Okay, so the perfect day will never happen. Shane’s not here, so that puts the kibosh on that particular idea; the days of laughing till we cried at ‘You’ve Been Framed’ are but a distant, albeit very happy, memory. I wonder sometimes if a child has died in a car accident or through cancer, is it easier to heal? – I have a notion that it’s not. Anyway, this is not a grieving mother’s rant, it’s just a random amusing musing.
Quite often, I’m asked ‘does it ever get better?’ The answer to that is – I haven’t a clue; maybe some days. The last few weeks have been strange, from boogying at a wedding and a 70s night respectively, to introducing an influx of little relations to the highly-entertaining mastery of ‘Golly fishing‘. Considering that ‘almost 50s’ boogying is not a pretty sight, I thought I’d share the art of Golly fishing instead, with the unfortunates that happen to live outside of Wicklow.
A Golly, by the way, is a Wicklow crab. The art is to bait the crabs with meat bones (cooked or uncooked), reel them in and collect them in a bucket, before releasing them back into the water – hopefully none the worse for wear from their encounter with humans. In our case butcher’s sausages were all we could find in the fridge, but they did the trick all the same. My friend Polly seems to think that a Dub would be useless at this particular art, considering it’s a sport native to Wicklow and we are in fact what is widely referred to as ‘blow-ins’. Meh!
While the Dubs can be
spotted heard a mile away with their high decipel screams, the Wicklowites are far more civilised. The Dub’s screams of ‘geh de buckeh’, which translated into the queen’s English means ‘Get the bucket’, can be heard far and wide, much to the bemused mild disgust of the locals. My little nieces and nephews who came from Dubai, London, Ballybrack and Greystones, despite the terror of being bitten, concluded that it was the best fun EVER!
My brother Leo, who knows everything about everything, attempted to show us how it’s done and picked up a Golly with his bare hands – how brave. He screamed like a bloody banshee when he was nipped by the poor crab, much to the delight/terror of the children. Granny, the one with nerves of steel, had no such qualms and showed us how it’s done. It should be noted that she also looked on with a face of mild disgust, at the antics and roars of her children. She said the grandchildren at least had an excuse, being mostly under the age of 6. I’ve noticed the same look when I do my own version of riverdance, anytime a wasp comes anywhere near me. Seriously though, if you haven’t made a ‘holy show’ of your mother, you haven’t lived long enough.
While we started off with 3 buckets and 3 fishing lines, due to the aforementioned brother’s overenthusiastic 2 year old, we came home with no buckets and 2 fishing lines. Hopefully we won’t be fined for polluting the Leitrim river. Maybe the lone bucket, which was last seen floating down to the sea with a full catch of crabs, might make it’s way to the Liffey so the Dubs can get in on the act. I highly recommend it – the best free fun ever – apart from making a holy show of your mother that is.