Winning The Spanish Lottery

Tullyboy Farm & The Flying Pig

The War of the Roses in Knockroe

My neighbour, John Carty is an accomplished and world famous traditional Irish musician.  By virtue of the fact that our children became friends, his wife Maureen and I developed an easy friendship.  Maureen, like me has no musical talent and sometimes we would take respite from our ‘gifted’ families with a chat and a decent glass of wine.

Another form of relaxation for me is ‘slipping’ plants and a few years ago, when John was off on tour, I successfully planted a couple of cottage roses the original of which my father gave to me.  Both John and Maureen were very appreciative and touched when I explained that my late father would be happy to be leaning against the wall of their house listening to John whilst he played fiddle.

Each year, I have made a brave attempt to add to this collection, but in the meantime, John became the proud and enthusiastic owner of a strimmer with devastating effects.

Last autumn, I subversively planted about fifteen slips in the ditch across from the house and during the brutal cold and unusual weather of April this year with a triumphant yell I informed Maureen that we had survivors!

The Knockroe Rousers!
John Carty & Sarah Testing Accoustics

Yesterday, my errant but devoted dog and I walked along the bog road.  The warmth of the air, birdsong and the added bonus of finding a straight lone Birch on the ditch and easing it from the ground added to my feeling of wellbeing.  I ushered Jude into the car, laid the Birch on the back seat and on impulse, turned to look at the ditch.......

Yes, dear reader... John Carty had struck again!  As I searched for roots amongst the severed grass and daffodil stalks I found myself thinking of the many times I had been at a session of music when the melody would accompany gentle chat and banter, then suddenly, out of nowhere, a bar of a tune would grab my attention and I would tap or grasp the wrist of my comrade and like Pointer dogs, we would stiffen to attention, ears pricked, mouths closed and leaning forward we would go into the tune.  Sometimes we would laugh aloud with the humour and turn of the tune, at other times be struck with sheer pathos.  These were the feelings that struck me now; somewhere along the ditch someone had obviously told John to watch for the roses.... he made a brave attempt, every brier stood neatly and proud above the shaved grass!  I found one lone rose and as I laughed to myself; John himself appeared, shamefaced and having been dispatched from the house by his wife and daughter who admonished him and told him to be prepared for a dressing down.

As we surveyed the carnage and agreed a strategy to try again, I thought to myself; some day John Carty, you will exit your front door, stop, stand to attention and be overwhelmed with the scent of the roses.  Your eyes will feast on the multitude of palest ice pink and white roses and you too will be struck with a cacophony of emotion.

24^th May 2012