Coincidentally bridging our 40th wedding anniversary (it is hard to believe that we've been around that long!), we were staying with Ali's mother again so I had opportunity for some long runs. I have for some while contemplated exploring the Blackborough escarpment so that's were I headed for, barefoot of course.
The GPS statistics were: distance 11.08 miles, average speed 5.06mph (5.70 whilst moving) maximum and elevation 247m, minimum 53m. My route follows clockwise on the above map - click on the map or the pictures to enlarge them.
My route ascending the scarp face of the hill was grassy field - luscious under foot - with a wooden bench provided at a viewpoint. Shortly after this I stumbled upon the ruins of Blackborough House which rather sadly is now a farm dump. My short dead-end after this was because I could not resist climbing to the top of a grassy hillock, but the view from the top was not as rewarding as I had hoped.
About this time last year I moved my early morning barefoot runs to lunchtime because it's hard to keep tabs on a dog you can't see. Sadly Meg has recently got very deaf so it is not safe taking her running any longer. So far this year, not encumbered with Meg, I have decided to keep my early morning runs even though at 0630 it is still very dark.
In fact I have not yet experienced total darkness. Either moonshine or clouds reflecting nearby city lights has given sufficient light. I carry a flash-light with me but strictly only for emergencies and to ward off inquisitive cars. I follow a predefined route that I know is reasonably barefoot friendly. And, voilà, so far it has worked.
One of the difficulties in writing a blog like this that draws rather randomly from my life experiences is trying not to repeat myself unduly. Have I mentioned before my dislike of parties?
From an early age I have disliked parties. There was one occasion I remember in particular - my older sister and I had been invited to one of her friends' birthday party and I did not want to go. I was maybe 6 years old at the time. I made such a fuss that in the end my parents gave up and I stayed at home. One up for me. And from that time on my choice has been to neither attend nor throw parties (not even at my 18th or 21st birthday).
On the other hand my best friend at school and later college threw parties that I could at least endure. I suppose I agreed to go for his sake but, on arriving, I discovered that no-one was forced to do anything, there were decent nibbles and the music was classical not rock. Unlike my childhood memories of being thrown into a noisy throng of largely unfamiliar children, being forced to play silly and embarrassing games with them, and then to eat ridiculous "party food" (thinly spread white sandwiches, little jellies in pleated paper cups, bland sponge cake and the like).
In later life well meaning friends and relations have thrown surprise parties - on one birthday Ali invited a small selection of the kids I was teaching at the time - I enjoyed that because I knew them all and there were only a handful. And, besides, there were Doritos.
And on our silver wedding anniversary the church did a party - too many people this time but at least I knew all of them and there was no loud music so it was OK.
Now-a-days my hearing impediment adds a further abrasion - groups of more than about four people become unmanageable because I cannot tell what folk are saying. If loud music is involved all chance of conversation is lost and as voices are raised the noise level borders on being painful. I take any excuse to get out (e.g. going to the loo, or checking up on the car outside). Not that it matters too much because, generally, in such gatherings the talk is small and that's another reason I hate parties. What, I ask, is the point of spending good time in talking or listening to nonsense? You will see from this that I am incurably selfish too. But if everyone in the world were entirely selfless and always preferring the other person life would be very dull and nothing worthwhile would get done. "No, you have the chocolate, I couldn't possibly because I like it too much" (and vice versa).
Not that I dislike loud music per se. I dislike music that is constantly loud or, indeed, constantly anything. I also like apple pie but I wouldn't want to always eat apple pie (breakfast, lunch and dinner) - well, not after the first day or two anyway. Music, like any other experience, should embrace extremes of contrast.
Alain Emery, who acted the boy Folco in the film I was telling you about - I wanted to know what happened to him. He was only 11 years old when he was picked in 1951 this being one year before I was born. The more astute of my readers will have noticed another link - like me, he went about barefoot.
I could not find out much on the internet about Alain. True, he acted in several other films after Crin Blanc but none of any consequence. He was born on August 5, 1940 in Marseille, which makes him 75 now. I found a 2012 interview in French and here are some excerpts from Google's rough translation.
