In the summers of my childhood the sun shone a lot (in my memory anyway), we rarely got sunburnt and the world was a safe place. From about the age of 8 or 9, along with friends, I would spend day after day of the sunny summer holidays at Seapoint. I learnt to swim there, just beyond the rocks in front of the Martello Tower, which in the summer housed a shop. On hot days, we would enter its damp, dark and chill interior to buy a slice of ice cream in a wafer. Oh, what bliss it was to walk home, hair wet and sticky from the salt water, legs tingling from the sun and a Neapolitan ice cream dripping in pink and green rivulets down my fingers.

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As autumn came, the routine of school enforced order back into my world. The days grew shorter and the importance of Seapoint in my life receded. But as the weather became colder and the evenings darker, the sea spoke to me again. I would lie in bed on stormy winter nights and listen to the mournful and lonely sound of the foghorns. The loudest sound was that from the end of Dun Laoghaire Pier but I would usually pick up the fainter sounds from The Baily in Howth or even the Kish lighthouse.

I would imagine what kind of ships might be taking shelter from the weather in Dublin Bay. Who were on these ships? How did it feel being buffeted around by the waves and the wind? I imagined such vessels becoming illuminated briefly every few minutes by the lighthouse beacon sweeping across the bay, as the foghorn issued its mournful warning.

As I lay in bed imagining and listening, my mind would wander to the dark and overgrown graveyard on Carrickbrennan Road in Monkstown which contains the graves of many of the men and women who drowned in some of the numerous sea tragedies that occurred in the 1800s in Dublin Bay.

In particular I would think of the story of the two ships, The Rochdale and The Prince of Wales, both troopships carrying soldiers and their families including children to Liverpool. Both vessels got into trouble shortly after leaving Dublin Port in November 1807 in a fierce snowstorm. The Prince of Wales was wrecked on the rocks at Blackrock with only a few survivors who escaped in a small boat. The fate of The Rochdale was equally tragic with the ship observed in difficulty off the coast by onlookers on shore. The weather was so atrocious that they could do little to assist. The ship was wrecked on the rocks by the Martello Tower in Seapoint. There were no survivors and nearly 400 lives were lost on that bitter night.

The tragedy was that, had they known how close to the shore they actually were, many might have made it to safety. Instead, the coastline at Blackrock and Seapoint was strewn with mutilated bodies from both wrecks the following morning. Many of the victims were buried, probably in a mass grave, in the old graveyard in Monkstown.

The echoes of these tragedies was carried by the doleful sound of the foghorn as I lay in my bed, secure in the knowledge that, unlike the unfortunate sailors and their families, I was safe and secure.

Now I live a few kilometres inland from where I grew up and I still miss the sound of the foghorn. On days like these when I am sitting in my suburban garden in the sun, listening to the birdsong, the sound of passing aircraft and the hum of a neighbour’s lawnmower, when a seagull cries from the field beyond the hedge. His call brings with it the smell of salt water, the taste of Neapolitan ice cream and a tumble of childhood summer memories. And I smile and I dream. As I close my eyes, I can still hear the lonely ominous call of the foghorn. And I shiver as a breeze cools my skin and I think once more of these unfortunates who lost their lives in the place where I learned to swim.

It’s mid-May and summer hasn’t begun yet.

Yes, we have had the odd sunny day. Yes, the Lilac has blossomed and faded again. Yes, the magical Hawthorn has sprung forth its profusion of white florets. And yes, the grass is growing at a great rate. But it is cold. Most days there is a wind that would skin ya. There has only been one day so far that I have taken my coffee outside, which is disappointing in mid-May. This time last year we all had sun tans. Well, we were a bit red.. you know.. an Irish suntan.

But right now, I feel like we are stuck in an everlasting winter.

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I am in West Cork, in my beloved Ahakista.. a place very dear to me and that I have written about before. You can read that here.

Every summer I try to spend an increasing amount of time here, spread over three or four visits. This is my first visit this year and I am on day four and so far, it is not an exaggeration to say, that the weather has been atrocious. I have been wrapped in a fog of grey skies, rain which alternates between mizzle and downpours, and it has been genuinely very cold.

Now, I know I am in Ireland and I have lived here all my life and I am not an idiot… I know that this isn’t the South of France or Spain or even England.. and that our weather, especially on Atlantic coasts can be a bit… well erratic.. to say the least. But I don’t ever remember the middle of May being so cold.

Because the weather has been so bad I have been missing the things that I like to do here which restore my soul. Things like walking to the stony beach to sit and watch the water and ponder on the beauty of the cove. I haven’t yet walked on the lanes around the house I am staying in, to chat with donkeys and pick wildflowers. And I haven’t wandered down to the pub of an evening for a drink before a leisurely wander back home in my very fetching high viz jacket.

I am here alone which is not unusual, but because of the weather I am feeling more alone than usual. And I am surprised to find that this level of alone is taking some getting used to. And I am not sure I like it.

I wrote the above on Day 4.

Today is Day 5 and I have realised that although I shout at the weather gods every morning, being very alone can be kind of soothing once you sink into being just you and your thoughts. It’s kind of like a meditation… it takes a while to get used to the silence. And to accept it.

Today I did get out for a proper walk – unlike the drowning I got earlier in the week when I ventured out because I wanted to see the sea. Today it was a mizzle morning and so I wandered out in my rain jacket to see my donkey friends. I visited the local café for a scone and coffee and picked some wild flowers on the way back. I spoke with the cows and with some very mucky and damp sheep and young lambs.

It may be unseasonably cold (yes, it’s cold, not cool) and very wet but as I walked Mother Nature whispered in my ear… “it IS summer, Barbara.. just look around and listen.”

A damp butterfly fluttered by and then I noticed the swallows diving and swooping in the lane and that the honeysuckle is about to flower and the roadsides are full of crocosmia leaves heralding the orange spears to come.

Complaining about the weather on Instagram, one of my smart followers sent me an link to an article describing something I had never heard of before – An Scairbhin.

Apparently this is a weather phenomenon that can occur at this time of the year in West Cork and Kerry. The word ‘scairbhin’ is thought to come from the phrase ‘garbh shion na gCuach’ meaning the rough wind of the Cuckoo. Because this weather often coincides with the return of the Cuckoo to Ireland. When I got out of the car on arrival here on Saturday before the rain, the first thing I heard was indeed the Cuckoo.

An Scairbhin can mean sudden drop in temperatures and a strong Easterly wind bringing rain and sometimes hail. It doesn’t last long and indeed the forecast for the weekend is excellent with a rise of over ten degrees in temperature. Which means that we will all lose the run of ourselves altogether and start day drinking at ten am and will be red raw by lunchtime. I can’t feckin wait!!

Anyway, for this new show I am exploring the fact that, at the grand old age of 64, I feel that this is finally MY TIME. Now that the hard work of raising kids, running a busy home, supporting himself and elderly parents is all over, I am at a place where I can put myself first. You know, put me at the centre of my life. Oh yes, now it’s all about ME.

However, as I recount in the show, that’s not always as easy as it sounds. And coupled with the fact that I can be a right eejit at times, I have come a cropper more than once with hilarious results. Come to the show… link

I kicked off this new tour two weeks ago in Swords. My second gig was in Tuam in County Galway. Now much as I don’t mind driving, I am not keen on driving at night especially long distances and so if I am more than about an hour and a half from home I will opt to stay over.

The first time I had to do this was last year in Ennis. And I thought to myself, Ennis has two lovely hotels that I have stayed in before – The Old Ground and The Templegate. Then I went online to check availability and cost… and they were way out of my budget. Like I am not playing to large rooms… and so I can’t blow everything I earn from my show on a hotel… even if I am worth it!

So, I booked a B&B out the road a bit from the town. When I checked in there was a very nice young woman on the reception and my room was lovely. But when I went to leave to head into town for my show, reception was closed and the only people around were men. No families. No women. I wasn’t delighted. And when I returned at about 11pm the place was quiet, the men presumably in their rooms.

Now I am not easily spooked but I wasn’t entirely happy with this situation and so vowed that the next time I needed overnight accommodation, I would book a hotel. As cheap a hotel as was available.

And so to Tuam two weeks ago. When I googled accommodation in the town the only thing available and within my budget (which is €100 - €150) was what looked like a cabin in someone’s garden. It looked nice enough but I wasn’t keen. The description also gave the distance from Galway Greyhound Racing track… something that put me right off.

