This was a work-day. A sheer trudge and haul day, when I should have thought back on my ancestors digging canals to get away from disappointing potato harvests back in County Kilkenny. The forests will burn. When I amble down to the garage at 10 am I have no idea that the Master Builder (referred to hereafter as “MB”) was thinking of attacking the local tree population. Down come any trees near the site which are leaning or upheaving. Anything dying or dead is dropped. Huge clumps of moss crank up in the air. But this is real work, trudging all day carrying branches and logs to the fire which we enjoy late in the afternoon. It’s not cocktails and chatter about Irish literature. Or Swiss chocolate for that matter.
The main, in fact the only advantage of a day of this kind of activity is a night’s sleep, 10 hours of it. Even too exhausted to get up to pee. Too tired to dream. Instead a wonderful sleep full of smoke and pine needles and rain...
Don’t be fooled by the photos: it wasn’t all sit and chat with the MB. He doesn’t know much about Irish literature and, with the passage of time, I can’t remember much either...
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