Gnomes populate a tree on the edge of Slightly’s estate
Slightly Bemused writes:
I had a wonderful experience over the past few days. I realised that my town smells different in the different parts, and at different times of the day. I was heading to the main street, past the pub I grew up in which once again can open it’s outer doors.
When I was growing up, passing by that wall, with it’s extractor fan in the window, brought tales of smoke and stale Guinness, and probably yarns being spun around fresh pints, while in that front bar there was still straw on the ground, and the farmers wore their muddy boots and waited for the next round of their working day.
Often that included moving the cattle along the main street from the field across from my house, in the place that is now a convenience store, was a hardware store that sold everything from a needle to an anchor, and before that a garden centre.
Before that, a field, where the cows fed and waited to be led to the milking shed in a place that is now a Supervalu and posh hotel. The smells they left were not all that wonderful, but one of the joys of living in what was then very much a country village. I do not want to discuss muck spreading season!
But today, as you round the corner from that pub with more tales to tell than Sherherezade you turn on to the Main Street, and are met with the scents of far away places that lady may have known. We are coming to the Wellness Emporium (which was the local video rental shop during the time of the herds) and the scents of foreign spices and rare unguents and ointments fills the air, wafting you to dreams of Aladdin and his Princess.
All too soon you are past it, to come to the supermarket, and in the morning the smell of fresh breakfast rolls entices you to come in, luring you with thoughts of greasy loveliness. In the afternoon, this place is redolent with spicy chicken and pizza takes over in the evening. But my journey is not to end here.
On I continue, to be met with a wall of floral loveliness, a delight missing these past months. The florist is open again, and samples of his wares are placed outside and cannot help but lighten my day. Sadly, I do not understand which ones are which – I can just about manage roses – but they do smell good, and the colours add to the feeling of joy as I sadly pass on by.
Opposite the traffic lights, the thoughts of the sub-continent break in to waken you to the joys of korma and butter chicken, real curries and balti dishes. For vegetarians, this is a must as their range is quite simply spectacular, not to mention tasty, and the rival fragrances create a panoply of olfactory visions.
Further down, from the evening come the wonderful and hard to resist aromas of the Chinese takeaway, vying with those of the chipper next door. A relative, blow-in, the Chinese is there a mere 15 years, the chipper has a longer pedigree. Although the premises have been done up, they have been getting my order wrong since I was a nipper, although they do do a great Chicken Burger with Cheese.
When we came here, they were the only purveyors of convenience food, now we even have a hotel. They also do kebabs, but they do not have the proper vertical rotating slab of kebab meat grilling away to add its own aroma to the hodge podge of scents that do escape.
I may seem to mock, but coming home after a night in the corner pub, which when it was allowed always had live music of a Friday, passing that chipper’s door was nigh on impossible. The smell of chips on a few pints was irresistible. And their chips are good, with lashings of salt and malt vinegar.
If we continue on, there is the smell of the Thai restaurant after 5pm. Subtly different from the Chinese, once again you are transported to far off lands, and even if you have eaten, thoughts of second breakfast spring to mind, and temptation is hard to resist. So on we go. But memories bubble up.
The first Thai food I had was aboard one of their naval vessels. Coming in to the port of Somalia, they were gifting a cargo of rice to my agency and the WFP. Our own ship was in port, and I was there all day, covered in dust and grime from a day up and down gangways, arguing with stevedores and dockers, truckers and tallymen.
And I got a call on the radio. I was to represent our agency at a dinner on the naval vessel just tieing up behind ours. As this would be after sundown, and so after curfew, I was authorised to stay aboard our ship for the night, and the captain, with whom I got on well, happily made a cabin available.
I was able to take a shower, and leave my cowboy belt of accoutrements, and my bushranger’s hat in the cabin. But there was little I could do about my clothes. I had not time, as the admiral commanding the Thai ship had sent a junior officer to escort me. A training vessel, the poor cadets were the ones offloading. I wished I had as good workers on my team. I apologised to the officer, indicating my grimy clothes, and let him know that I had been unprepared. He merely smiled.
He led me up the gangway of his ship, and I was piped aboard (only time, darn it, but it was fun) before everyone turned and came to attention, and the officers saluted as their flag was lowered at sundown. I was then escorted below to a cabin, and offered a clean set of civilian clothes for the event. I was impressed, their information was ahead of mine. I took another quick shower and changed. When I returned, my clothes had all been laundered. Cleanest I had seen them in months, despite the best efforts of our housekeeper.
So I was brought below, and met by the first officer of the ship, who spoke excellent English. The WFP rep was escorted by the ship’s Captain. I was introduced to the Admiral, who made a short speech about how honoured his nation was to assist in this great humanitarian endeavour, before inviting me to dine. My escort then politely asked if I had ever had Thai food before, and when I answered in the negative, he proceeded to explain each dish, and in one or two cases their cultural relevance. That was when I learned that Thai food is eaten with a spoon and fork.
The scents that arose were wonderful, and passing by the restaurant in my town always brings me back there
Back home, and we wander along the Butterstream that used run through the school in a field wherein I did my Inter Cert, that is now an Aldi. I was one of those who helped build the walls that now contain this stream, and made a few small wiers that have improved the flow, and encouraged small life to find a home there, right at the edge of the town. A later addition, the childrens’ play area has a point where the young ones can safely look down and if the day is clear see the little tiddlers and sprats dart around below.
Once bigger, some of those will journey down and enter the river just a few hundred yards away. But here is where fragrance is joined by sound, as the burbling of the brook washes over you, and leads you down to the place from which my town gets its name: the crooked ford across the Liffey at what was once a very important trade route. With an esker leading to the town from the north, and continuing aways to the south, this was where people travelled before there were roads, and in the days when much of the town was marshy.
The river brings new scents, those of the water flowers, and the decay amongst the reeds. An angler’s delight, these beds shelter the trout and chuff that are the fisherman’s targets. Catch and release is the order of the day, but I know many an hour has been spent by some who do not intend to catch, but just enjoy the serenity of the water. The patch along the stretch passes through hedgerows and shrubs, which bring a vibrancy to the air even when no blooms are to be seen. The air seems fresher, tastier, somehow fuller while being lighter.
And back out to the road for home, just south of the old ramparts of the Pale. Less obvious now after recent works, the road used have three distinct bumps approaching the town, which acted as an alarm clock for weary commuters on the bus on the way home of a dark and rainy evening, when you could not see outside the steamed up windows to tell where you were. That third bump was the signal to get up and make your way to the front, and if Peter was driving, get dropped off short of the stop directly opposite my house.
Although not so bad these days, here the scents are more mechanical, dominated by the traffic to this small town, which now is heavier than the traffic was from Naas to Dublin in the 60s when it was decided that for safety a dual carriageway had to be built.
And back around to the edge of the estate, and bid a welcome to Gnomie, who has moved in to live with Mr Gnome and mind our access. So back in past the beech trees and to the smell of fresh cut grass filling up my senses. And making my eyes run me cough and sneeze. Hay fever in these days brings funny looks it never did before. Why is it grass that affects me, when that smell just evokes summer? Well, back home, and dive for the antihistamines before I weep all over the place.
Maybe I will spoil myself, and have a Thai takeaway for dinner.
Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.
