Ghosts and Psychics In Ireland

When I began my novel, A Cry From The Deep, I had no idea that my characters would includ ghosts and psychics. It was the land that spoke to me, as well as my protagonist, Catherine Fitzgerald, a scuba diver on assignment to cover a treasure hunt, who took me in this direction.

I’be been blessed with much travel, so it’s not surprising that the places I’ve been end up in my stories. My husband, Rob, and I visited Ireland in 2006 and to say that I was blown away by its beauty is an understatement. 

Ireland is so much more when you see it for yourself. I tried to capture what I saw in my novel, A Cry From The Deep, when Catherine Fitzgerald sees the land for the first time.

“As if the drive wasn’t challenging enough, she also had to contend with the distraction of the picture postcard scenery. Though the skies were grey, the greens of the landscape were unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was as if God, the artist supreme, had selected every green paint available on the market and then some. There was kelly green, avocado, forest, willow, apple, lime, and mint. One green flowed seamlessly into another as it marched over the hills and into the beyond. She passed thatched cottages behind old stone fences, neon coloured pubs by the roadside, and new mansions set back on large properties. She even welcomed the times she had to stop to let farmers cross the road with their flocks of sheep. The gentle landscape was a welcome contrast to the frenetic pace of New York.”  from A Cry From The Deep

Because A Cry From The Deep, is a time slip story of a love so powerful it spans several lifetimes, it had to have ghosts and psychics. When Catherine Fitzgerald, about to join an underwater hunt for one of the lost ships of the Spanish Armada, buys an antique Claddagh ring, she is troubled by nightmares and visions that set her on a path to fulfill a promise of love made centuries before. Set in Provence, Manhattan, and Ireland, this romantic mystery exposes not only two women’s longings, but also the beauty of the deep, where buried treasures tempt salvagers to break the law.

Thanks again,  Siggy. I know you love Ireland as well. 

Diana Stevan 

For more about me, please visit me at http://www.dianastevan.com; 

https://twitter.com/DianaStevan, or my Facebook author page at https://www.facebook.com/dianastevan.author  

The link to my book title is http://amzn.to/1Lmx7nq.

How to Make Refreshing Elderflower Champagne - without explosions

Our first attempt was elderflower champagne which, strictly speaking, isn’t champagne at all. It hardly has any alcohol, yet it sparkles and is a refreshing spritzy drink even for kids.

Elderberry Champagne:

You’ll need

·       approximately 10 liters of water

·       15 big elderflower clusters

·       ¼ liter wine vinegar

·       2–3 untreated lemons

·       1 kilogram sugar.

Besides these ingredients, you need a big stone or earthenware pot and thick-walled glass bottles, preferably old champagne bottles that can be secured with a cork and wire. Screw tops do blow off under pressure. Wait till you hear that story!

First, go for a walk to cut these elderberry blossoms, fully blown, but not over yet. Boil the water, dissolve the sugar in it and cool down. Wash the untreated lemons in hot water and cut into slices.

Check the elderflower blossoms for little critters and dirt. Use as much as possible from the thick green stems and then put the blooms together with the lemon slices into the stone pot. Add the wine vinegar to the cooled sugar water and pour over the flowers and lemons in the stone pot. Cover with a cloth and leave in a sunny place for 4 days. Stir every day with a wooden spoon.

Pour the liquid into the bottles; filter it through a muslin cloth or very fine sieve. Leave 4 to 5 cm from the surface to the rim.

Seal the bottles and secure the corks! The best place to store them is in a box. Bring to a cool place (like the basement) and leave at least 14 days to mature (bottle fermentation). The champagne sparkles a little already, but at maturity, there's real power, or then again sometimes not.

The development of carbon dioxide differs from year to year. It must depend on the weather or the condition of the blossoms. You can’t predict the amount of CO2 in the bottle.

So be careful when opening the first bottle, unless you want to paint the ceiling anyway. Or even better, open the first bottle in the garden. Elderberry champagne tastes best chilled — a great refreshing drink on hot days.

