Thoughts out of Season

The Christmas debacle endured and survived and in bed by 23:30 on New Year's Eve - one can't complain. The post-Christmas spiritual recuperation in Schull worked its magic once again: the morning encounter with the congenitally upbeat Tom Brosnan in the local Spar; the lubricious crusty bread that is designed purely for a one-day stand; and then the long walk with the dogs on Toormore, Tragumna, or Barelycove beaches; back to read for a few hours - this Christmas I was reading J. G. Farrell's letters and Roberto Bolano's quirky masterpiece 2666; and then the crucial pre-dinner drinks in Hackett's (or for a change The Irish Whip in Ballydehob) where affairs of family and state are thrashed out (and Lucy from the Czech Republic, behind the bar, adds a frisson); and so to dinner which could be one of Tom Brosnan's succulent pork fillets or could be a trip to Antonio's in Ballydehob - Annies being now de trop.