58. Omey Island

Omey Island is tiny, separated from the mainland by a strand of shallow water that at low tide reveals three miles of golden sand. In the summer at low tide they have horse races on the strand - it's that kind of place. Omey is a sacred island for the people of the West of Ireland, and it is sacred for the Bakers too, as that is where my mother scattered my father's ashes 18 years ago.

When on family holidays in the area we'd drive across the sand, put down our picnic rug and stay there for the day. When the small brother was a baby he was fond of eating the thistles and sand of Omey Island, and look how tall and handsome he turned out. Mum spent most of the day with her bottom in the air, fishing about under the sand with her badger paws looking for cockles (which then she made us eat - not so good.)

Dad gave me my first ever driving lesson on Omey, but gave up when I hurtled towards one of the few immoveable objects in the strand at 40 miles per hour, in reverse. Why were we going backwards, when we could have been going forwards? At the end of the day we all piled in to Sweeney's pub just across the water for a Britvic 55 or a Cidona before going back to whichever rented cottage we were in for sausages and mash. Compared to that, you can keep posh hols in hot places.

So last weekend I walked across the strand, which was still wet and covered in bumpy squiggles of sand, to the island and had a little mooch about. I stood on a high point and looked across to the mainland, and down the estuary both ways - left to the Atlantic, right to the sea lough - and thought that a nice island with a view and a regular horse event was exactly the kind of thing he liked.

There are a few houses on Omey but both the cemetery and the island itself are safe from development which shows that the Irish are smart about some things. There was a gaggle of nice looking cows standing together having a cow meeting and my sister remembers meeting a nice old chap who lived there who had an excellent dog called Rex.

So Omey was always special - and one day I hope the next generation of sand-eating Bakers will eat their egg sandwiches on a rug, and swim in the sea, and stand on a high spot and think that a view and some cows and a regular horse event is just exactly right.

57. The Human Eye

Just back from three days in Connemara. Loved every minute of it and will be ekeing out every last detail for blog entries over the next few days. My only disappointment has been in the quality (or lack of it) of my photography. We stopped the car frequently to take pictures of the gobstopping scenery, but they're no good, because Ireland doesn't work in 2D. You had to be there, with the air in your lungs and on your face, and the sound of the lough lapping at the rocks at your feet - the ancient hillsides stretching away into forever - the brand new 'Best Gift Shop in Ireland' just behind you and mercifully out of sight.

The most boring pictures are of the most painfully beautiful sights. One set of photos - from the road towards Cashel, posted here - look plain and brown, but in 3D and standing there, the power of it moved me nearly to tears. I'm susceptible, I know, but of all the places I have been, and scenery I have looked at, these craggy Irish hills mean the most.

So our eyes are still more use to us than cameras, because they are connected to our ears, and our skin, and our hearts.

56. Bread and Cheese

Good bread, obviously. And the finest cheeses known to humanity. But if you're actually hungry a slice of mother's shame and a triangle of Dairylea is food for the gods.

Herself and the dog are clinically addicted to cheese, so evenings on which we have bread and cheese and salad (and wine) for supper are usually eventful. I have to watch my supper very carefully or risk it disappearing. Last night it was baguette, Manchego, Beurre d'Isigny Camembert and Boursin (oh so cosmopolitano!). Plus pinot noir and a tomato salad. Yumptious. The dog patted my foot with her paw every twenty seconds for half an hour just to remind me that no cheese need go to waste. In fact, it might have been Herself doing that...

Bread and Cheese is the perfect food for travelling, as it is available in all languages at all times of the day and night. When you come in wet and cold from a long winter walk a slab of cheddar on a bit of bread and a mug of steaming sweet tea will stop your teeth chattering in no time. When you've just moved in to a new house, or arrived at a rented place it's good too, because you don't need a plate and your Swiss Army knife will do the job if you want to be fancy and not just use your teeth.

You can dress it up and dress it down but other than a glass of wine you don't need much else to sustain life and restore energy and good spirits. There are fancier suppers, but they are not necessarily better suppers.

55. Packing

I am rubbish at packing. I always forget something crucial like underwear or my pyjamas. Herself's eyes roll about in her head quite wildly when it comes to my packing - but even though I do it badly, I enjoy it.

And why wouldn't I? Packing means I'm going away. Packing is an opportunity to wrestle my ridiculous teenage wardrobe into something I might just about call 'capsule'. Packing is a chance to buy little plastic containers from Muji, and tiny portions of shampoo and conditioner from Superdrug. Ooh, maybe I need to buy one of those towels that gets things dry like magic. And there's always a good chance that suddenly none of my bags will be suitable and I'll have to treat myself to a cool new one.

