When Tony and I were looking for our house, we wanted hills and water and to be within easy reach of the coast. We are lucky enough to be only a half-hour drive from Donegal Bay - absolutely fantastic place, especially at this time of year as the golden light of summer gives way to the silver of winter and the point where the sky and the sea meet becomes harder to distinguish, writes Steph Booth
I love wild weather and it has been incredibly stormy here for the last few days, particularly on the coast. When the wind and the sea are roaring, it can be deeply satisfying and therapeutic to roar back at nature - yelling defiance at the top of your voice. This particular therapy is probably best tried when there aren't too many other people around - you could find yourself getting some strange looks.
Possibly because Tony had been saying how pleased he was that our house was on high ground, the combination of sea and rain the other day made me think of Noah. Our dogs were dashing up and down the beach in pursuit of a ball and I suddenly wondered how on earth Noah managed to organise all those animals into the ark. In picture-books the animals always march in two by two in the most orderly and sedate fashion. We find it almost impossible to get three dogs in the car. Then I thought about Mrs Noah and how much of the organised embarkation might have been down to her. I couldn't remember her name, but as Tony had a Christian Brothers education I thought he was sure to know. He couldn't remember either and it has become one of those niggling questions we're still trying to find the answer to.
It would be a shame if Mrs Noah isn't acknowledged with her own name, as she really deserves some credit in that whole adventure, particularly if the ark arrived as an IKEA flat-pack. It really does seem to be a man thing, the idea that you can rip open the packaging and put something together without giving the instruction sheet so much as a second glance. The frantic telephone calls from my sons as they have tried to put together bookshelves, futons, and so on, after they have thrown away the instructions with the packaging, are testimony to this fact. I have also endured the "helpful" advice of my husband (who quite literally doesn't know how to screw anything together) as I have methodically (following the instructions) assembled furniture.
This male mindset is also seen in the refusal to read maps or obey navigation instructions. I remember once when Tony and I were returning to our friends in Calverstown after a day out at the Curragh. As we approached a crossroads I told Tony to turn right. I repeated myself several times, reaching screeching point as we shot straight ahead towards the Wicklow Mountains. Tony refused to do a U-turn, insisting that we should go forward and that we would eventually find another route to our destination. The Wicklow Mountains are wonderful and probably worth the extra few hours they put on our journey.
If I seem a little terse with my husband it is because I am yet to forgive him for an incident on our return from England a few days ago. I was over there visiting my sons, and Tony flew out a few days later to film an episode of Doctors for the BBC. We came back by ferry together and I then drove him to the airport to pick up his car before heading for home on my own. The weather was dreadful, making driving difficult, but things were to become even worse. I was just north of Kells when I was stopped by the garda, who told me that Tony was still in Dublin. He had left his car keys in my car. I had to drive back to the airport, where I spent half an hour searching for him. I eventually tracked him down to the Garda station, where he was happily drinking tea and chatting to gardaí. I was far from pleased and my face must have given me away because as soon as I walked into the room I was offered a mug of tea. Although the gardaí were being kind and obviously wanted to smooth things over, it was going to take more than tea to appease me.
Nothing less than a dove with an olive branch clutched in its beak will convince me this storm has blown itself out!
sbooth@irish-times.ie