So I decided to search towns that were back in the direction of Dublin. And came up with a hotel in Athenry. It looked grand and the cost was quoted was €150. The advantages of a hotel for when I am on the road are (1) that I can have a light bite in the bar before heading to my gig and that (2) I can have a drink in the bar when I return to help me sleep!!

The hotel was more or less as I expected for the price – grand although stuffed with ‘stuff’ – millions of cushions and ornaments. The room I was shown to was the size of a cupboard with the smallest shower I have ever seen – I would have had to get in and out of it sideways. So I asked to be moved which in fairness I was – into a larger room which was clean and comfortable.

When I was given the room key I was also told there was a fob for the front door in case it should be locked when I returned. “I won’t be late,” I assured the young women and took the key.

After the show I got straight in my car and headed back to my lodgings dreaming of the lovely G&T I would have in the bar before bed. I arrived back at about 10.20pm and as I drove into the car park my heart sank. There were no cars there… not one. I went to the front door which was locked. I let myself in and headed to the bar – which was locked too. The place was very quiet. Not a sound.

I was so unnerved that I left again and went up the road in search of a G&T because I figured that I would definitely need it to help me sleep.

I returned and went straight to bed and wrestled with my thoughts which were “you are the only person in this whole building” and “what if there’s a fire – you don’t know what other exits there are”.

I slept. Next morning I just wanted to get on the road for home… but over breakfast I asked the lovely young woman who served me, if my fears were correct. “Was I the only person in the hotel last night?” “Oh yes,” she replied cheerfully, “gas really cos we were really busy last week.”

Gas alright! As I drove home I pondered how ironic it is that I am performing a show called ‘Because I’m Worth It’ and yet I am clearly not…. As I can’t stay in the kind of luxury (actually just safety really) that I desire.

So what to do while I build my audiences? Camper van hire? No, that wouldn’t feel safe either. Drive home? Tempting but I am usually tired after a show and not ideal.

What I need is a car company to sponsor me. You know put a lovely car and a chauffeur at my disposal on the nights that I have a show too far to drive back.

Imagine that. Coming out of a venue and into a shiny car where I could sip on my G&T in the back seat while Michelle drives me home. What great social media content that would be…. Sure a car company would be delighted with that, no?

Oh yes, a car and driver for long distance performances… BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT? I AM BLOODY WELL WORTH IT!

So if you know a car company - you know what to do!! Oh and here is the full tour at the moment… you know so they know where I need to get to and from!!!

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I still kind of know what is going on, obviously, but I tend to listen and read less current affairs now because I just find the world pretty miserable and dark. And stories of how inhumane humans can be to each other is so profoundly depressing.

And so, when I do turn on the radio and find an hour or more of uplifting and positive stories … well, it’s like the sun suddenly coming out on a cloudy day. And that is what happened last Saturday when I was driving home from Galway and turned on RTE Radio One and found Brendan O Connor chatting to a man with an American accent about his faith. I thought it was Michael Flatley and was going to move the dial (sorry Michael), but it turned out to be another Michael – Mr Buble, Micky Bubbles.

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Thankfully he didn’t go into lecture mode about God and stuff, but the conversation turned to love, which was kept just on the right side of schmaltz. In fact, Brendan and Mr Bubbles seemed to bond beautifully on the radio and it was entirely lovely listening.

And it kept on. Because the next up was a Professor Colin Doherty who is a consultant neurologist and also head of the School of Medicine in Trinity College, who talked about introducing a module on love into the curriculum for baby doctors. Again, a lovely, positive, optimistic conversation about how it is possible to teach compassion.

By now I had forgotten the trauma of finding myself being the ONLY PERSON staying in a hotel the previous night (of which more in a future newsletter) as I was doused with lovely thoughts while listening to the radio.

But there was more…. Because after Professor Doherty came journalist, Brian Boyd who suffered a serious cardiac arrest while cycling through Donnybrook recently. He opened the conversation by saying “I was cycling past the Garda Station in Donnybrook when I died” … a very different kind of arrest at the Garda Station (sorry… couldn’t resist). Anyway, he has no memory of what happened but discovered later than a woman who had been at the bus stop came and administered some very serious CPR and saved his life. When the ambulance came, she declined to give her name. So having saved a stranger’s life she just picked up her day and carried on. Brian wanted to thank her. How wonderful is that?

And then on came the lovely Dr Richard Hogan who was talking about some of the women he sees in his psychotherapy practice who are survivors of Mother and Baby homes... Not quite as uplifting content but Richard’s compassion for these women was palpable.

That night myself and himself settled down to watch a movie and I chose ‘Small Things Like These’ which is now on Netflix. I had read the book and loved it. Claire Keegan’s is one of Ireland’s literary greats and her writing and storytelling is sublime. If you have read the book or seen the movie, you will know that the story is set in 1985 and features a Magdalene Laundry in rural Ireland.

The movie is dark in every sense of the word… my photographer husband just kept muttering ‘it’s very dark’ by which he meant the quality of cinematography. The story which moves very slowly, kind of lost him fairly quickly.

But I was surprised to find myself very moved by it. Somehow when I read the book, the fact that it is set in 1985 missed me. But seeing some things, like the décor in the house, even the mugs and cups, brought me right back to a time I remember very well.

In 1985 I was 23 years old. I worked in the travel business and so travelled probably more than most 23-year-olds, although unlike young people today, my travels were mainly within Europe, although I did also visit New York and Boston back then too.

My generation, who were young adults in the ‘80s, knew well that Ireland was a claustrophobic, unspeakably dull country that may as well have been run by the church. Remember this is the time that spawned punk and bands such like U2 and The Boomtown Rats…. who sang about Dublin being a rat trap.

In 1987, I became an ‘unmarried mother’. I lived in Dublin and my family were supportive, but I knew of local women who ‘disappeared’ to resurface months later saying they had to go either ‘down the country’ to help a sick grandparent or that they went to London for work for a while. No questions were asked.

This was also a time when everyone knew of someone who was gay although it was never remarked on or discussed. We lived literally in a land of secrets and lies.

Watching the story of ‘Small Things Like These’ unfold on my TV on Saturday night I found myself right back in my own family home as I tried to come to terms with the fact that I was going to have a baby and what that would mean for my life and my job. Would I be sacked? How would I be able to care for another human being if I couldn’t work?

And then there was the shame and the judgement; something that I felt both privately and publicly. In my book (Wise Up) and in my first show (Older, Bolder, Wiser) I tell about all the times I had to listen to panel discussions on the media (often The Late Late Show) where panels (usually of men and often men of the cloth) talked about the scourge of ‘unmarried mothers’ who were claiming money from the state (the unmarried mothers allowance was introduced in 1973), going on housing lists (in the days when the Irish Government were still building social housing) and raising kids who were clearly going to be ‘delinquent’ because they ‘had no fathers’. I heard the last point so often that I began to subconsciously believe it.

The shame of being a mother without a husband was profound and not something that a supportive family and friends could shield you from. In my book I tell the story of ‘the phone call’. This is what I wrote:

After my daughter was born, I was off work on maternity leave and so at home. One day I answered the phone, and it was for my dad who was by then retired. It was a pal of his, who like my dad was a retired senior public servant. Although this man, my dad’s friend was someone in fact with a degree of public profile. I could only hear my dad’s side of the conversation naturally and it went like this.

“No, that was Barbara”.

“No, she isn’t working at the moment because, well, em, she has just had a baby”.

“No, no, she didn’t get married.”

“Oh yes, yes, she does know who the father is”.

The tragedy of this story is that I got so angry but not for myself because I think I had already internalised the fact that I was now somewhat sullied by lone motherhood. I was angry that my father had been insulted and slighted by this man’s judgement.

My father was a conservative man. Telling him that I was pregnant remains something I wish I hadn’t had to do because it upset him so much. Although a man of few words I knew he loved me and I also knew that, despite the fact that I hadn’t followed him into the public service (something he desperately wanted me to do), he was proud of me. I remember having told him my news, having to listen to him vomiting in the bathroom, that’s how deeply upset he was by my ‘predicament’.

He couldn’t speak to me for about three weeks. There was no anger. No recriminations, no lectures. Just a silence that burned through the house as he grappled with this new reality. It was awful. I couldn’t afford to move out but also was beginning to believe I couldn’t stay either.

Then one day I arrived home early from work. He was in the kitchen making tea. He turned to me and pulled me into a hug and told me “we will support you; we will stand by you. It’ll be OK.” The relief was enormous. I knew I couldn’t have managed on my own. And he was true to his word. My mother, once she delivered a half-hearted lecture about my being irresponsible in allowing myself to get pregnant, was quite gung-ho about it all and relished this new adventure.

