The winter storms have arrived and the steel grey sea is being whipped into a mass of white frothy foam before it crashes in pounding waves on the rocks. The leaden sky is streaked now and then with a shaft of light from a weak winter sun which gives the sea a strange silvery illumination. It can be quite spooky.

You really feel nature’s force here as the jet-stream fuelled winds barrel over the ocean to batter this exposed coastline and discharge its watery load. Winter has arrived.

A couple of years ago, one particular storm was so powerful, the sea reached in and greedily gathered the boulders on the shoreline, dragged them out to the deep, and then rushed back in a fury and threw the stones at the shore, and our little harbour wall. It was a clean bowl and the resulting hole in the wall was quite sculptural, but devastating to witness.

Once the storm has blown itself out, and moved on, calm does return. The damage done is there for all to see, and to remind us of who is really in charge. Such storms give you time to reflect as you shelter inside.

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After a marvellous summer of travelling, I’m here back at my beach house again and all is calm before the winter storms arrive. The Brawn, a local landmark, is still there standing defiant against the waves.

 

 

 

The paddle-boarders are out, enjoying the last of the warm summer sea, which is so crystal clear that you can see the rock formations similar to those in the Dingle.  And the sheltered landing for the local hobbyist fishermen has been repaired so they can stand on the rock fishing for sea bass in the evening to their heart’s content.

 

Rich memories of this summer include the ubiquitous lobster and sea food in Boston, the instantly refreshing Aperol and Prosecco spritzers in Trani, and the ‘A’ level cheese experience in the Dingle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Bumper Crop

And my first attempt at growing vegetables has been successful. I’ve had a bumper crop and there are generous provisions of vegetable soup in the freezer for the coming winter.

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Time for another holiday by the sea in my summer of transition. I first came across the Dingle many years ago in the David Lean movie Ryan’s Daughter. Its memorable scenes shot on the sandy beaches and isolated rugged coast of West Ireland have always stayed with me.

Here, facing the full force of the Atlantic ocean, the wind is bracing, the sea is rough, and it’s cold, despite a full late summer sun and a near cloudless sky. The precipitous cliffs drop away dramatically to the sea and there is much evidence of the power of the elements to cut into the rock creating deep fissures in the cliff face.

Dingle Gin Ice Cream

In the little town of Dingle, I came across a marvellous invention. Murphy’s Dingle Gin ice cream. The subtle flavour of the juniper berries emerge as the ice cream melts in your mouth and the alcoholic kick follows as a rather pleasant aftershock. Murphy’s also does Dingle Salt ice cream which, despite first impressions from the name, is very good too – the salt seems to bring out the flavour of the vanilla and cream within which it sits, and, being big dairy country, this place is home to what can only be described as an ‘A’ level cheese shopping experience. Continue reading →

Trani. So laid back, fiercely hot in the southern Italian sun, languid and confident in its place in history. Its working harbour is like San Tropez’s front on tranqs, no flash cars, no posers.

 

It’s very pleasant to relax by the sea in this small Apulian harbour after a day’s sight-seeing the lovely medieval churches and hospital that formed the base for the early crusaders as they travelled back and forth to the Levant. All is so well preserved in the intense summer heat.

 

The Cathedral of St. Nicholas the Pilgrim is magnificent.

Started in 1099, it was completed by about 1200. It is made of the local soft pink stone which gives the Cathedral its warm hue in the evening light. The bell tower is the show-stopper. It stands on an arched platform which looks incapable of carrying that tremendous weight. It is a testament to its makers that this beautiful fragile building has stood the test of time.

I wonder if the builders had to cope with the plethora of organisational folk that we have in the modern age: project managers, progress chasers and monitors, prince methodologists. I wonder if they had to cope with the endless stultifying meetings and byzantine decision-making processes that constipate organisational life and kill creativity.

I wonder if those medieval workers left their discreet marks somewhere on the stonework to show their defiance, as we do in the modern age, against the tirade of abuse that can reign down on you from pumped-up kick-ass higher-ups.

I’m not sure what all this misplaced energy achieves but at least for me, it’s in the past. I’m taking in the view, sipping my coffee and dozing a bit as time passes, just watching the world go by and working out what to be as a grown up.

It will soon be time to go home to my place by the sea and catch up on my veggie boxes, and the café on the beach. I wonder what’s been going on since I started my travels, and whether I can summon up the energy to start the book.

I love it here, Cape Cod. The sea is so deep blue set against the pale blue sky. There is a cool north wind to balance the sun’s fierce rays. And, after an all-day 12 mile walk along the north shore, I can report that there is no-one here. I am alone with only the right whales spouting, breaching and tail flipping to offer company. It is such a privileged sight.

I’m told that life after teaching is usually consumed by working on “the book”. With much time to reflect on what to do next, I find I have little enthusiasm for the task. Is there life and identity after work? Cape Cod is an inspiring place, and therapeutic for us searching souls. The owner of the Inn that is home in “P” (Province) town for a few days used to be “big” in industry and, on retirement, his lovely Inn has become his retirement project. Local retired guys take it in turn as volunteers to look after the lighthouse – it is their passion which is infectious.

So, should I sit at my desk, or in a library, looking-up countless references and preparing endless footnotes for a tome that no-one will read? Maybe not.

The head of research at my college, trying to be helpful and realistic, once told me, and others, that getting anything published is near impossible – why, he asked would anyone want to read your work? I’ve no idea I thought. So dispiriting. Well, it does not matter now.

Cape Cod is the place for lobster and chowder, and a generous supper awaits at the Lobster Pot. Even though it is pre-season here, the place is heaving with diners but I’m sure they can squeeze an old lady in somewhere, perhaps even by the window overlooking the bay.

If only they (my students) could see me now – gone are the formal scholarly black clothes and sensible shoes; for me, it’s shorts, sandals and a t-shirt.

And, for now, in the soft evening light at the Inn, a blank page.

I’m sitting here looking at the sea after 40 years as a galley slave. You know the drill – up at 6/6.30 am, pack your work bag, rush for the train, plane, car, work and then get home so tired you could cry. Every day. I’ve seen all manner of mess-ups, silliness and arrogance masquerading as modernisation, reorganisation, and efficiency drives in both the public and private sectors. I’ve seen terrible behaviours, sneakiness and downright dishonesty. But none of this matters now. The sky is so blue, the sea so sparkly turquoise in the sun, and there is a warm breeze blowing in from the Azores warming my face as I sip my coffee here at the beachside café.

Chef, who runs the place, is so kind – he saved me some fish today for when the visitors have gone home, and he cooks it to perfection – silky smooth, with my favourite vegetables.

After 40 years, I have become nothing, invisible; I’m just an old lady by the sea. I can look back on a career to reflect on the textbook view of management – I used to teach this stuff – and what happens in practice. Despite it all, still they come – youngsters trying to get a start in their working lives. I really do admire them – so fresh, so keen, so enthusiastic, so hardworking. And then there are the mid-career and older workers who are fading in their presence and enthusiasm for old wine in new bottles. I admire them too – how do they do it? Turn up each day and get through all that organisational stuff. They too are worthy of praise. This crazy life of work has been useful however for my dealings with the Parish Council – there is much to tell. Being crackers is not confined to formal organisations.

Well reader, the gardeners are coming soon and we have to plan this year’s terrace plantings and the veggie boxes, and I need to check the beach to see if it’s still there as the tide is going out.