Dermott Hayes's Blog: Postcard from a Pigeon, page 35
October 17, 2016
Tech Billionaires Want to Destroy the Universe
First they changed the way we bore ourselves online, revolutionized hotels and taxis and minor financial transactions, and gave us lightbulbs that won’t switch on if you haven’t installed the right software driver. Now—it was always inevitable—they want to destroy the universe.
Sam Kriss
Oct 13, 2016 – The Atlantic
October 16, 2016
October 15, 2016
It’s Official: Fox’s ‘Hidden Figures’ NASA Film to Get Oscar-Qualifying Limited Release — genoscala
The movie focuses on the untold story of three African-American women (Taraji P. Henson, Octavia Spencer and Janelle Monae) who worked behind the scenes on key space programs. read more from Movies http://ift.tt/2eEd1Py via IFTTT
via It’s Official: Fox’s ‘Hidden Figures’ NASA Film to Get Oscar-Qualifying Limited Release — genoscala
A Dio, Albaycin; Hello, Dublin
As the sun set on Albaycin, Granada, it’s time to get back to Dublin and work.
But before that, one last look and one last night in this beautiful city but particularly Albaycin. This is the view from the Mirador San Nicolas, as the sun sets. Myself and my brother decided we’d take one last night to eat and drink well but particularly, pause for a minute longer to take in this breathtaking view.
As for the food, well my last great dish was a grilled sea bass on a bed of squid ink linguini with a little Andalusian sauce on the side. This was in the Restaurant Estrella de San Nicolas.
It is a nice view and I don’t mean the food. That was good, too.
Getting back to Dublin was a shock to the system. Although I was only away for a week, it was cold. In Granada the temperature ranged between 26º and 28° C, every day. Back in Dublin, it’s a chilling 11º. That’s a shock.
But life goes on and tomorrow, the writing starts again. But first, the food, so I spent all morning in the local market restocking my food supplies and my fridge. Tonight I cooked a delicious fillet of fresh hake and garnished in with a Moorish and Andalusian sauce made with apricot, almond flakes, garlic, tomato and olive oil. Well, you have to ease yourself into the change. At least all the produce, with the exception of the olive oil, the apricots and the almonds, were Irish.
October 13, 2016
Tlachtga, Goddess of Earth and Fire
Ali Isaac, no more than myself, has no time for the modern mock travesty that is Haloween but he does cast some interesting light on the true origins of its customs.
Tlachtga, Goddess of Earth and Fire
http://www.aliisaacstoryteller.com
“My name is Tlachtga, daughter of Mog Ruith. This hill is my place, my heart’s home. Only a few bones remain of what once stood here, for mankind has wrought his destruction upon it, as he did also upon my flesh. In those days, I rode the skies with my father in the great wheel of light, a rare magic known only to few, and folk would watch and fall to their knees in fearful prayer, claiming we commanded the sun. For long years after my suffering, great fires were lit in my honour. But time eroded understanding, and the people forgot why. The priests of the new religion came and wrote me out of history, for they were not fond of powerful women, and my name drifted like a lost whisper on the breeze. I have been grievously wronged, but should you…
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October 12, 2016
B’stilla, my beating heart
I couldn’t find b’stilla until I had a close shave with Alad’in, the barber of Albayzin.
For those who don’t know, b’stilla is a traditional Moroccan/Andulusian savoury/sweet poultry pie enriched with scrambled egg, almonds, sugar and cinnamon. Although in its most traditional form the poultry used was pigeon, it is more often served with shredded chicken thighs or quail. It was commonly served as an appetiser or starter at Moroccan weddings.
So while trudging the narrow cobblestoned streets of Albayzin, I made a point of checking the menus of every Moorish restaurant in the neighbourhood in a vain search for this has to be tasted to be believed dish. Not a chance.
Until I went for a haircut and a hot shave in the Albayzin Barbers, close to the Church of San Nicholas. Here, I met Alad’in, who, apart from running a cool barbershop and giving me the most, simultaneously relaxing and exhilarating hot shave I’ve ever had while engaging in banter about the NFL, the beauty of Granada and Irish pubs in Manhattan, told me where to buy b’stilla.