OK, now to that explosive story. We had started to make out own cider. We poured it into screw-top bottles, laying them on the shelves in out pantry. We waited patiently through the fermentation process until we could have our first degustation (tasting). 

One night, we were woken by a loud banging from downstairs. Terrified, I clung to my husband who was a sound sleeper and had barely heard a sound. There it was again. Another loud bang and Mac was wide awake. “Burglars,” I whispered. He sealed his lips with his finger and grabbed the rifle he stashed behind our wardrobe. “Stay here, I’ll go and have a look”. He made it down the creaky staircase as quietly as he could. My heart almost stopped beating when I heard another gun-shot like noise … and then loud laughter emanating from the kitchen below. “You must come down and see this for yourself!”

“Is it safe?” By now the children were peeking from behind their doors.

Some of the three dozen bottles had decided to explode one after another, creating the racket. The sticky cider was leaking down from the shelves onto the sacks of wheat that were stored underneath. Shards scattered everywhere and the sweet juice also stuck to the floor and windows. “Mind where you step! I’ll get it in the morning.” I said. For weeks to come our home-ground flour had the distinct flavor of apple and cider.

We never used bottle fermentation after that, and wine-making in the following years was never as exciting.

Siggy Buckley (Excerpt from I once had a Farm in Ireland)   

Limericks

When I saw today's contribution on Wordsmith.org " A. Word. A. Day." with Anu Garg, I couldn't help myself but copy a god bit over from that amazing site that has enlightened me and my vocabulary for a number of years now. It's free by the way and comes highly recommended. Would you know for example what to sashay means or where it comes from, to promulgate, or opprobrium, mythomane, sitzkrieg or even turgid just to name a few?

There is a new word every day from changing categories, loan words, their pronunciation and etymology explained.
Well, you know the meaning of this one, but here goes:

MEANING:

noun: A humorous, often risque, verse of three long (A) and two short (B) lines with the rhyme scheme AABBA. 

NOTES:

Here’s how someone has described a limerick:

The limerick packs laughs anatomical
Into space that is quite economical.
But the good ones I’ve seen
So seldom are clean
And the clean ones so seldom are comical.

Did you see the one I posted recently on Facebook?

There was a young lady from Riga
who rode with a smile on a tiger

they returned from the ride

with the lady inside

and a smile on the face of the tiger.

        I used to live near Limerick for about over 10 years on lovely Lough Derg on an organic farm and teach at UL (University of Limerick). To my astonishment, the locals were not wildly conversant in limericks or had one up their sleeve. Some never even knew what I meant. The Little book of Naughty Limericks I eventually spotted was  a rare find but not even a particularly good nor naughty one in site of the title.

For Usage, read on!

USAGE:

“First of all, the limerick judges at this newspaper would like contestants to know that we are acutely aware that ‘Journal’ rhymes with ‘urinal’. Almost as much fun as reading limericks was reading excuses from the people who wrote the limericks. It was as if we had caught someone reading the S ex With Aliens Weekly at the supermarket. Diane Harvey, of DeForest, for example, began her entrant thusly:

It is with a deep sense of shame that I submit the following puerile, low-brow limericks, and confess the guilty pleasure I had in writing them. As one who normally leads a completely respectable life, I cannot tell you what an illicit thrill it was to shed the trappings of responsible adulthood and for a ‘brief shining moment’ indulge in rude juvenile humor once again.

“Several writers put the ‘Journal-urinal’ rhyme to obvious use, and a few similarly included good-humored critiques of columnist George Hesselberg, as in the one by Dan Barker, of Madison: 

There once was a parrot named Colonel,
Who read all the papers diurnal.
But his favorite page
On the floor of his cage
Was the Hesselberg page from the Journal.” 

Now bookmark the page and subscribe whether you are a writer or not. I promise you're in for a treat! Ask Anu Lal, my co-editor. Have any good ones?

