It’s just beautiful here at the moment.  Freezing, admittedly, but stunning.  Every morning we’re waking to a shimmery smattering of frost, glittering in low orange winter sun.

Of course, all this makes for a rather dicey trip down to the main road every morning to catch the bus.  I had a minor sideways episode this morning and had a little mutter to myself about the stupidity of replacing the admittedly knackered jeep with a very impractical Volvo.

The gorgeous Lou still manages to arrive, fragrant and pristine, on the dot of 7.40am every morning, but did set the cat amongst the pigeons with de brevren by mentioning the rather large amount of days off she had last winter when the snow set in and the trip to the bus became impossible.  ’Savage’, I heard The Mad Professor say to himself, no doubt thinking of long mornings in bed without me screeching ‘will you bloody well GET UP!’ from the bottom of the stairs.

I would try and look more closely at the weather forecast, but the Irish Times lists national weather by area, and with my grip of Irish geography being a bit patchy and without googling every single place (Claremorris? Ballinagore?) I have no idea which place to pick to get a forecast anywhere near me.

I miss my walks down the boat road, but somehow without a dog as company its lure on a frosty morning isn’t so appealing.  Although we’re in the throes of adopting a little lurcher girl who was cruelly abandoned in the Dublin hills.  We’re meeting her for the first time on Saturday and all being well and once the stitches have been removed from her multiple injuries (people are cruel, aren’t they?) she could well be ours.  I have good feelings about it all, so maybe there’ll be boat road/doggy pictures in the offing very soon!

I’d forgotten about this until recently, but when we were all staggering down the boat road one afternoon over Christmas, stuffed to the gunnels with ridiculously rich food, we started talking about eating teeny, tiny amounts of really, really nice food.  So, you’re on death’s door, and you can only ingest one more spoonful before you die (okay, so I’m rubbish at scenarios – invent your own), your absolute favouritest, yummiest thing in the whole world – what would it be?

Me: golden syrup.  Is there anything nicer?  It smells absolutely delicious too.  I think someone should invent a perfume with eau de golden syrup tones in it.  Fahbilis.

Hubby: the middle of a Cadbury’s Creme Egg. (I agree with this too – probably my second choice)

#1: Nutella (correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this the same stuff that’s in the middle of those Ferrero Rocher chocolates?)

#2: peanut butter (well thought out, it would last for ages seeing as most of it would end up on the roof of your mouth)

Over to you, then.  Your last, precious spoonful on this earth.  What’s it to be?

So I was halfway down the boat road yesterday and a lady drove down the road beside me.  Now it’s quite a small single track lane, so as usual I hurled myself into the grass verge, dragging a reluctant Bert with me, to let her pass.  She slowed down to stop and have a chat.  This happens quite a lot – it’s a sociable place, and Hubby and I often pass the time of day with people as they pass by.  This lady, though, really made me smile.  She wound down the window, gave me a lovely smile, then turned to Bert.

‘Having a nice walk?’, she said to him, ‘it’s a beautiful day’.

Bert did that silly wag, that not only circles his skinny tail, but wags his whole body too, flattened his ears to his head and leant forward to lick her hand.

‘You’re beautiful’, she said.  ‘I often pass you on the boat road and think what a lovely boy you are’.

Bert wagged harder, licked her hand a bit more, and strained against the lead to try to get to her face so her could give her a nice wash.  I concentrated on keeping him from jumping up and scratching her paintwork with his nails.

She ruffled his ears, stroked his (very soft) head, and added ‘I bet you’re pampered, you’re in very good condition’.

Bert, who was happily getting his left ear scritched, agreed with this wholeheartedly.

‘Well, have a nice walk then!’, the nice lady called out as she drove off.

As I walked home, I reflected on a place where someone will stop, have an entire conversation with your dog, then move off with a cheery wave, and it doesn’t even seem weird.

Okay, so I apologise for the really long, tenuously linked title, but you just won’t believe this.  No, you really won’t.  So we’re tootling down the boat road with Bert yesterday and a splash of white on the grass verge catches my eye.  ‘Oh look’, says I, ‘there’s a huge mushroom over there’.  ‘Ooh’, says Hubby, I’m having that for my breakfast tomorrow’. 