Now it’s been raining all day in Granada and people are walking about with umbrellas and sour faces. The cobblestones are greasy and tricky to walk on.
But after telling me b’stilla would be available in almost every Moroccan restaurant if you ask for it – because, while it’s rarely on the menu, they make it for themselves – Alad’in told me he knew a place, a local bakery, where the b’stilla was always fresh and the best, because it’s baked by a Moroccan woman. Then he announced he would go one better and bring me there, himself.
So he closed up shop and we took off through the rain soaked streets in search of b’stilla. Turns out the little bakery was less than ten metres from my apartment but hidden from view up an even tinier alley than where I’ve been staying all week.
We bought three, for the ludicrously far from grand total of €9.50; one for Alad’in for his overwhelming hospitality, one of myself and one for my brother, who was enjoying a siesta.
They were delicious and a righteous lunchtime snack. Praise be to Alad’in, the Barber of Albayzin.
October 10, 2016
Fish, please
Found a restaurant today, Bar Kiki, beside the church of San Nicolas and this view. It said ‘especialadad de mariscos’ right under the name. I was sold. Blazing heat, panoramic view, cold beer and a seafood specialist, got me.
The special of the day, chalked on a blackboard was grilled tuna steak. It was sensational.
October 9, 2016
Albaycin, Granada
So here I am in Albaycin, Granada in Andalusia , southern Spain. The weather is beautiful , it’s 28
October 8, 2016
Trumpet’s Downfall, part 5
This the final instalment of The Rise & Fall of Donald Trumpet Esq. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.Critiques and comments welcomed.
Trumpet set Phibbs to examining the legality of the charges and what his potential liability might amount to while he marched to the door of Mademoiselle Fifi Fontaine.
It was Mrs Mayfly who greeted him.
‘Why Alderman Trumpet,’ she purred, ‘how nice to see you again, so soon?’
‘I wish to see your mistress, Madame.’
‘Certainly, Alderman, the young mistress is taking breakfast in the drawing room. She’s all packed and ready to hand over the keys.’
Trumpet paid no heed and stormed past her, into the drawing room where Mademoiselle Fifi was, indeed, talking a breakfast of madeleines and cafe au lait.
‘Bonjour, cherie,’ she greeted him, her face beaming in the late morning sunlight as she sat in the curve of the drawing room’s bay window. He paused for a moment, entranced, then shook himself, as though to shake off her greeting and the image of her.
‘I have been charged with owning this business,’ he said, ‘I have no recollection of buying it.’
‘Mais oui, cherie, you bought it from me last night. I did not want to sell but you made a very generous offer.’
‘I never made any offer or bought this place…’
‘I am so sorry to hear you say so, cherie, but we made a detailed letter of agreement which was notarised and then signed and witnessed by both of us in the presence of Mrs Mayfly and the notary.’
‘Oh and who was this so-called notary and how much am I supposed to have paid for this business?’
‘One hundred thousand guineas, cherie, that was the price because you bought not just the building and the service of the girls but the goodwill also, as for the notary, here he is now.’
Trumpet turned to see Bench walk into the room.
‘What the…Bench? What, in the devil’s name, is going on?’
‘I’m not obliged to speak to you since this matter is sub judice, however, I can say that I helped you draft the document of sale and then notarised it since I am a legally licensed notary although I’ve never practised.’
Trumpet felt his head turn light and he slumped into a chair, his wig adrift.
‘We can, however, resolve this issue,’ Mademoiselle Fifi said.
Trumpet turned to look at her.
‘I didn’t wish to sell La Confiture but your price was so good…’
‘Would you be interested in cancelling the sale?’
‘Oh, no, Monsieur, that would not be good business, n’est-ce pas?’
‘But I’ve never really owned it…’
‘Au contraire, M’sieur, we have the documents and the bill of sale to prove it.’
She was delighted with Trumpet’s discomfort but sick of his company, so she said, ‘perhaps there is one way we can resolve your predicament?’