But society’s judgement continued. Looking back now at photos of me from those years I can see just how incensed I was. I wore my hair very short so that even my large, sticky out ears were visible. But what was more visible is the expression I wore most of the time. It clearly shouted, ‘Fuck You’.

Watching ‘Small Things Like These’ brought this Ireland back to life. I found myself in tears as I tried to explain to my (formerly) British husband just how cold a place this country was for women and girls, especially those of us who had stepped outside of our prescribed roles in society. I wasn’t punished by being sent to a laundry, but I was in no doubt that I had brought shame to myself and my family by becoming an ‘unmarried mother’.

The power of good story telling is the ability to make us feel how it feels to be someone else just like the unfortunate young woman in ‘Small Things Like These’. But storytelling can also remind us of bits of our own story that need to be told.

Ireland is not the same place anymore - thankfully. But the strides we have made in women’s equality must never be taken for granted.

As the poet Maya Angelou said “you can’t really know where you are going unless you know where you have been.” Our history, collectively and individually is what makes us who we are. A huge part of that history is how this country treated women and we need to never forget that.

Thank you Brendan O Connor (and his team) for putting together a lovely programme last Saturday which shone a light on the compassion and care and love that was always here, but that was too often in the past smothered by ‘the powers that be’.

So HAPPY EARTH DAY… today, 22^nd of April 2026 is Earth Day; a day when we focus on the protection of this planet we call home and all the creatures that we share it with.

Now, if you follow me on Instagram, you will know that I am an animal and wildlife lover… and as I have gotten older, my love of wildlife, has grown and is now something that is very important in my life.

I live with three and a half cats… I explained the half cat before here. And we are now just three cats since our Cat Matriarch, Mabel, went to her eternal reward in February. She was a good cat…. Most of the time.

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You probably also know that we have a dog… a large tank of a yellow labrador called Cosmo.

I am lucky to live in suburban Dublin in a house that was built in the late 1960s and so we have a reasonable sized garden. We have lived here for 25 years, and I am ashamed to say that for a lot of that time, the garden was just another job on the never ending To Do list; the grass needed cutting, the beds needed weeding, hedges needed cutting etc. Although I was never someone who loved a very curated, neat, and tidy garden I was regularly overwhelmed by the tasks just to keep the garden from going completely wild.

In 2017 we put a garden cabin in as a home office that I share with himself. Within months of its installation a fox came and gave birth to her cubs in a den she had dug out under the cabin (this was before we had the tank of a dog). So, we woke up one morning about 8 years ago to the sight of cubs playing in the garden. I was completely overjoyed with this developed. And thus began my love affair with foxes to whom I have been feeding supper ever since.

We are our second/third generation of foxes now and my special fox is Gary who is a kind of elder statesman fox now and who will come to within about of a foot of me and we are very fond of each other. They are magnificent, beautiful, gentle animals.

I also feed birds – initially small birds on a bird feeder outside my window… although a recent study by the British RSPB has advised that we should not feed birds on bird feeders between May and October as it causes fatal bird diseases to spread in the warmer weather. They advise that it is better to support birds by planting bird food plants – such as Teasels, Sunflowers, and Ivy. You can read their advice here.

In recent years I have begun putting out bread and other suitable food waste (crusts, potato, rice) for larger birds and have a crowd of seagulls, crows and magpies who dine most mornings on the roof of the cabin. They can demolish food in record time, so it disappears literally within minutes of being put out.

Late last summer we had two hedgehogs visit the garden, which was very exciting. You can read about them here. Despite our best efforts to provide them with hedgehog appropriate lodgings, they opted not to hibernate with us.

We have a pond which we wanted to make wildlife friendly until we discovered it has a tear in the lining (thanks Cosmo) and so we are working on getting that fixed soon. And then maybe we might attract frogs, and other water creatures.

So, I know how privileged I am to have a garden. And I really want it to be a wildlife friendly space. The more bees, butterflies, insects, birds etc I can see the happier I am.

I do wonder though, in 2026, when we know that the planet and biodiversity is in trouble how we have not changed out attitude towards the creatures we share the Earth with. Only this week there was more giving out in the media about seagulls robbing people’s lunches or something. We fail to understand that we have driven seagulls to rob food and foxes to become slightly less fearful of us because they are now more dependent on us for food, because we have destroyed or reduced hugely their habitats. And yet both are regularly referred to as ‘vermin.’

All planning and development should primarily look at what creatures live in the site to be developed and how we can best introduce elements that will allow them to continue to live alongside us. For example, all urban and suburban gardens should be porous… to allow hedgehogs especially roam freely. But instead, most urban gardens are surrounded by breeze block walls that prevent their movement thereby reducing hugely their habitats.

We do have a movement to now mow our lawns in May (No Mow May) to allow dandelions and other early ‘weeds’ (again like ‘vermin’ what makes a weed different from a wildflower?) to grow to support bees and other pollinators in the vital period of early spring.

The tank dog who toilets on our small bit of ‘lawn’ means that I cannot allow the grass to grow so long that I can’t find the enormous piles of shite he manages to dispatch every day. But I do try to keep dandelions around the edges and in the flower beds.

One of the loveliest things about spring is the birdsong… especially at dawn and dusk. I wish, once summer finally arrives, that I didn’t get excited every time I see a butterfly. My childhood was full of butterflies… unlike now. We need more wild spaces, more tolerance of all wildlife and more compassion so that horrific so called ‘rural pursuits’ such as fox hunting, hare coursing and the so called sports of greyhound and horse racing are banished for good.

Yes – these are a tumble of my thoughts. Happy Earth Day.

Last year was a bit of a roller coaster health wise as I had the life scared out of me not once but twice. I have recounted the story in a previous newsletter, called ‘Positive Ageing’ which you can read here.

Anyway the upshot of all these health scares, is that I have finally been made to realise something I have known for the last few years and that is that, to put it succinctly, ‘walking isn’t enough’.

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I have Type 2 Diabetes and so I know that exercise is important and as most of you know I also have a large lump of a dog called Cosmo, so I have prided myself on the fact that I generally walk on average about 4.5/5km per day.

But the fact is that, although that is good for me, it doesn’t build strength and I have never been more aware of just how much I have lost strength, especially in my legs since my glutes and knee issues in January and February. So once I had been released back into the community by my physio, I decided that it was time to join the gym and start working initially on my leg strength. Because, apparently, as you age it is really handy to know how to get up off the floor when you fall over. I am not planning to fall over but I have noticed that suddenly (not suddenly obviously, but I was in denial) stairs are more scarey than they used to be, as are uneven surfaces. But joining a gym at 64 is a pretty terrifying prospect.

Now, I am lucky that we have a great community gym about 2k down the road in Loughlinstown. So about six weeks ago I popped in and got all the information and booked an initial consultation with a personal trainer. Honestly the day I returned for that consult I felt awful. I was nervous and had a real challenge to stop listening to the voice in my head that kept screaming “get back in the car, go home, and pick up a croissant on the way to have with your coffee.”

Anyway one foot in front of the other and in I went. The PT was a lovely young man who I had to tell to bully me, because otherwise I would pull rank and just refuse to do stuff. Sidebar : it has taken me till recently to realise that being an aul wan can mean that you intimidate younger people and they are afraid to contradict you or give you firm direction. Who knew? Not me.

So, we did some tests to determine my biological age (as opposed to my chronological one – which is 64) and it turned out that they match. I am 64 and my body acts it’s age. I thought that this was a win. Because I was sure my biological age would turn out to be 79. But no. I am 64. But my scores on various things were pretty bad.

I told the trainer about my injuries and glutes issues and how I wanted to begin by building my leg strength. You know - so that I no longer enter a room and look for the lowest chair in order that I can avoid it, knowing that I wont be able to get out of it. And so that maybe that I can kneel down in the supermarket to grab a tin from the lowest shelf.

Now it’s important when embarking on a fitness journey to begin with what you know you will keep up. Set goals too high and you are defeated before you start.

So I told him I wanted do about 2/3 sessions per week of no longer than 40 minutes. And so he designed a session for me and then took me around the machines and gave me a lesson in how to use them. That was on the 4^th of March and I have gone twice a week since. I don’t love it but I don’t hate it either.

But you know what the best thing is…. unlike what I expected, no one gives a damn about you – about what you look like or about what you are doing. It is not scarey at all. In fact the atmosphere is good and the gym is usually populated by as many older people (yes in our 60s and beyond) as younger people. The music is awful but that’s the only thing I would change.

