Rain soaked visitors
Despite the torrential rain, tap, tapping like a typewriter on my roof, visitors come to the cottage. They all love the open fire. Turf, the ancient smell of it – leads them to me. Some Spaniards who have never seen turf before think it is cow dung and twitch their little noses in disgust. When I pick it up and show them the ancient roots of trees within, they are simply amazed. The different people that come today offer a spectacle of endless variety and interest. Two cowboys from Texas, water dripping from their stetsons force the half-door open and emerge like extras in a Western. Cowboys in Ireland!! What a vision. They are utterly hilarious and down a cup of tea with me.To my delight they love the tin paintings and buy two small ones of lassies catching mackerel in their boat. When they leave and brave the torrents, I sit quietly and listen to the thunderous wind howling outside. It sounds brutal.
Suddenly there is a knock on the door, a philosophical French man wanders in with an air of detachment and no obvious motive. “I do not like folk art,” he says forlornly. “I won’t hold that against you,” I laugh. He relaxes and we talk about cooking. He is a chef. Before I know it I have the perfect recipe for ‘Pommes Souffle’ a difficult dish to cook as it is all based on the temperature and quality of the boiling oil. I am so, so happy.
“Why do you paint so many weddings,” he asks, curiosity mounting. I tell him the truth. “Last year I was meant to get married and I changed my mind.It consoles me greatly when I paint folk who do. Being your own woman is a grand gift and one that I cherish!”
“Really?” he says.
“Yep,” I reply, “the mystery that is marriage should always be attended with great humour.”
So what did the French man who didn’t like folk art do? He promptly bought a picture of a very plump, happy couple getting hitched!. Ahem.