Trumpet looked up, anxious to hear her proposal.
‘I could buy La Confiture back from you, at a price?’
‘One hundred thousand guineas,’ Trumpet exclaimed.
‘Oh no, m’sieur, I’m afraid not, especially since last night when the house has gained notoriety and some legal problems. No, the most I can offer you and, under the circumstances, it’s a generous offer, is 20,000 guineas.’
‘That’s extortion. It’s robbery,’ Trumpet looked pleadingly at Mademoiselle Fifi, Mrs Mayfly and Bench but found no solace in any of them.
‘This is business, m’sieur, you can always take your chances with the court…’
…………………..
Trumpet waited impatiently for his lawyer, Arthur Phibbs. He was, at least, rid of La Confiture and the serpentine Mademoiselle Fifi. Now he must turn his attention to the issue of the fisheries and his operation on the foreshore. He didn’t give any thought to the election although he felt at least that was in hand and his fellow councilmen would support him if they knew what was good for them.
By the time Phibbs arrived he’d worked up a sufficient lather of indignation and entitlement, he was considering counter charges against everyone lined against him. He told the lawyer about the deal over La Confiture and how he was cheated out of 80,000 guineas. Lawyer Phibbs soon took the wind out of those sails.
‘Your political career is dead in its tracks, ‘Alderman’ Trumpet, you’ve made the worst mistake someone like you should ever make, you’ve been caught and with your hand in more sweet jars, than your most venal rival could imagine.
‘You cheated the fishermen, the migrants and at least half a dozen prominent businessmen, even your predecessor, Sylvester Crook an aptly named man that even your antics might embarrass.’
‘To top it all, you bought a brothel, which might be no bad thing in its own right except most of its best customers would never go there if your hands were on the reins. About the only thing anyone might’ve said in your favour was to take the Government’s coin for the use of your name while never paying a penny tax yourself.’
‘Except you did it on the backs of decent workers, old families and all of them, stalwart voters. The only analogy I might entertain for you, sir, is of Icarus, vain, greedy and stupid, overburdened by entitlement, he learned the price of pride and fell crashing to the ground.
‘My advice to you is to make a settlement with the fishermen, sell your properties and then throw yourself at the mercy of the Magistrate in the hope all this stays here, in this court and doesn’t inflate itself and your trouble to Crown Assizes.’
……………………..
Rejected and dejected, Donald Trumpet failed to contest the election at the hustings. It didn’t matter, Thomas Wellspring II had mustered the old money and influence in the town against him. Most were particularly incensed, not just by the Trumpet tax but changing the town’s name to Trumpet Cove, too.
Secretly, many of them, as the Honourable Arthur Phibbs had predicted, held a grudging admiration for how he’d cheated the government and then exacted his own tax on them to use his name.
Mortimer Bench conducted the final conveyance on Trumpet’s property interests since the disgraced and ruined Trumpet could no longer afford the Honourable Arthur Phibbs. He also secured a licence for the Independent Fishermen’s Co-Op to fish the foreshore.
Alderman Thomas Wellspring’s first actions in the council was to repeal the name change and return to Failsafe, thus abolishing the Trumpet tax. He also repealed the work permit ordnance to allow the free movement of migrant workers.
Jack Connell and Consuela and their three children bought their little house on the salt marshes and rebuilt it.
As for La Confiture, nothing ever came of the legal problems, Mademoiselle Fifi sold the premises and its goodwill to the two gentlemen who were her guests on that fateful night when Donald Trumpet bought it. The house fetched the handsome price of 100,000 guineas and Mortimer Bench was rewarded handsomely for his part in that sale. Mrs Mayfly remained in the house as Madame and Mademoiselle Fifi returned to Paris.
Trumpet, his courtroom travails concluded, returned to his family home where his long suffering widow mother welcomed him. He was down and out but undefeated. Pretty soon he opened the family home to lodgers and, with his mother handling the kitchen and the housekeeping, business picked up. After the first summer season, Trumpet built a large extension with extra rooms and by the following summer, the first Trumpet Inn was opened.
Postcard from a Pigeon
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