Along with going to the gym, I am continuing to walk, although sometimes less than 4km and that’s fine. And I am also continuing my physio exercises on the days when I don’t go to the gym.

My membership cost me €160 for three months and that includes classes (should I wish to join them), access to the gym and to the pool. The fitness assessment at the beginning was included. I love the flexibility and the fact that I can just ‘pop down’ to the gym when I can in the week.

Nearly 6 weeks in, I can feel the benefit. My legs do feel stronger and (fingers crossed) my knee and my hip are feeling good. Word of warning though. Last week in a fit of confidence and bravado I upped the weights and number of ‘reps’ on two of the machines… which was silly and the next day my hip let me know it wasn’t happy. So slow and steady progress is the way to go.

I am sharing this for two reasons. (1) It is vital to take charge of your own health before it takes charge of you, as you get older. Don’t wait (like I did) for things to go wrong before you do what you know is needed.. Strength training is vital to staying well and active. And (2) gyms aren’t scarey places and if you are lucky enough to have a council run gym go check it out, because they offer great service and great value.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk. And good luck.

Anyway… this is the first of two missives which will go out one after the other .. to try to make up for my tardiness.

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So, what’s new? What’s consuming me? Well other than the darkness in the world emanating from the other side of the Atlantic, which I try to block out as much as possible, I have been trying to put the final polishes to my new One Woman Show – ‘Because I’m Worth It’ – which I will be taking on the road starting at the end of this month. And as usual I am both excited and terrified at the prospect.

I never imagined that at the age of 64 I would be embarking on a comedy storytelling One Woman Show… but life is just gas and often turns out to be not what you expected at all. I wrote about how I got into doing comedy in my previous newsletter. At this stage I am just hoping that the success of my first show, Older, Bolder, Wiser wasn’t a fluke and that I can get bums on seats for the dates and venues I have booked in so far.

I am kicking off the tour in Swords, Co Dublin on the 30^th of April when I am in The Cock Tavern (yeah, I know) as part of the Swords Comedy Festival and then the following day I am off to Tuam, Co Galway as part of the Tuam Comedy Festival. I am also in my beloved Ahakista in West Cork on the 16^th of May and then onto Wexford on the 23 of May (Wexford was great last year). In June I am in Tralee on the 13^th of June – which will be my first time playing in Kerry and finish the month on 27 June in the Purty Loft in my hometown of Dun Laoghaire.

July and August are holiday and writing time and then I resume on the 27^th August back in the Civic Theatre in Tallaght and onto Dungarvan, Co Waterford, Longford and Fermoy later in September. And in October I return to the Glor Theatre in Ennis.

I will be booking more autumn/winter dates over the coming weeks and all dates and ticket links are on my website here.

So, this is what has had me mithered. And now I am consumed by selling tickets. So dear gentle reader, if you would like to come along to any of my shows, I would love to see you. And if you think ‘Because I’m Worth It’ would appeal to a friend or family in any of the locations I have mentioned please spread the word. By the way, I have men at all my shows… not loads… but enough that your man won’t feel alone… and I don’t pick on the lads either. I love seeing them in the audience.

Anyway, as I am a one woman operation I rely on my social media, including Substack to help me spread the word. So if you can help in that - I would be most grateful.

This is the gospel of Barbara for this Sunday Morning. Thanks for tuning in!!!

If you had told me back in 2022 when my book ‘Wise Up’ was published, that it would lead me to performing my own One Woman Show of comedy storytelling, I would have laughed in your face and roared “absolutely not.” Because back in 2015 I took part in a charity event, called ‘Under My Bed’ where ‘personalities’ dramatized a story from their childhood on stage in Smock Alley. Each performer was allocated a proper acting coach/director to work with, so I had lots of help. And although I didn’t forget or even fluff my lines, it was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life.

I remember being backstage on opening night and meeting a ‘proper’ actor. I must have looked ill with fright as he asked me if I was OK. I said I was sick with nerves. He reassured me that I would experience a huge high once I came off stage and that would make it all worth it.

I met him again when I came off. “You did great,” he said, “and how is that high?”

“High?” I said. “I feel no high, just relief. I feel like I have just been in a multi car pile up on the M50 and have just realised that I have survived and am not injured.”

It was an experience I was glad I had, but I vowed to never go on stage again. Performing on stage just wasn’t for me. So, the fact that I have spent the last 18 months touring my own One Woman Show is something I had never, ever envisaged.

As I look back at my life from the vantage point of 64 years, I can see that very little was actually planned. Lots of things that were to change my life, just kind of happened in an unexpected way.

After I published my book, Wise Up, (in 2022 – pay attention) I was contacted by a woman called Orla Diamantino who asked if I would meet her for coffee as she wanted to talk to me about her book. She had written a memoir and thought maybe I could offer some advice.

We met for coffee (she was late)… and I am not sure if I was of any help to her. But we were then connected on social media and met again at a book launch when she introduced me to her friend and co-writer, Val Troy. They had met through the writing group, Writers Ink and were collaborating on a script for a TV series.

A couple of weeks later I was contacted again by Orla who asked if I might be able to meet her and Val in Malahide as they wanted to talk to me about another project they were involved with. Being the very kind person I am, I made my way to Malahide and Orla’s apartment where they told me all about Funny Women and a show they had in the pipeline.

Funny Women in an organisation that was set up in the UK over 20 years ago to promote women in comedy and Val and Orla had just set up the Irish branch and were organising their first all female comedy show. I listened and assumed they wanted my help in promoting it.

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But no. They wanted me to take part. To go on stage and do a ‘comedy set’.

“Listen”, I said, “ye are both great and this is a great idea… but you can f*ck off if you think I have any intention in getting on stage. I will buy a ticket and I’ll help with promotion… but nothing more.”

They wouldn’t take no for an answer. And I was aware that I was locked into an apartment ON THE NORTHSIDE…. Miles away from my home in Dun Laoghaire. It was getting late and I was getting hungry. But they kept cajoling (bullying is a big word). So in the end, just to get out of the place, I agreed to do a little reading from my book. One that might be a bit amusing. I finally was released and went home for a lie down.

And I promptly forgot all about it. Until, the day of the show. By then I had the running order. There were three proper comedians before me and with three after and I realised that I would just kill the vibe if I got up to read… like a priest at mass giving the notices. No. I couldn’t to that… and so I began to rework the piece I was going to read, which was on the hilarity of smear tests (?) into more of a performance piece.

Like my Smock Alley experience, going into the iconic Whelans that night was terrifying. I was far and away the oldest women on the bill. But I am pleased to say that it went very well… and I did, finally get to experience the ‘high’ that the actor told me about back in 2015.

I left Whelans that night feeling that I had a story to dine out on for weeks…. ‘the night I became a comedian for ten minutes’.

But it seems that the universe had other plans and a few weeks later I was approached by Lawlors Hotel in Naas to see if I might be up for doing an event with them. They thought maybe a book event, or a reading. On the spur of the moment, I realised that this was a chance to see if I could do more than a ten minute set on Smear Tests. So I suggested to Lawlors that I do a One Woman Show. They were keen and very supportive and we sold out. So, Older Bolder Wiser was born. That was in October 2024.

Since then I have toured the show in wonderful and varied venues throughout last year. I had a blast. Most shows sold out. I received some standing ovations – not boasting…. But …. Yeah, I am boasting. But best of all, I have met so many fantastic women at these shows… and have heard some of their stories which is such a privilege.

I know that I am serving an audience that is not well served by comedy because there aren’t too many aul wans in their 60s doing what I do; which by the way, I call comedy storytelling.

So now I am bringing Older Bolder Wiser to an end with my final show in The Whale Theatre in Greystones on Saturday. I am very proud of what I have managed to achieve in the last 18 months of this shows journey. But most of all I am very grateful.

Grateful to my comedy sisters – Val Troy and Orla Diamantino who set me on this journey. Grateful to friends and family who have PAID to hear stories that they may be familiar with already. But most of all I am grateful to the audiences – both women and men – who came along and got it and laughed their socks off. There is nothing as pure as hearing an audience laughing at your efforts to entertain.

Who would have thought that publishing a book, would have led to this? Not me. And it proves something that I truly believe – and that is that we all need to be awake to opportunities especially the ones that present themselves where you least expect them and can lead you off to places you had never planned on going.

On the 30^th of April I begin my new show tour – I will tell you about that next week.

But there are still some tickets for Greystones on Saturday if you want to catch Older Bolder Wiser and I have invited the women who started this Orla and Val to join me on stage for extra craic. So maybe see you there….

