Aoife Desmond.
THE GREENHOUSES OF CUSHENDALL
Extracts from a Cushendall Diary. September 2010
Day 1
I sit for a while just left of the main strand, looking at the sea and listening to the waves lapping.
Day 2
I walk up the hill behind the tower leading away from the town and the sea. The houses thin out to become a country road. Fuchsia hedges and abundant blackberries compel me to pick them though I have no bag. I vow to return with a bag and walk on but then start to look for a discarded plastic bag that I can use. There are several plastic bags filled with rubbish but then I find a usable empty bag. I walk past a field being ploughed and somehow feel part of the work being done, meshed into the moment like everything in that space and time is co-existing. I start to pick blackberries and notice the change in focus, previously had been outwards looking at the view, the fields, hills and mountains in the distance. Now all I see are blackberries, the pace is slow and it is hard to move without being stopped by more berries presenting themselves for picking. Eventually the bag is filling and I decide to return trying not to pick more berries as the bag is becoming uncomfortably heavy, but it seems impossible once started to ignore ripe berries. There is an incredible abundance, I feel like urging all the residents of Cushendall to pick blackberries and make jam. There is something very basic about this activity. The last time I remember making jam and picking berries was in my childhood with my mother, grandmother and aunts. It seems a strange task to do alone. This walk has a theme of redness, red stained hands, rosehips, red hawthorn berries, red admirals and peacock butterflies that stop occasionally.
In the evening I walk along by the river past the churches and back again at the crossroads, then past the Spar to the strand, the way the bus came in. This is a rather bleak part of Cushendall, housing estates, semi abandoned sports grounds and a general air of neglect. After the caravan park I turn down to the small pier, read the information plaque and turn left back to the town along by the strand. No real path after walking the shore for a while I go through the caravan park which leads to a small harbour with an estate of houses surrounding it, the path leads around the corner where the strand and golf course come into view. Anglers are half submerged in water, fishing.
Day 3
The river, gardens, the first seen glasshouses, a mountain to the left, I walk on till encroaching darkness and the busyness of the road make me turn back. As I return and pass the path that leads down to the river, the fisherman appears and shows me his catch, a beautiful brown trout.
Day 4
I reach the turn off to the church. At the entrance is a crab apple tree, black knarled branches and laden with fruit. The Layde Church yard is quiet no one else is visiting in the rain. Soft grass seems to envelop everything lapping at the edges of the graves and ruins. I enter the church, there is a sheltered part with remains of a fire and cans but I find it dark and musty and return outside to the rain. I wander the grounds for a while walking over to the edge to look seawards, then I turn to find the cliff path that leads back to Cushendall. The path is exhilarating despite the rain, to be perched high hugging the coast feels birdlike. At one point I find a sloe bush in full fruit. The path shows the fronts of the houses that I had been viewing from the back. I pass over a seemingly disused boathouse somewhat lonely looking, blindly gazing at the sea.
Extracts from a Cushendall Diary. October 2010
Day 1
I head for the sea and walk to the boathouse, I sit there for a while looking out.
Day 2
Rosehips, a glasshouse and further along a boat is incongruously placed beside the road overgrown with ferns and moss, re-naturalised, a landlocked vessel become arboreal. Past the partially hidden polytunnel, the crab apple tree is now pretty much barren having shed most of its fruit and leaves. Some rotten fruit is strewn on the ground.
Later following the shore leading towards Redbay. I pass the small pier where two blond haired boys are playing with a tyre, the older one rolls it into the sea. I continue along the shore and cut through the caravan park, it feels more intrusive to walk through streets of caravans rather than streets of houses. There are no cars, no lights on, all the caravans/mobile homes are empty. I come to the next pier and boat club and keep going. There is no path I walk along the shore picking shells and sea driftings. Some of the houses that lead to the sea here are huge and have their own private access for boats. I keep going past two barking dogs and a yacht perched at an odd angle the last marker of Cushendall village. The shore now hugs the road and a bridge. Another line of caravans is perched above the road they are painted that kind of lichen green that seems to be particular to Cushendall. I have seen several corrugated iron structures painted that distinctive colour. Too dark to photograph the line of caravans now, one is lit up but as I walk on it is an illusion, an orange sodium street lamp behind a corner of windows suggesting occupancy. Another deserted caravan park in Cushendall at winter. I walk on reaching the road now and keep going to Redbay castle. I keep going to the pier. There is a boat at the end and I walk down, one man paces, we greet each other I walk on, a man and boy are busy with their fishing rods by their car. I walk to the end of the pier, step over the barrier, and walk round the corner there is a strong wind and an amazing view outwards from here. I stand for a while looking and then turn back to return to the village.
Day 3
Rain, disinclined to walk. I again take the road that I think leads to Ossians grave. I walk to where I had walked the day before and keep going. A farmer strides up the road, wellingtons and wax jacket. I am in waterproofs but my walking boots are inadequate in this deluge. As I walk on the rain worsens and dusk is falling. It is a beautiful but bleak part of Cushendall. The road leads to a gate. I climb over, I am now on private property but am determined to reach if not Ossians grave then some kind of resolution. An outhouse stands lonely the only structure in this part. There is a small mountain ahead that the road leads towards. Rain, darkness, the road worsens, more gates, sheep, the small mountain to the left now, mud, water, on some more, on some more then eventually I have to admit this road is not leading anywhere and turn back.
Day 4
I take the road that forks off the ‘Ossians dead end’ road. I know according to my map that this will loop back to Cushendall. Again it feels wrong to be a pedestrian, these roads are not for walking on, only driving. Sunshine and many greenhouses, sheds and structures seen from the road, over hedges. The road curves and rises, every bend seems to curve higher and further away from Cushendall, no sign of where it will loop to. Mist descends, that sunshine is back in Cushendall now, eventually far across the valley a parallel road appears but no sign of the one that I am on connecting to it. Cars pass, headlights on because of the mist. A cyclist appears, luminous in yellow, some likeness in speed. He passes too and slowly weaves out of view, revealing the link to the parallel road far ahead. Walk on, walk on, walk on. Reach the other road and turn in the direction of Cushendall again. Still slow but seems a bit faster because it is a return not a going. A car stops and an elderly couple offers me a lift, I am very touched particularly as the back seat contains two sleeping babies, but I decline their offer, saying that I want to walk which is true, but it is far longer and more arduous than I had imagined. Walk on walk on, past the pieced together Nordic looking house perched on the edge, walk on walk on, how many more turns till I come to the point I had reached before and return to the village.
AD 2011
