Coldy, coldy coldy. Out weather here in Ireland is giving us much pause for thought, what with these unseasonable northerly winds. The garden outside was given its annual shearing about three weeks ago and has been behaving immaculately ever since.
My pinky clematis looks lovely, spread all over our neighbour's wall and all the other plants I put into a small raised bed are thriving - bar the bean plants. Is it the cold? Is it the rain? I don't know.
What I do know is that the peas I put beside them are thriving; already climbing up the string and bamboo wigwam I set up for them. But the beans are withering and looking decidedly peaky. I should have just stuck with the peas overall, perhaps.
In writing news, all is very quiet since the end of the Dundalk Book Festival back at the end of April - almost a month ago. I believe most events were well attended and we Poetry Divas helped to rock the Panama Cafe on the Square (hai). We had an interesting afternoon, with many readers and even a musical interlude. More on Michael Farry's blog.
A highlight for me was Noel McGee, doing an excerpt from a one-man play, I, Kavanagh. This is a brightly woven piece with excerpts from Kavanagh's work and work about his work. The audience loved it - what with Patrick Kavanagh being from out the road a bit - and I saw many audience members mumming the words of his poems along with the actor.
There were parts in it I remembered from Antoinette Quinn's Biography of Kavanagh, which by the way if you've never read it is a fantastic read and full of inspiration too. One to buy rather than borrow. "O he was a quare one..." Kavanagh's poetry is something I return to time and again, probably because of the local connection but also because of his way of talking about the land. When you're a country girl, like me, it's nice sometimes to be grounded by what you've come from.