Let me add one of my own limericks created after a particularly outstanding matchmaking request; however, I couldn't come up with the goods...:)

A virgin farmer from Newcastle West
at 68 want'd to put his genes to the test
with a colleen in her thirties
to produce little Berties
a child anyway, but a male heir at his best.

 A big thank you to this wonderful free site!
Siggy Buckley

Ringing in the New Year

"New Year’s Eve in Germany normally is a noisy affair; people like fireworks and having parties. That was not the case in Ireland, neither on the farm nor in our village. Fireworks were and still are illegal in Ireland unless you have a license- e.g. for a public, official display. Living in the countryside, the most light we would see on a clear night were the stars—unless cloud coverage left us in the dark.  City lights never offer such a spectacular view above your head.

After a long day of work around the yard and tending to the animals, a farmer wants an early night. Every day of the year  has the tendency to be of a similar structure and work schedule because of the critters you take care of. Being early birds and having two small children, our night life suffered. The only sound on New Year’s Eve that I heard while lying awake and thinking of what life in Germany would be like was the ringing of the bells of the Killaloe Cathedral. Our trusted housekeeper, Pauline, had earned the privilege of ringing in the New Year at the old Protestant Church. For her it was the highlight of the season.  Mac, my Ex, usually away with the fairies already would be disturbed by the sound of the bells and mumble in his sleep. ”Can’t they keep it down a bit? I want to sleep.”

Excerpt from my upcoming book I Once had a Farm in Ireland 

 

Happy New Year, everyone, noisy or otherwise…!

The Ex Farmer's Wife

Remember, Remember the 10th of December

I chose this political topic to start off our new series of interesting, important articles as it is time sensitive.  I know it may be controversial, but when wrong has been done to a country on an ongoing basis, I like to point that out. Unfortunately, due to the time difference, I missed the timing for the rally call.

Remember Remember the 10th of December , the day that the Government Fell ,
And we lent them a hand with a final demand that would see them all go to hell ! 

With a ne'r by your leave nor a tug at the sleeve for the things that we asked for ...by right ! 
While they blackened our name and tried to defame us with talk of violence and Fight .

Well , a fight they have got , and one that is not , of the type they tried sell to the press , 
And our numbers will swell and we'll see them to hell in the wake of their own sorry mess . 

And it won't be a few that wash that whole crew right out of the Dail you can bet , 
For the days now are numbered for those that encumbered the People of Ireland with debt . 

So now God please save us from those that enslave us and help us to stand up with pride ,
And banish the ones that dance for the huns and got there because they have lied . 

We need faith in ourselves and to find that which dwells way down in the depth of our soul , 
A bond that unites and takes us to hight's of virtues that we can extol .

So now can't you see united of course ,
we can make this small country a place ,
Where the riches bestowed are a gift not a load to be taken for profit by force . 

So Remember Remember the 10th of December the day that the Government Fell ,
They are weak we are strong it is time they were gone and it's probably just as well . 

For they rule by ' Consent ' and the promises lent to the will of the people they serve , 
Now we've seen through their scam it is time they were ran and get just what they deserve .

For they lied and we cried and we let it be known , that this pain it is too much to bear ,
But from ivory towers they spend what is ours and they do it without any care .

And they don't feel our pain as we stand in the rain , sometimes you would think it's no use ,
But take heart Ochone for you stand not alone , and we'll take no more of their abuse .

If we take back our Isle then fortune will smile on a people united and strong , 
But divided we'll fall and dance to their call and that would be terribly wrong . 

We don't do this just , for our own selfish gain , we do it for each generation ,
For the ones still to come and the ones too long gone that we hold in great veneration .

When your children grow up and they ask you............................... "Where were you , on the 10th of December " ?
Don't let it be said as they put 'YOU' to bed , that ..... "I'm sorry I just don't remember " ! 

So ....Remember Remember the 10th of December , BRING OUT FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS AS WELL , 
And let it be known in every town ' TWAS....... 