Alain, age 12, as Folco in the film Crin Blanc
Alain in the interview, 60 years later
His eyes held green pond reflections. And his face held the dark pout that was the charm of Folco, companion of the legendary White Main. "No I was not made to be an actor. But Crin Blanc has changed my life"... He discovers the world of cowboys, horses, learns to ride, and becomes a larger than life Folco, blond and shy, a little wild, and clinging to White Mane. "In fact, there were six horses during the filming." The infinite horizon of the Camargue reveals a sense of freedom, "a taste of paradise" which never left him. "During the filming, which lasted six months, I was going to school on horseback". Alain identifies so much with intrepid Folco. The producer Albert Lamorisse asked him to "play more", and even smile. "I could not, I really lived the tragic fate of the boy and the horse. And then I was terrified by Lamorisse and his camera." ... For the last twenty years Alain Emery has lived in a village in the Alpilles. He became a father late in life and his daughter Louise handles the saddle with great happiness. "At school, the other kids call her the daughter of the boy Crin Blanc".
I was captivated by the film's beautiful photography and its motif of child integrity versus adult avarice, and so I have pondered to what degree it meets the test: "whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise". There will always be those that look for a more sinister side but to the pure, all things are pure.
* * *
And, indeed, what happened to the producer's son Pascal, the Red Balloon boy, who was Folco's baby brother in the film Crin Blanc and then only 3 years old? In 1960 Albert Lamorisse produced a sequel, Le Voyage en ballon, staring his son but it was not so much of a success. Here is a low quality rendition on YouTube:
Pascal, age 3, as Folco's baby brother in Crin Blanc
When Pascal Lamorisse was a child, he got to run around Paris followed by a magical red balloon. "I enjoyed it," recalls Pascal. "I was playing with magic."
Now 57, he will forever be known as the boy in...the short film "The Red Balloon," which was written and directed by his father, Albert Lamorisse.
Pascal, who has run his father's company since his death in a helicopter crash in 1970, has restored his father's beloved children's film, which was shot in vibrant Technicolor, as well as his Cannes award-winning 1953 family short "White Mane."
...
So how did the balloon follow the little boy like a family pet around the City of Light? "Very thin strings," says Pascal.
Because his father wrote his films as the shooting progressed, Pascal says that every day was an adventure. "He didn't' give me direction," he adds. "I knew what I had to do, but I could do it my way. It was very easy to play whatever he asked me to do."
Pascal says he had "a wonderful youth." His father, who was only 48 when he died, was "extremely creative and very sweet. Actually, he could relate to the world of the younger generation in the sense that he lived in a very poetical world himself."
His father had rules, though -- no cheating or lying. But Pascal did lie once to his father when he was about 4. "There was a book about Tibet, and for some reason I was in love with a photo from the book," he recalls. "I got my scissors and I cut it out and put the photo in my room someplace.
"One day he goes, 'Pascal, did you use the scissors and cut anything out of the book?' I said, 'Of course not.' He said, 'Well, well, well. I have good reason to believe that you did it. You should have asked me, and I would have given it to you.' I realised I couldn't lie to him. He could understand more than most people. "And I still have the book!"
Which reminds me - as a child, one Christmas I was given a book about electricity (my favourite subject). Whilst the present-opening festivities continued I was doodling (as one does) - designing some amazing imagined invention - and found to my horror that I was doodling in ink on a page in this book. I hastily exited the room and found paper and sellotape to cover up my sin. Whether anyone realised what I had done I know not, but I was ashamed of that page as long as I kept the book, even more as the sellotape began to yellow with age.
Only having a few hours this Sunday afternoon I decided to explore and ended up following the route of the disused Naas Tullow railway. Total distance 33.8 miles, average speed 13.3 mph. The OSI map viewer helpfully gives the railway route as a grey line and I have noted a few Points of Interest that I stopped at. In case you are interested in disused railways...
An aerial view of POI #1 makes this part of the route look rather interesting and possibly navigable by foot however, when I got there, closer inspection shows it would be hard going!
POI #1 looking North
The next crossing was a granite bridge which, surprisingly, was in excellent condition.
