Happy Sunday everyone!
Sorry I’ve been MIA for the past couple of weeks. Final year has hit hard at college and the novelty of everyone in Dublin speaking English has worn off so I’m no longer finding the work blissfully easy compared to in Vienna. Still, we truck onwards.
I have been taking the odd little stroll to keep my sanity, and it’s not hard to find breathing space when you’re lucky enough to live on Ireland’s coast. So the other day, after spending seven hours in the library highlighting things and colour coding them to make myself feel like a productive Office-type-woman, I decided that Jack and I should take a little hike to the place where we actually had our first date sometime last year. It’s a sentimental little place for me. You just have to ignore the fourteen year olds hunched down against the wall, looking sullenly at the sea and passing round one cigarette likely stolen from a mum’s handbag during the afternoon.
I love beach air, and I even love how cold it is and how you can’t wait to get back into car by the end because you’re feet are wet and your face is all numb. It’s all part of the fun. I don’t think Jack shares those sentiments but he did his best to pretend he was enjoying himself, which I’m sure he does a lot during the incredibly badly-timed outings I often plan with gay abandon.
I’ll give you an example.
On our first date (ok – our second, because the first was actually up Killiney Hill with Kuma and it was less than romantic because I spent 70% of the time worrying Kuma was going to poo and I’d have to pick it up and carry it around in a little black sack, which is decidedly un-chic) I decided we would go for a walk on Killiney beach. In my defense, he decided we would go for ‘a little drive’, and it was only when we arrived at our destination, at the end of September in the pitch dark, that I insist it would be nice to wobble about on the stoney beach and sit on the roof of an old shack beneath the railway lines and watch the stars.
Ok, it was actually very romantic. I cant deny it.
But there was an awful lot of shivering and complaining about being coatless and at one stage I dropped my shoes off the top of the roof into a rockpool and Jack had to clamber down to the rocks below and fetch them. On the way back to the car, I carried my shoes in my hand and Jack gallantly offered me a piggy-back, which I readily accepted. Sadly the novelty of this swiftly wore off after toppling over backwards right after the initial, I suppose, mount. I worried that he perhaps thought I was mad.
Then, on Valentine’s Day (we had made it several months, despite the madness. All was looking good) I planned a most picturesque return to this meaningful spot, complete with moonlit picnic and wine and a generous bout of tealights. Unfortunately on the evening, it was blowing a gale and drizzling rain. It was too cold for me to flounce gaily on the beach in a flowery dress, and the tealights were sure not to light. Despite Jack’s parents efforts to keep us inside in the warm, he bravely insisted that I was given the chance to carry out this masterpiece of a plan which I had been buzzing about for weeks (I had returned from Vienna on this day also. How much more idyllic can you get?).
We drove out and parked on the road above the beach. “Stay there”, I ordered confidently, heaving the candle-heavy bag and faux fur throw from the back of the car. I rushed down to the beach (in heeled boots, I’ll just add). The first hurdle was not sinking into the ground with every step I took. The second was laying the blanket down flat without it blowing incessantly back in my face, and the third was keeping my eyes from tearing up and smearing my ‘special effort’ makeup due to the harsh and salty wind.
After third attempt of patting now sandy blanket onto the ground, I packed the things away and trudged sheepishly to the car. “Don’t say anything,” I said, squeezing in with all the bags on my lap. And he didn’t say anything at all – just drove me back home where we set up the picnic, complete even with strawberries from the fridge, in front of the fire in the living room.
So here we are again, back on Killiney beach. True to form, I marched carelessly towards the waves crashing onto the shore, calling out that that’s part of the benefit of wearing my new wellies. Only to blaspheme a moment later and rush back out, wellies full and trousers covered in sea spray. Some things never change.
Still, we do have fun. Exactly what you’d need to end the study-heavy day.
Thanks for reading chaps. I’ll try to be in touch more often from now on, I promise.