Tickets here

I have long had a kind of love hate relationship with St Patricks Day. I have some warm and fuzzy memories of the national day as a child; having my hair tied in green or tricolour ribbon, buying shamrock outside Mass, belting out Hail Glorious St Patrick like it was a kind of national anthem and being taken to the parade before it became a festival.

But by the time my kids came along I had kind of fallen out of kilter with a day which seems to me to be full of paddywhackery and seems to have little to do with actually being Irish.

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As I pondered this, I remembered I had written a blog back in 2012 after I had a conversation with my youngest kids (who are half English) about what being Irish meant to them. They were 13 and 11 when this chat took place.

This is what they came up with about being Irish…and in fairness I think it has stood the test of time.

Being Irish means you talk a lot... In fairness we are a family of talkers, especially when compared with British families we know. So, my girls decided that the gift of the gab is more than just a tired cliché. And they saw this as entirely positive.

Being Irish means you swear a lot... The girls thought this was a great positive trait – especially the fact that we break up words to stick a swear word in the middle – abso-bleedin-lutely. They were very proud of this dubious aspect of Irishness.

Being Irish means you do a lot of slagging.... This is probably one of the most useful Irish traits and one that often other nationalities don’t get. And the secret of good slagging is that nothing is sacred. Irreverent slagging – brilliant. Again the girls saw this as a big win about being Irish.

Being Irish means you need to know everything about everyone... The girls felt that Irish people think it’s the height of bad manners not to be interested in other people. Some nationalities might see this as being nosey but they thought it should be taken as a compliment if, when we meet others, we interview them in depth.

Being Irish means you are loud... The girls felt that there is no point in talking if no one can hear you.. So yeah, loud and they were proud of it too. Disclaimer – I think this may not apply to all Irish families. We were a very loud house when they were growing up!

Being Irish means the tricolour... Now this was interesting. I asked my girls if they knew the significance of the Green, White and Orange in our national flag. Oh, they sure did. It is not quite the meaning I was taught but in this era of peace and tolerance perhaps it’s very appropriate. Here was their take on the colours of our national flag.

Green – is for the fields of Ireland

Orange – is for the red heads

White – is the colour of our skin.

Being Irish means ‘the craic’..... Even back then, they understood that only Irish people truly understand what having the craic is about. It’s fun, it’s slagging, it uproarious, and it’s the ultimate feel good. They thought it was one of the best things about being Irish.

Being Irish means being connected to spirituality.. The girls thought that (in general) Irish people are very spiritual. From the good Catholics and CofI’s to the pagans they thought that there is a high degree of believing we are part of something bigger than ourselves in Ireland.

Being Irish means you are cool... I was so thrilled to hear my children (13 and 11) announce that being Irish meant we are cool. The fact that this was back in the dark days of depression and recession and they were still proud to be Irish... that was great.

Being Irish means (like it or hate it) we have Paddy’s Day... For them they felt that the most interesting thing about Paddy’s Day is that it is so widely celebrated all over the world. And I think that is very fair.

So – if you are unsure how you feel about being Irish I hope this helps.

And I am interested to know what you think? Were they right or wrong?

In truth being Irish is all about being a small country with a long reach.... we are all over the world once again.

So wherever you are, whether you are Irish or not can we wish you Happy St Patrick’s Day... curse away, have a jar, plenty of craic and then interview someone you don’t know very well!

With thanks to Ro and Mia…. And girls - if you read this…. Do you still agree? (They won’t read this!)

This week Ireland lost a sporting legend and a man who seemed to have been universally well liked by anyone who met him, if the online tributes are anything to go by.

Ronnie Delany was an Olympian and an Irish hero, winning a gold medal for Ireland at the Melbourne games in 1956. Ireland would wait another 36 years before we experienced another gold when Michael Carruth won gold for boxing in 1992.

Anyone who knows me at all, knows I have little interest (actually no interest) in sport. I think the only time I ever watched sport was during Italia ’90 and that was because there was literally nothing else to do… or indeed to talk about.

But I had of course heard of Ronnie Delany. Then my bother married Ronnie’s daughter and we were extended family. Anytime I met him over the years I found him to be a warm, supportive and generous man. Generous with his time and his positive outlook on life.

Back when I hardly knew the man, in fact I think my brother may have been ‘only’ a fiancé when I needed a big favour. I was working for The Alzheimer Society of Ireland as PRO and Fundraising Manager and had set up National Tea Day as the Society’s main fundraising event.

Publicity was (and still is) vital to the success of any fundraising and it was a big part of my job and not always easy back when few people had ever heard of Alzheimer’s Disease, let along knew what it was. TV3 had arrived on the media landscape and Ireland AM was born. I had been pitching the idea of a collaboration with them to promote Tea Day and finally I got the green light.

We were hosting a Tea Morning at the Aer Corps HQ in Baldonnel and Ireland AM came to cover the event. But they needed a celebrity attendee who could add some stardust and interest for the viewer. This was a last-minute request and I had no contact for any celebs I could call on. So, I called my brother and asked for Ronnie’s number.

Then I called Ronnie and asked if there might be any way he could get to Baldonnel at the crack of dawn for our Tea Day event and have a chat with Alan Hughes on live TV. He agreed without hesitation. And on the day, with a very brief briefing from yours truly, he brought grace and charisma to the broadcast along with reinforcing the message of support for our event and our work for people with dementia and their families.

I was so grateful to him. Not only because he did it so beautifully but because he immediately said yes when asked and got me out of a jam.

Over the years we met numerous times. And knowing him the bit I did, I know that his main focus in life was his wife Joan and his family. He was the quintessential family man. He was also, as so many have remarked this week, a true gentleman.

During Covid I wrote a piece for the Irish Independent about the heartache of not being able to see my daughter, my granddaughter and my newly arrived grandson in Perth, Western Australia. True to form when it was published I got a text from Ronnie.

It said

“Lovely piece in the Indo today. Joan and I wish you guys happiness. May you all get together soon. Love Ronnie”

His athletic achievement was huge, winning an Olympic gold medal and making this country so proud. But Ronnie never ever forgot that the most important thing in life is love… and for him that was family.

Thank you, Ronnie, for your friendship, your support and your kindness.

Ni bheidh a leitheid ann aris.

As I write these words it is not raining. A miracle. But seriously, what is going on? What have we, here on this damp little Atlantic outpost of Europe done to deserve the biblical deluges that have plagued us since the year turned? And more importantly how do we make it stop. Because I, like most people, have had enough.

Read more

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The Tony Blair documentary, which is currently on Channel 4 makes fascinating viewing, especially if you are of an age when you remember very clearly the optimism and hope that emanated from our nearest neighbours in the early years of his tenure as PM.

For Irish people Blair’s role in the Good Friday Agreement will always be remembered and honoured. The image of him with Bertie announcing the historic agreement that brought peace to this island, is a cherished one. Here were two experienced and clever deal makers and negotiators. Of course, they didn’t achieve this agreement on their own, there was a perfect storm of players on the stage at the same time, not least the woman that history has totally forgotten about – the unique Mo Mowlam, whose role should not be underestimated although it largely has been.

But back to the neighbours. The early Tony Blair years were also characterised by ‘Cool Britianna’ as the new Labour Government seemed to highlight British culture and celebrated everything from fashion to music, from art to sport. Prime Minister Blair held regular parties on No 10 to which the luminaries from these worlds were invited.

There was a joy and an optimism that seemed to ooze from the neighbours. Something which seemed, to me anyway, quite refreshing and different from the staid old stiff upper lip kind of Britishness we were used to.

During one of the episodes of the documentary series, reference was made to the London Olympics of 2012. And I was reminded of a blog post I wrote in praise of the opening and closing ceremonies and just how it captured this New Britian. This is what I wrote.

Being married to a Brit I have always taken a lively interest in the goings on of our nearest neighbours. I have two children who are half English and, if I am to be very honest, that part of their heritage is not ever something I was that excited about. Their Irishness contained all the attributes that I would have considered preferable for life – an ability to talk the hind legs off the proverbial donkey, an inner knowing of what ‘the craic’ is, the love of a good party and an understanding that slagging someone you love is really a show of affection. Other than great organisational skills I was unsure what other national traits their English heritage gifted them. I suppose you could shorthand all this by saying my attitude to the Brits is that they’re grand – a bit boring and predictable – but grand.