POI #2
POI #2 and my trusty steed
What little remains of the bridge at POI #3
POI #4 at Colbinstown
The last crossing I found was an iron bridge near Colbinstown - a residence has been built over the track route on one side of this bridge and on the other is farmland with no visible trace of the railway route. And the railway was last in use within my lifetime so not very long ago.
The N81 from Merginstown Glen road
There is a sign to "Merginstown Glen" off the N81 near Donard. The name intrigued me so my return route took me via this road which runs along the top of the Carrigower river valley through which the N81 runs - you can see both just beyond the horses in my picture.
BTW the Naas -Tullow railway bridge over the Liffey in described in my previous post.
My previous post "In remembrance of me" was a mishmash of notes for a talk I gave and echoes from a book I had read. I've just finished another book by the same author, even more whacky, and yet there is stuff in it that stirs my being and which I can identify with. I by no means understand it all - I think it is not even meant to be fully understood. To me it aptly describes those often random and scary thought processes that murmur in one's sub-consciousness but sometimes erupt into the conscious. The stuff dreams are made of. And the indistinct division between what is real and what is imagined. And how that line grows less distinct with the passage of time. And that what really matters often consumes such a very small portion of our day-to-day living.
A passing smile on a child's face. A bouquet of flowers. A beautiful sunset. Realising that you have touched another's heart. Undeserved kindness received. The deep, velvet taste of good chocolate. The warmth of the sun on an otherwise cold day. That illusive feeling of well-being that warms to the core. Autumn colours. The cold chill effect of some music. Lying, warm, in bed after a hard day's work. Knowing that you are loved. The relief waking from a nightmare. Driving home after a visit to the dentist. An aroma that triggers a fond childhood memory.
I love this art by Leonid Afremov! Partly because I love his use of vibrant colour and the level of realism achieved with bold palette knife strokes. And partly because the rich colours remind me of the carpet in my parent's front room - the pattern depicted autumn leaves in similar rich colours and I loved it. But then they tell me that my idea of "taste" has always been a bit whacky.
Bike ride today: Wicklow Gap, Rathdrum, Aughrim, followed the River Ow, lunch stop at Ballinabarny Gap, Knockanarrigan, N81, Piper Stones, home. Total 61.4 miles, max 38.8mph, avg 11.1mph, knees hurting towards end. Consumed one can Club orange (as good as Jusoda was, and so much better than Fanta), one cheese sandwich, half a 200g bar of CDM. And a bit of water.
Having enjoyed The Red Balloon I naturally looked to see what else French filmmaker Albert Lamorisse had produced and so found Crin Blanc. I found this also to be a beautiful film even if the plot is a little dull. When I first wrote this post I included a link to the whole movie on YouTube but this has since been removed for copyright reasons. So instead here is a trailer for both films:
Although I didn't cry, this observation sums up my feelings: “Grown-ups, who know too well how fragile this beauty is, are likely to cry.” Terrence Rafferty, The New York Times
Though Alain Emery actually did his own bareback riding (a tremendous physical feat, considering he had to learn how to ride for the film), during the scene in which White Mane drags him violently, facedown, through the muddy marshes, the director himself doubled for the boy. Also, though the majestic stallion seems such a unique, commanding, and truly wild personality, he was in fact a necessary composite of several trained horses. It’s the sort of invisible magic that Lamorisse would become famous for with his creation of the illusion of a sentient helium balloon floating over Paris with teasing charm and surprising wit. Also like in “The Red Balloon”, “White Mane” ends on a strikingly ambiguous note, launching its child protagonist off to an undetermined (and, in this case, even vaguely threatening) future. Whether that “wonderful place where men and horses are friends, always,” as the narrator intones, is on some magical island or in the cold depths of the sea is open to interpretation. But what’s definite is that Folco and White Mane’s final flight is a necessary escape from a world that Lamorisse has painted as irredeemably corrupt. Lamorisse lived for 14 years after “The Red Balloon,” mostly making documentaries. While he was shooting what would be his last picture in Tehran in 1970, his helicopter crashed; he was 48. Even he might not have been capable of imagining a more fitting end: he rose to get a clearer, freer view of the world, and fell from the sky.
