Tuesday, 12 February 2019


Staring out of my new office window as I write this, I’m feeling strangely emotional. It’s not strange for this scribbler to feel emotional, but today my emotions themselves are strange.

Today is actually the latter half of the week before last, as lost in a time wormhole, the only thing I can focus on without distraction is my work.

Next week there’s a trip to Galway, then to London, and every other moment I work at the physical and creative exercise that is unpacking.

Never had a move like this. My new home is an anti-Tardis: much smaller inside than you’d think from outside.

When I first saw this house I took photos of it and showed them to a gillie friend of mine from Connemara.

“What do you think? It feels good but the kitchen and bathroom are so tiny, and -”


“-you walk in here flashing photos of a house at me like it’s your new girlfriend. Now, does it have a room to sleep in?”


“Does it have a room for you to write and work in?”


“Does it have a room for you to relax in?”

“Yup, but -”


“Anything more for one man is gluttony.”

There must be something about the acid soil of bogland that makes my Yorkshire and Connemara friends so cutting; so brutally to the point and effective.

Today, last week, whenever this is, my churning gut of feeling is interpreted perfectly by the snow dancing on the blizzard raging outside.

We give out about the forecasts, but my app predicted 12 hours of snow here today, starting at 9am, and it was spot on.

Much of the country has rain but evidently I’m elevated here, and that’s fine. High up means less chance of flooding, and with a back boiler in my fireplace I don’t care if the power goes out.

As long as I have fuel to burn, my rads will be humming and -

oh -

- yes, that’s what’s been happening. Months overloaded by major life events and humungous lists have left my poor wee brainbox in need of a vacation.

I just keep wandering off, creating a trail of new jobs to be done, while old ones are left half-finished, or never started in the first place.

I suppose my subconscious knows I can relax. All my worldly goods are here now. My office was the first thing set up. I’d boxed it up the week before the move, and spent the intervening 10 days twitching around like a man missing a limb.

Only a madman would go out today.
Okay, that definition doesn’t exactly excuse me from an afternoon stroll, but no.

After this I have to return to the back box room once more, where bags and piles of gordknowswhat lie in wait to be allocated a place, or deemed superfluous and put away.

I’d rather have a feeling of space than feel hemmed in by clutter.

Snowed in and boxed under. Thank you universe, and all things others might consider Holy, depending on personal preferences. I’ll admit, I asked for a week of warm weather in which to make my move, and that was given.

Driving the van for three days through this week’s snow would’ve been a nightmare. My unfettered gratitude goes out to my faithful formidable crew of Galwegian friends (a Cork lad, an Englishman and a true Maroon: Galwegians all!) who made all the work a pleasure.

Every hour or so I sit down and do deep breathing.

It's all gone really well.
I love this house. It felt like home immediately. 

But but but there’s so much yet to be done.



It’ll all be fine.
I can set my own agenda.

Who am I kidding?
I have no agenda.



Outside the snow swirls on a strong easterly. Mature trees all around sway and adjust to the power of this gale, challenging them as it comes from the opposite direction of our prevailing wind.

There’s a certain level of exhaustion that takes the legs from under you. Maybe that’s why I’m loving having no TV service yet.

Normally I’m a complete news junkie, and soon I’ll be connected again, but now, lost in my wormhole, I need neither clocks, nor war, nor Brexit. I turn the radio on for a few minutes of Sean O’Rourke and as much Ivan Yates as I can bear, and then I sit and watch The Sopranos on my ancient DVD player.

At my friend Whispering Blue’s gaff last week we watched best bit clips, but without the juxtaposition of Tony's two families - his cosa nostra and his blood relations - the drama was merely dramatic.

The show’s greatness lies in this family man, who sits at his kitchen table, like any other loving father, trying to raise his children to be clever and benevolent, who then leaves the house to become a violent brutal killer.

After my father died I lay on the sofa for weeks, watching Euro 2008 and The Sopranos. This will be the third time I've watched the entirety of this seminal series, and each time, at some stage, Tony Soprano infects my dreams.

I suspect absorbing all that machismo increases my testosterone levels, which to be honest would be no bad thing right now.

Time to rest; to heal; to rebuild and create new strengths.

This is house will be my chrysalis.

Just the peace of the Irish countryside, the sound of the wind in the trees, birdsong and American mafiosi shoe leather breaking wiseguys' cheekbones.

Sitting by the fire I watch branches waving, reflected on the glass doors of the dresser.

Once the unpacking is done I’ll embrace the chance of routine for the first time in 9 months.

Does the scent of future beckon?
Bring it on.

Right after a wee nap.

©Charlie Adley

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