To back up this dodgy theory I would regale my kids with the story of the first time I travelled to London to spend the weekend with my beloved. I was to accompany him to a wedding – a daunting prospect as I knew absolutely no-one. The wedding itself took place in a beautiful ancient English church complete with lychgate and with real bells tolling to announce the newly wedded couple. The reception was in an equally lovely country hotel with duck pond and gorgeous gardens. The day was sunny and warm. The people I met were all very nice too and made me feel very welcome. But it was all over by 9pm. The bar closed and everyone went home. I couldn’t believe it. This to me summed up England – grand but a tad dull. And yes, I am quite aware that this was a very lazy view of the neighbours.

So when I sat down to watch the Olympic Opening Ceremony, I was expecting to see a well-executed show complete with a dollop of Royalty and the usual line up of British greats from the world of music. What I was not expecting was to see was Her Majesty playing a cameo role in a Bond skit where she apparently jumps out of a helicopter into the arena. What was this? Were the Brits laughing at themselves?

The great organisation I had come to expect was there alright – but it was used to create a show that was chaotic, quirky, exuberant and magical. Sure, there was great lighting and pyrotechnics but over-riding all this was a creativity that was mind-blowing; the cyclists with the luminous wings, the children jumping on hospital beds, the Mary Poppins’s who floated into the arena – breathtaking and enchanting. And there was powerful symbolism too, particularly in the lighting of the magnificent ceremonial bowl of flame by the next generation of young athletes.

I wondered if the Closing Ceremony would revert to type. We already knew that we were going to be treated to a ‘symphony of British music’, but once again the Brits surpassed themselves and surprised me. We were all invited to join in a wild party with performers singing on juggernauts, in convertible Bentleys and on top of Taxis. Annie Lennox appeared like some kind of warrior Goddess on the prow of a ship singing Little Bird. And best of all The Who, closed the show delivering My Generation to at least three younger generations of British musicians who joined them on stage.

As I watched I began to feel that this Olympics was about so much more than sport. Over the last two weeks our neighbours have redefined what it is to be British. They have revitalised Brand GB into something alive, colourful, witty, creative and magical. It has been a joy to watch. And I am very relieved for my children and think I will stop with the wedding story now.

One of the most poignant moments of the Closing Ceremony was when the face of John Lennon appeared on the screen singing Imagine..... “you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope one day you’ll join me. And the world can live as one.” London 2012 came very near to providing us with an insight as to what such a world would feel like. Maybe the Mayans were right after all about 2012 heralding in a new era of peace and understanding on this troubled planet. I hope so. But seriously who would have ever thought it would have been the Brits who would deliver the goods.

Oh my how things have changed. And it is that change that perhaps should be a warning to us here in Ireland as we seem to be having a cultural moment ourselves. We are currently busy celebrating Irish film, Irish actors, Irish writing, Irish music and our story telling – and quite rightly so. We are wondering at how brilliant we are. Our government have extended the ‘Basic Income For The Arts’ (which in fairness isn’t an income – it’s a grant as it only lasts 3 years… but even so, it’s a step in the right direction). And I celebrate all of this cultural pride too.

But we have got to stay mindful how all this feel-good stuff can evaporate in just a few short years. By 2016 – just 4 years after the London Olympics, the UK had voted to leave the EU and so began a downward spiral which has left the economy banjaxed and the country having some kind of crisis of identity.

I do think that we here in Ireland, along with our cultural moment, have recently become more keenly aware of our history. From colonisation and a genocidal famine, we have an increased understanding of our history and how it impacts who we are as a country today…. Even though I think our politicians are often behind the people on this one…. Like seriously, enact the Occupied Territories Bill for God’s sake!

I am not sure that the British have ever properly looked at their history and come to terms with their past. Which perhaps has led to what I often perceive as a crisis of identity… which ultimately led the Brits to be hijacked by lies and to take the crazy decision to Brexit.

Could we here in Ireland become so smug that we also self-sabotage? What struck me watching the Tony Blair documentary is that we cannot become complacent. Our pride in our culture is wonderful… but we need to make sure we don’t ever take it for granted. We need to nurture it and not fall asleep at the wheel.

After watching the three episodes of ‘Tony Blair’ I came away with a feeling of sadness. Blair who did his state and ours, some service, will largely be remembered as the man who took his country into a disastrous war in Iraq, against the wishes of his people; something that has had huge and long-term consequences in the middle east. Not only will his positive achievements (not least in Northern Ireland) be lost but so too will be Britian’s moment in the cultural sun.

If I feel sad after watching it, I can only imagine how most Brits feel when presented with how it all went so wrong so relatively quickly.

This is a newsletter that I have tried quite a few times to write but got bogged down so often that I gave up…. Bogged down in details that are not required to make the point I wish to make without boring the arse off you.

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As you know if you follow me on social media or have read my book or have been to any of my One Woman Shows I am all about positive ageing. Which is no surprise because I think I have tried to be relentlessly positive all my life.

My dear mother, who was a very wise and funny woman used to tell me to “hope for the best but prepare for the worst” and I used to rail against this awful advice. “No, Ma,” I used reply, “I will not ‘prepare for the worst’. I will hope for the best. End of story.” We rarely disagreed but on this we did.

I guess you would say I am a glass half full woman. Having a very strong sense of the ridiculous helps deal with the fallout when things do go tits up. Have a laugh. Don’t take yourself or your life TOO seriously is another of my mottos to live by.

So it is no surprise that my relentless positivity spread into my attitude to getting older. Keep the sunny side out, don’t focus on the changes to your face or hair and concentrate on all the good stuff… like the freedoms that come with being in your 60s. I wrote a book about this and it is what my One Woman Shows are about too.. Because I genuinely believe it to be true.

Back in 2019 I was diagnosed with T2 Diabetes. And so I talk in the book and in the show about minding your health as you get older… because I didn’t and now I do. I exercise every day – usually a walk but I also cycle a bit too. So, I was all in control. Or so I thought.

I began to get sporadic issues with my glutes (the big muscle in your arse) about two years ago. Nothing major but every so often they would play up. A couple of visits to the physio and exercises helped. Then in April of last year I also developed ‘foot drop’ (I suddenly couldn’t lift the front of my foot off the ground) which rang all kinds of medical alarm bells. I was sent for multiple MRIs even though I always felt that this was a mechanical issue rather than a neurological one.

However last summer, the final MRI I had, which was a brain one, showed up some small white matter and more alarm bells rang and I was told I may have had a minor stroke and I was admitted to hospital for tests. I was fairly convinced that I didn’t have a stroke.

This is where I will attempt to edit all the stuff I could say about that. But suffice to say that once the foot drop occurred, I went back to physio and continued to go throughout all this saga. I was sure I could retrain my foot back to operation.

In the end I did and by Christmas the functionality in my foot had returned. But then my glutes went rogue again (with a lot more pain this time) and just when they began to recover, I tripped on the stairs and went flying into our piano in the hall and banged up my knee.

Major painkillers were required and more physio. But in the meantime, I had an appointment with the consultant who I was under in the hospital. He decided that I needed a hip replacement, which shocked me to the core. That was in January. I kept on with physio and painkillers. Within two weeks I was off painkillers and my glutes/hip feels fine again. I am still working on my knee, but it is improving.

I was out on my bike for the first time in months yesterday and it was glorious. I am a slow cyclist but I love it… well…. Till my arse gets sore I do!

Anyway… I was also at my GP this morning. A man I trust and who knows me well. We both agree that whereas a hip replacement might be in my future, I don’t need one right now.

So – why am I telling you all this. Because the last year shook me to my core. I have been deeply stressed over the fact that maybe I was wrong (I mean I AM NEVER WRONG… ask my husband). Maybe getting older is actually a shit show when you just fall apart slowly.

But now that I seemed to have regained my equilibrium I do want to qualify some of my enthusiasm for my 60s. It is the age when stuff can go wrong… mechanical stuff like knees and hips and such like. It is also the time perhaps when you realise that one of the best attributes you can have in dealing with this, is patience – I am not a patient person. Because as you age, recovery takes longer. I am now making a conscious effort to be patient with my body.

I have also learned that ultimately, we are all in charge of our own health. Trust your instincts. I am conscious that as a ‘60 something with good health insurance’ one can be, well, ushered enthusiastically into all kinds of tests and medical scenarios. I am grateful to have had all the tests I had done over the last months… but they do take a toll on your confidence and can be stressful. I don’t think that is taken into consideration by the medical profession.

So I am back baby…. Still with a wonky knee and still going to physio. But my head is not as melted as it has been. It’s like a fog has cleared. I am ONLY 64… but like an old jalopy I need more maintenance that I did in the past. I need to mind more than just my Diabetes.

