I was sitting here this morning when the memory of a taste flittered across my tongue.
It was a sudden taste of well fried rashers.
I quite often get these ghost sensations. It could be a smell, a taste or a sound. They come and go in the bat of a belfry and always bring memories of some past event.
The fried rashers taste brought back great memories of holidays in Connemara. The fact that rain is pelting against the windows might have helped the memory too, as it always seems to be lashing rain in Connemara.
I’m not a breakfast person. Breakfast for me is a mug of tea. Or coffee. Or whatever. A lot depends on what I was at the night before. Heh! Even the thought of a cooked breakfast generally turns the stomach and I steer well clear of them.
On holidays however, I tuck into a breakfast with relish [or tomato ketchup?] and it is an essential start to the day. Just about every day I would tuck into a large fryup of rashers, sausages, black pudding and a fistful of mushrooms. Fucking weird, or what?
Having had the fleeting memory, I then started on the solid memories of holidays in the past. Naturally holidays fall into two categories – those in France and those in the West of Ireland. The former are memories of supping coffee or bierre in the blazing heat of Summer, while the latter conjure up images of wet. Wet clothes. Wet views. Lots of wet. And cold.
It is very unlikely we will be going on any holidays this year. Normally by this time, everything is well planned and ready to go, but this year, with Sandy’s wee problem we just don’t have the heart.
There is no real need for a holiday anyway.
All I have to do is close my eyes, feel the damp chill in the air and listen to the rain battering off the windows.
It’s so easy to imagine that I’m on holidays in Connemara.