The best packing used to be before we went to NYC. We just packed two pairs of shoes and a spare pair of underpants. But those days of carefree cheap shopping are long gone. Sigh.

Me and the BP are off to Ireland on Friday. The fallout from Ejollkdskdjowijldlllhalshdlsklsllll has stopped (Kinda, we're just ignoring it, I think) and there's a good chance our Ryanair tub will spirit us across to the Emerald Isle after all. There's also a good chance we'll spend the weekend at Stansted. But let's not dwell...

What's fun in packing terms about this weekend is that Ryanair are total fascists and charge £20 EACH WAY for you to check a bag into the hold - so we're going carry-on. The acceptable bag dimensions are laughable but talk about a challenge! Can I get full rain gear, my running stuff, clothes for three days of god knows what weather, and shoes and toiletries and a book and my camera and a spare battery and a day bag and a pen and a roll of mints into a bag teeny enough to suit Ryanair? CAN I?

No. It would be absurd for me to take my running gear when I am planning to drink my considerable body weight in Smithwicks every day. I will not take full rain gear on principle. I only need one pair of shoes. OK - maybe two. And it's not as if we need worry about high fashion - we're going to Connemara not Milan.

This trip has more in common with the Famous Five than anything else. We'll just take jerseys, shorts and wellies. And small plastic containers. Even I can get that packing right. Can't I?

54. A Busy Day

There hasn't been much work around for this freelance copywriter recently, and while I have been writing fiction, and trying to find new clients and generally keeping busy, I haven't actually been busy. There are many many good things about the freelance life, but one of the bad things is that you don't get that Friday feeling. A pint outside the pub on a Friday evening doesn't have the same blissful tang of freedom about it when you can do it whenever you want...

But yesterday, I had a properly busy day. I had a job of work to do which was challenging technically and then the client decided to be challenging too so I was under some actual stress. Then there were various administrative tasks which had to be taken care of, in the midst of which the man came to take the poor old Mercedes away. Herself had a meeting over lunch so I ate my sandwich in the basement and was back at my desk 15 minutes later. Broke the back of the job of work, then set off for Sarf London to collect the new car. Herself was a jangling ball of nerves and worry all the way home which didn't make for the most peaceful journey, but the Audi is a dream - thanks for asking.

Sent off the job of work to the challenging clients, and went for a two mile run with my brother. No, not that one, the other one. I know! That was fun but I know now that I can't leave it a week between runs. Home, shower, make the dinner, relax.

Phew! Great day. Loved it. Busy - that's what we like.

53. Cooking while Dancing

Now, seriously, this is not for amateurs. It's pretty skilled and requires both rhythm and grooviness.

As a general guide for beginners:

Today is Blue's birthday party, with many (but NOT ALL) of her favourite bipeds foregathering to wish her a happy first decade. Sadly, Blue can't cook, so it's up to me to prepare the dinner. We're having lasagna. So - I grasp my trusty 12" Global and prepare to chop, fry and simmer a delicious meat ragu into existence. To help me along the way, I select my favourite cheesy radio station (no, I will not tell you which one it is) and sure enough before long they're playing Earth, Wind and Fire. Perfect. Chop chop chop, shimmy shimmy shimmy, chop chop chop. Because I am both experienced and oh so hip, I can chop while shimmying, but it is DANGEROUS. That knife is sharp. But so are my dancing skills. Oh yeah.

Needless to say, unless you are Justin Timberlake, this is not a spectator sport, because you'll look like a bloody idiot. However, unless I'm very much mistaken you will be cooking with a big grin on your face, and I'll be blowed if that happiness doesn't transfer itself into the taste of the food. So bear that in mind the next time you're cooking. Add a little wiggle, a secret shimmy, into the mix and see if you can't taste the difference.

Happy Birthday Blue!

NB: Never dance while operating hot liquids. That's just stupid.

52. Converse Daps

I know, everybody wears them. But everybody wears them for a reason.

This long, cold, boring, miserable winter meant that my daps were locked up in storage for much longer than usual. But I got them out last week, and have been reminded of their all-round marvellousness. They're comfy, they're still cool, they go with everything. They make your legs look as though they are only 2 inches long, it's true, but as my legs aren't much longer than that I don't let it worry me.

If I had all the money in the world I would still buy Converse daps. Honest.