Well, dearest reader.  You could have knocked me down with the downdraft from one of those little whirly seed things that fall off trees. 

Me: ‘You’re going to eat something that grows on the same grass verge where Bertie pees?’

Himself: ‘Too right I am – look at it, it’s gorgeous’

Me: ‘Are you even sure it’s an edible mushroom?;

Himself: ‘Meh, course it is, it’s growing in a field isn’t it? It’s a field mushroom, obviously’

Me: ‘You are aware that we’re travelling to the United Kingdom tomorrow in order to attend my cousin’s wedding, and for you to die in between times would be of enormous inconvenience?’

Hubby: *sigh*.  ‘It’s just a bloody mushroom.’

So I gave up.  Hubby picked the mushroom and we walked home with me muttering ominously about food poisoning, weird hallucinatory trips, certain death and other such mushroom-induced phenomenon.

Anyhoo, this morning he cooked and ate the bloody thing.  AND he fed it to the bottomless pit that is our oldest child (he didn’t tell me that bit – I was in the shower).  In my defence, I did forcibly march him to the computer and make him google pictures and descriptions of edible mushrooms, and what to look out for in order to avoid killing oneself with dodgy self-harvested fungi.

And they’re both still alive.  Fancy that, eh?  Oh and don’t worry, I checked our life cover.

So it’s beautiful today – sunny and warm, and the fields are so green they’re practically glowing. Bert and I tootle down the boat road. The old man that often waves as he passes us in his little car slows down and stops. The conversation goes something like this:

Old man (in a Cavan accent as thick as treacle): Well!

Me: Well. Isn’t it a gorgeous day?

Old man: Sure it’s a grand day now. But where are your pink wellies?

Me: Oh. Er, I’ve completely worn them out!

Old man: Sure that’s a terrible shame. Are you after getting any more?

Me: Oh yes, it won’t stay this nice for long.

Old man: Ah, that’s good news. You’ll be making sure they’re pink ones now? They’re just right for the boat road.

Me: Oh, trust me, they’ll be pink.

Old man: Well, that’s grand so. Good luck!

And with that, he started his little car and drove away.

Who needs Dublin when you have fashion tips right here on your doorstep eh?

So I can’t remember if I told you, but Hubby and I discovered that if you walk along the road, go past the top of the Boat Road, turn up towards the church and just keep going, this eventually wraps around and joins the very bottom of the Boat Road by the lake and is a very enjoyable 45 minute round trip.  Bert’s not happy about the added walking and has been protesting by sitting down every ten minutes or so for a breather and pretending to pee every five seconds to slow us down. 

Anyhoo, today we were just up past the church and had started on the first little downhill bit when were were accosted, yes, dear reader, accosted by a small ginger midget.  The furry little yapper could only have been about six inches tall but came at us like a teeny torpedo: ‘yapyapyapyapyapyapyap…‘  Bert did his best ‘oh look at that really interesting fence’ routine of ignoring anything remotely annoying, and we trotted briskly on our way, hoping the little yappy twerp would bugger off.  No such luck.  The ‘yapyapyapyapyapyapyap…‘  was hot on our trail.  Now halfway down the slopey bit and I could see Hubby starting to come over all cross.  He’s not a fan of high pitched noise (small squeaky children being a particular bugbear) and little yappy dogs are no different.  We carried on, faster.  Me bustling on, trying to encourage Bert to get going, and Hubby silently simmering with rage.  Hot on our heels, small ginger ‘yapyapyapyapyapyapyap…‘ brought himself up to his full six inches, bristled a little bit and yapped harder, prancing around poor Bert’s feet. 

All too soon (and I knew it was only a matter of time), Hubby lost the plot and, rounding on the little hairy shortarse shouted:

‘WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!’

in a very uncivilized manner.  Well.  Ginger yapper looked a bit shocked, gave us his best ‘how very dare you’ glare, stopped yapping and trotted back the way he’d come.

Cesar Millan eat your heart out, eh?