girl who’d become friends with her next door neighbour, an Irish woman who longed for a grandchild.

  Liz told the audience that her cousin, a Jesuit priest, worked at a mission near Harare. Through him she’d learned what life was like there.

  In the summer of 2010 she arranged another very successful evening. Fr David had told her that nothing had ‘moved’ in Zimbabwe for two years...

  There is a lot of talk about reconciliation, but no will to implement it. There is also talk of a new constitution, but the consultation process is a charade. In fact, people are predicting that it is going to get worse next year. There is already evidence of intimidation... The old man (Mugabe) is quietly determined he is going to do everything it takes to hold on to power – whatever the people think.

  During most of my lifetime, people in Europe have lived under such regimes – Hungary, Albania etc., so it is nothing new. We are in the twilight of the age of dictators, but they are still around in many places on our continent. Meanwhile the people are straining at the leash, mad to get on with their lives, but thwarted and frustrated...

  Proceeds from the show were to go towards education this time. Fr David believed that education was ‘the door people longed to go through in order to achieve a better life’.

  The kind-hearted people of Gorey had reached out yet again to children in a remote African country in an effort to help them realise this dream.

  Louise, Cynthia and I walked slowly down Esmonde Street to The Corkscrew Restaurant together enjoying the warmth of the sun and the holiday atmosphere. Magnificent purple petunias and yellow daisies hung in baskets from the buildings on both sides of the road. (The Wexford colours again.)

  I love the flowers here.

  I am always struck by the number of prams and pushchairs I encounter when I’m out shopping or strolling around town. In Zim they became quite rare after the exodus of young whites. African women traditionally fasten their babies and young children to their backs using a towel or a shawl. Wealthier, more westernised black women use prams, but they are very much in the minority.

  It was time I caught up with what was going on at Tara Close, so I’d invited my neighbours to coffee. Larry spent his days concentrating on his writing and hadn’t a clue. He did, however, attend several ‘Friday Fun and Frolics’ events run by two second year students doing Recreation and Leisure Studies at the Waterford Institute of Technology. Their flier urged everyone to ‘get out of the house, let your hair down and have some fun...’ I had visions of wild Friday afternoon blue movies and key-swapping sessions, but Larry only admitted to playing cards and drinking tea.

  Louise and Cynthia talked about the Tidy Towns Gardening Competition, the weather (naturally) and who wasn’t speaking to whom. We knew that Tara Close had been entered in the competition, but no one knew whether we’d be judged as a group or as individuals. We’d begun to eye one another’s plants either critically or covetously. The competition wasn’t bringing out the best in all of us, unfortunately. Theresa was apparently annoyed that her neighbours hadn’t complimented her on her carefully nurtured plants. ‘They always stop and say how beautiful Gerry’s are,’ she’s reported to have said. It wasn’t surprising – Gerry had grown gigantic cerise begonias that looked like roses, elegant dahlias with spiky golden petals and pink and blue hydrangeas with massive heads.

  We agreed that Tara Close was looking lovely. The houses had been freshly painted, and the flower pots and window boxes were ablaze with colou
r. Marigolds and lobelia had been planted beneath the statue of Our Lady. Even Cynthia, who maintained that plants were a waste of time, had caved in. Four Busy Lizzies in pots had appeared outside her apartment. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that she’d chosen the thirstiest of plants.

  I was secretly ecstatic about my ‘front garden’ which was, in reality, the concreted area on either side of the front door. I’d gone for bright colours and things that were easy to grow. There were purple and yellow pansies, Busy Lizzies in brilliant oranges and reds, fuchsias and petunias. In the patio I had a variety of shrubs with two rhododendrons taking pride of place. They’d flowered already, unfortunately. On Tuesday evening when I’d come home from work, I’d found a pair of hanging baskets attached to our fence. I knew Larry wasn’t responsible, since he thought we had more than enough ‘triffids’.

  ‘I hear they’re only on loan,’ Louise said. She’d acquired two as well. ‘When the Tidy Towns Garden Competition’s over, the committee will probably want them back. What a pity. I’ve grown fond of mine already.’

  I told them about our beautiful two-month-old granddaughter, aware that I must be careful not to monopolise the conversation for too long.

  Bailey Shea was born by caesarean section on 25 February. After an uncomfortable pregnancy, Audra had a difficult labour. Since fathers were the only visitors allowed at the hospital (there had been a MRSA scare), it was several days before we saw the baby.

  It was like being new parents again. That overwhelming surge of love. That intense desire to hold her close and kiss her little scrunched-up face. That delight in watching her sleep surrounded by the friendly menagerie of African animals we’d bought for her, arms stretched above her head, tiny fists clenched like a miniature Tyson. When Brian held her for the first time, she fastened herself like Velcro to his shoulder and slept there for ages, sucking her thumb.