So next stop in the gym in order to work on my leg strength. I shall cycle over wearing my cloak of positivity!

We always functioned with an operational capacity of four cats. Over the years we have also fostered kittens and cats from the DSPCA. So that there were times when we had 10 cats in the house. Chaos and bliss at the same time.

If one cat passed on, we had a vacancy for another. We are currently on our second/third generation of felines. Our cats have traditionally either come to us – you know someone contacts you and asks you if you could take a cat or kitten that has been found somewhere. Or we have adopted from the DSPCA or other rescues.

We had a vacancy the day we wandered into the pet shop in Carrickmines to meet a cat rescue who had kittens looking for homes. One such kitten was a long-haired beauty with only three feet. Yes, you read that correctly – she had four legs but only three feet. One of her back legs just ended in an open wound – something she had from birth. We immediately decided that she was the girl for us. The rescue advised us that the wound would need care – regular cleaning and treatment for infection – until she was old enough to have her leg amputated. No bother we thought and so Rio, the most beautiful kitten, came to live with our other three cats who were well used to admitting new felines to the house. They didn’t always like new additions, but they tolerated them very well – generally by ignoring them.

But from the off, Rio was different. Maybe it was because she hopped about rather than doing normal cat walking. Maybe that was what freaked them out. But the two oldest cats, both male, left home. This was early summer and I was sure they would return in a day or so when they got hungry and over themselves. But they didn’t. Scooter left and only occasionally visited over the following months. His absences getting longer and longer. I think someone had taken him in but although I did put a notice about him in our neighbourhood WhatsApp group we never found out where he went. We now haven’t seen Scooter in over a year.

Diego, his brother was easier to track down as one day I was walking up the road and there he was in a neighbour’s front window looking brazenly out at me. “WTF” I roared at him. He laughed in my face.

His new residence was the home of new neighbours whom I hadn’t met yet, but I knew they had two young kids. So up I went and introduced myself. And said “em, I think my cat is in your living room.”

“Oh, really,” said the lovely new neighbour, “do you mean chicken?”

“Chicken?” I said, somewhat horrified. “His name is Diego.”

“Oh, we thought he was a stray.”

“No, he lives in the lap of cat luxury two doors down.”

“Well, he’s welcome to visit anytime.”

“Great, that’s great,” I said as I gathered a rather disgruntled Diego into my arms and made my way home, giving him a piece of my mind all the way.

But as anyone who knows cats knows, you can’t train a cat, and you can’t force a cat to do something they don’t want to do. And Diego was done with us and so disappeared to the neighbours as much as possible. I had asked that they wouldn’t feed him and they didn’t, so he did come home for his food. But he had changed. He went from being my special cat to being very cross with us all. He only stayed in with us on nights when the weather was either very cold or wet. Otherwise, he lived with the neighbours – either in their house or in their greenhouse in the garden. I still miss him.

Our oldest cat Mabel is now very elderly, arthritic, has definitely got dementia and also diabetes apparently. She no longer goes out but wanders quite happily around the house and is a food fiend. Eats anything she can get her paws on. She loves every cat that ever darkened the doorstep and also is great pals with Cosmo, our Labrador.

Rio settled in well, completely unaware that she was a bomb that caused two of our beloved cats to up and leave. She was very cute and affectionate - like most kittens. And when she was old enough (about 6 months I think) our vet decided that she should have her leg off at the same time as she was being spayed.

So, Rio woke up one day with no kitty making apparatus and no leg. And she became a different cat. Grumpy as hell. So much so that for the following two years I had her back at the vets a few times just to make sure she wasn’t in pain or there wasn’t anything up. No – she was all good – but just had become a grumpy cat.

Now in fairness to Rio, I know that behind the grumpy exterior there is still an affectionate cat. She shows this side of her personality in the evening when she will come and sit on my knee. I can pat her head and rub her ears but touch her anywhere else – even her tail – and she will hiss and spit. She is all sound and fury but rarely actually scratches anyone.

Anyway, we decided it was time to get a new addition when Rio was about 2 and so we adopted Winnie – who came from Offaly. Again, a very cute and affectionate black and white kitten with gorgeous almond shaped eyes. Once she was fully grown Rio decided that she was going to bully Winnie at every available opportunity.

Rio would wait in hiding for Winnie to wander by and then she would tear after her and wrestle her. Winnie became terrified and roared for help every time. Rio never hurt her but really enjoyed terrorising her.

This has resulted in Winnie refusing to use the cat flap as Rio regularly ambushes her on the way in. Winnie will only enter and exit through the front door. And once in the house she will only sleep in high places. She has a shelf in the utility room and another in the study. She is still a lovely gentle cat, and Rio has more or less given up terrorising her. Well… most of the time.

So, by last autumn we had accepted that Diego had left us – although we still take responsibility for his welfare and his new family let us know if there is anything up with him. Therefore, we had a vacancy and so we took delivery of Stevie Nyx… a black slinky cat who is now about 8 months old and is mad as a hatter. Afraid of no one, including Rio and loves Cosmo. She is, as you would expect of a kitten, full of beans and has brought a new energy to the house.

I couldn’t live without cats. My parents had cats before they had kids, so I grew up with cats… and we have cats always too. As the saying goes ‘a home without a cat is just a house’. They give affection only when they want to… and there is something very special about that. They are hard to impress and live their lives by their own rules. And they have no loyalty. But I like little more than coming home after a stressful day and finding the cats sprawled or curled up, each in their favourite places. They don’t bounce around in the demented way the dog does when I enter… but I know they know I’m home.

So – ‘how many cats have you Barbara?’ I think the answer is four and a half…. The half being our neighbour, Diego… and I still live in hope that Scooter might return, if only for a visit.

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My love affair with this special place goes right back to the early ‘80s when I worked for JWT. I was sent (with a colleague) on what we used call ‘an educational’ to familiarise ourselves with what Tenerife had to offer. We spend a night or two in the south - Playa de las Americas and Los Christianos and then headed north to check out Puerto de la Cruz. It was love at first sight. And I have been back regularly ever since.

This is a piece I wrote about that first visit in 2012 (I have added a paragraph to the end) and which was broadcast on RTE’s Sunday Miscellany programme. You can listen to that programme here

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We soon realised we were on the wrong bus. Instead of heading out of Las Americas and onto the motorway towards Santa Cruz, our rather rickety bus took what looked like a Canarian boreen and headed uphill, snaking it’s way north. We looked at each other realising that we had just made the mistake we had been warned not to make. “Make sure the bus is marked ‘Directo’” the rep had said, “otherwise you won’t get to Puerto de la Cruz till well after dark.”

We settled down for what was clearly going to be a long journey. But only a mile or two later, the bus pulled into a tiny, dusty village and came to a halt. The male passengers disembarked along with the bus driver. The women stayed put, including the one with the hen in a box. About fifteen minutes later the men all arrived back onboard and the bus spluttered its way on. A couple of miles further on and we pulled into another village, bus stopped, and the men disappeared while we sat, completely confused and a little amused. We were the only non locals on the bus.

At the third village, curiosity got the better of us and so we made the decision to disembark with the men and see where they were going. There was a murmur from the senoras in black as the two Irish hussies followed the boys …… into the local bodega. The men smoked a cigarette, had a shot of some local brew, spat on the floor and gurgled away in guttural Spanish. We had a quick cortado coffee, our curiosity sated.

The bus continued to make its leisurely progress and as we climbed higher, we reached into our bags for our sweaters. The sky was blue and the air was crisp as Mount Teide wore her year around collar of snow. We gazed out the grimy windows at the volcanic lunar landscape just below the crater of this mountain, Spain’s highest.

Soon we were descending, and the stops on this leg of the journey were the normal bus kind – picking up and dropping off passengers. We drove through pine forests above the clouds, finally sinking down into the Orotava Valley as darkness fell. We rounded yet another bend and I caught my first glimpse of Puerto de la Cruz, her flickering lights reflected in the water of the Atlantic Ocean.

As we reached the banana plantations on the outskirts of the town I had the oddest feeling that I was home. We had come from the south of Tenerife which is barren, dusty and desert like. It gets the best of the weather with lots of sunshine and little rain. But the north is a different world. It’s lush and tropical and much older than the purpose built resorts of the south. I was 18 years old that day when I stepped off that old bus in Puerto de la Cruz. I remember breathing in the cool air and something deep inside me recognised this place as somewhere very special.