Raymond Whitehead, Dublin Ireland
Co-Founder of the Democracy Direct Now
FB:https://www.facebook.com/raymond.whitehead.58?fref=ts&ref=br_tf
www.RaymondWhitehead.com

How to Pluck a Goose

by The Ex Farmer's Wife

      

               Germans love their goose for Christmas. Traditionally, the first appear on the menu of restaurants on St. Martin's day, 11 November. In the weeks leading up to our first Christmas in Ireland, word spread in the village where we had bought the farm that we had geese for sale − if only four. Though not a traditional Irish Christmas dish, there were more people interested in getting these rare birds than we could provide. One we wanted to keep for our own Christmas dinner.

          So how do you pluck a goose? This is what you need: a goose, buckets of scorching hot but not boiling water to dip the bird in head down, and some stamina, i.e. not too delicate a nose. I had practiced before in Germany on one, but to do four was a challenge. Each takes at least 90 minutes to pluck.

                                                                               (an AGA)

    
              So my trusted housekeeper and helper, Pauline, put several pots on the stove to heat up the water. On our cooker, an AGA, that would take a while. In the meantime, Mac and I chose and caught the poor first victim straight from the goose hut. When we lifted the roof of the hut carefully Father Goose became extremely aggressive, hissing and nipping at Mac's hands and jeans-clad legs. Their nips hurt! You have to grab the goose by its neck, which pretty much renders it defenseless. 

On the yard, near the compost heap on the wall, we had a timber block for splitting wood for kindling. Mac carried the goose over there, speaking in soothing tones to it, holding it with one hand and patting it with the other. He then put it on the block. I held its neck and Mac grabbed the axe. I didn't really dare to watch, but necessity made me blink and double check that my arm was outstretched far away enough out of the danger zone. With one swift swing, the goose was in goose heaven. In contrast to chickens, you can't wring their necks. They are too strong. But they don't flutter around headless on the yard either as chickens do. 

You have to let the blood drip out completely before you can proceed. Now the plucking can begin. We had an enormous double sink that we had bought from a youth hostel and put a big bucket in both basins. Dip the bird into the hot water and you can pluck away. Pauline and I stood side by side and worked on a goose each while having a good chin wag.

              Geese are much harder to pluck than chickens because their feathers are stubborn.  The worst are the pin feathers. And geese do smell. Raised on a diet of pure grass, it's surprising how much their intestines stink. After about an hour the feathers were done, and my hands, legs, and feet had gone cold and numb. At this stage, the city girl in me chickened out. My hypersensitive nose couldn’t take it anymore. I volunteered to put the kettle on for a tea break, Elevenses as they call it in Ireland. Pauline was made of tougher material. She didn't mind to keep going and always looked forward to her hot cuppa. Next she cut up the animals and pulled out the entrails, a messy and malodorous job. Then she washed them many times under running, cold water and neatly presented them on a plate.

          Grateful, I had the tea and refreshments ready. Most times we had to remove little hairs that stubbornly stuck to the skin with tweezers without tearing the skin. Then one year,  Mac had a brilliant idea: you could actually use a little flame torch like restaurants use for making Crème Brulée and just singe off the remaining fine hairs. Again, one had to be careful not to burn or damage the skin.

         Our price per animal was about 30 Irish pounds ($50 today), of which I had to pay Pauline 10 for her work. Every year, I toyed with the idea of saving the eiderdown and big feathers to fill pillow cases. The thought of cleaning these heaps of feathers, however, sounded like too much work to me. So we never did it. Today I prefer to buy a goose ready for the oven, if I can find them organically grown: plucked and cleaned! Thank goodness, my plucking days are over.

         Here’s my favorite recipe handed down from my mother: Stuffed with a mixture of breadcrumbs, apples and onions, the bird requires slow roasting at 180C/375 F under continuous basting with water, its own juices, and occasional turning. 2-3 hours is recommended. Delicious accompaniments are potatoes, red cabbage and apple sauce. Go for a lean bird: geese can be fatty. Ours never were, because they were grass-fed, free-range--the sporty, muscular type.

(Excerpt of her upcoming book: I once had a Farm in Ireland - An Organic Life Story).  

Siggy Buckley   

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