Over the following years Puerto de la Cruz became my second home, my refuge, my holiday haven. Working in the travel business I was able to fly south, to this island town in the Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of West Africa at least once and often twice a year. Each time my arrival was no less of a homecoming than the first.

I always stayed in the Bellavista Apartments built into the cliff face in an area known as La Paz, overlooking the old town. I would sleep with the balcony doors open so that I could listen to the sound of the waves crashing far below. In the morning I had a view over The Lago – a complex of sea water swimming pools located on the seafront. Every second morning the pools would be filled by the giant fountain in the centre of the largest lake. I would drink my coffee and watch the tumbling water sparkle and create mini rainbows in the morning sun.

Later I would walk down to the town. Through alleyways of steps I would pass under windows with shutters thrown open letting fall a cascade of rapid fire Spanish from various competing TVs. I passed doorways where women in aprons perched on kitchen chairs chatting as I smiled and muttered buenos dias. I wanted them to know that I wasn’t just a tourist. I was a part of this place that I carried in my soul.

Days spent in Puerto de la Cruz were long and lazy; swimming in the lago, drinking coffee in the Plaza del Charco, sunset walks along the sea wall by San Telmo enjoying the Spanish ritual of the evening paseo. The nights were full of romance and sweet nothings. I danced in trendy nightclubs, drank rough red wine from earthenware jugs, listened to live Flamenco in a dark and gloomy cellar bar and made some interesting local friends. I did a lot of growing up.

Some years later when life threw some very curved balls my way, it was to Tenerife and to Puerto de la Cruz that I retreated. Happily alone I let the island work its special magic on my bruised and battered soul. It didn’t let me down as it delivered precious gifts and treasured memories which keep me warm and sane to this day.

I went back to Puerto de la Cruz last weekend, a trip I booked before Christmas. Little did I know just how much I would need Puerto’s gentle balm as I recovered from the shock of being told the day before we headed south, that I likely needed a hip replacement. (I am not sure if I do yet as I am waiting to be referred to an Orthopaedic surgeon).

Puerto de la Cruz wrapped me in its warm embrace and told me that I was till the same chica I was when I first visited in 1980. Although I am fairly sure it called me Senora! Gracias mi corazon. Your healing magic was just what I needed.

One of my favourite quotes about getting older comes from David Bowie, who said that “ageing is the extraordinary process in which you become the person you were always meant to be.” Think about that for a minute. And this quote I think actually applies even more to women than men, because we live in a patriarchy which is not entirely comfortable with women becoming who they were always meant to be. Women who embrace all that is good about getting older and refuse to buy into the huge industry that depends on us actually not liking what we see in the mirror as we age, become very powerful and that is not something that the society we live in is very comfortable with.

One of society’s most effective ways to control women is to keep us distracted about how we look. It is something we get used to from the time we are very young when we are taught that our most valuable currency is not our intellect, our ideas, our creativity but our appearance. No matter what we do in life, value is added if we look good (whatever it is that society deems to be ‘good’) while we are doing it.

This message just gets louder as we age and are seen to age. Just look around you, just listen… how many messages have you gotten in the last few days about smoothing your lines and wrinkles, about concealing age spots and other nonsense?

There has been a bit of a push back in recent years with some famous women proudly ageing naturally and so the ads from some cosmetic (and increasingly cosmedic) companies has subtly changed as they use ‘softer’ language, but the core message is still the same. Women can age all the like as long as they don’t look like they are ageing.

As long as older women are kept distracted by their appearance, as long as they keep spending their hard-earned money on lotions, potions, and invasive treatments, they cannot step into their true power as women. And that suits the patriarchy just fine.

Those of you who are older will remember the Australian actor Rachel Ward who starred in The Thorn Birds back in the 80s. She now runs a ‘regenerative’ beef farm in New South Wales. Her Instagram account has 63.5k followers.

In late December she posted a Christmas video speaking directly to camera – no filter and no make-up. And the internet didn’t like it. Oh no. She was inundated with comments from people expressing horror at ‘how she had let herself go,’ how she looked ‘ravaged’ and how she had clearly ‘completely given up’.

Given up on what, I wondered? Because to me, she looked like she had completely given up on the bullshit around women and our appearance. To me (and many others subsequently it has to be said), she looked like a woman who was living her best life, on her farm, and had in fact become the woman she was always meant to be.

When I turned 50 (14 years ago), I remember thinking about getting older. It is one of those fulcrum birthdays where you tend to look back and look forward and wonder about how you must likely have now passed the halfway point of your life. I remember making a conscious decision to make peace with the changes that time were going to make to my face and my body. I was not going to chase some illusive dream of preserving my youth, of anti-ageing when I knew it was an impossibility. And even if I had the money to spend on expensive and invasive treatments, I have a horror of not looking like me. Because what must that do to your self esteem if you look in the mirror and the person looking back at you looks a bit like you only weirder? I always had an idea of how I would look as I age because I look like my mother. So, it isn’t a surprise. I look like me, like I have always looked, only older. And I am fine with that.

For women it is vital that we realise in our fifties or sixties or even later, that our worth is not (and I would say has never been) in our appearance. But while capitalising on our youthful good looks is clearly something most of us enjoyed and I guess helps the evolution of our species, women are not here JUST TO BE someone’s decorative accessory or to have kids. That is only part of our story.

We have evolved to have menopause, a clear marking of the end of our fertility and yet we live on – for another 20, 30 or 40 years. Evolution gives us these years because it recognises the value of older women. It recognises that we now have so much more to give. We are wise, we are smart and we are strong. Our opinions, our ideas, our creativity are (and I would say always were) of huge value. We should be celebrated as the matriarchs not just of our families but of society.

Remember that a woman who no longer gives a fuck about what others think of her is a powerful woman. A woman who can no longer be controlled by big business or society. We need to remember just how fabulous we are in our sixties and beyond.

In response to the trolls who dumped so many insults on her Instagram reel Rachel Ward said “I just feel sorry for those poor souls who fear ageing so much. They will learn that it’s ultimate freedom as a woman to let youth and beauty go. It was lovely while it lasted, but there is so much more to life. You can’t know its pleasures until you get there.”

DAMN RIGHT RACHEL…. Damn right.

And of course, our Phil (arguably Ireland’s first black man) was a Rock God and the first concert I ever went to (that I am proud to admit – a neighbour took me to see Boney M when I was a teenager – still morto) was Thin Lizzy in June 1980. I was 18. It remains one of the best gigs I was ever at – now, in fairness I was never a huge concert goer although I have multiple memories of going to see Neil Diamond in the 80s and 90s. And he was good… but hardly a rock god.

Anyway, on the 7^th of June in 1980, my and my bestie paid £5 each to see Lizzy in what was then known as ‘the Simmonscourt extension’ of the RDS. A couple of things happened that night. The first was that we fell in love with the support band who were The Lookalikes. And so began nearly a decade of following them around Dublin – great music and a very good-looking band too – although not in the dangerous way of Philo.

The second thing that happened is that I lost my clog. Oh yes, back in 1980, clogs were very fashionable. I think! Or maybe that was just me. Although I do know that there was a clog shop on South King Street, so clearly I wasn’t the only one buying them. And they were the real McCoy – proper Dutch clogs – wooden on the bottom and leather on top. And they must have been comfortable.

The concert was a standing one and at one stage the crowd surged and I got lifted out of my clogs and moved forward. Wouldn’t happen now unless there was a crane involved! Anyway, one of my clogs got left behind. I tried to locate it but to no avail so I enjoyed the rest of the concert lopsided and in one bare foot.

When it was all over me and my pal waited till the crowds started to leave and found my lonesome clog that someone has kicked into the edge of the floor. We floated home, my balance restored, our love of Lizzy intensified and our curiosity about The Lookalikes ignited.

A year or so later, I caught sight of Philo one day on Grafton Street too. He had such a magnetic presence. But best of all one summer night I found myself at a party out in Sutton and guess who was there – lounging sexily in the corner? Oh yes…. Let me tell you a story..

Disclaimer - this story was published last year on one of my first newsletters but as my subscribers have grown I thought it OK to reproduce again here.

My first job which I began in 1980 was working for JWT, then Ireland’s largest tour operator. It was a great job which I loved very much. Most travel companies at that time were staffed mainly by people in their 20s and early 30s and so the social life was just brilliant.

Now back in the early 80s Disco was king. Shiny satiny gear, impossibly big hair and bright eyeshadow were de rigueur. We disco danced on multi coloured dance floors in Flamingos and Tamangos and between our disco moves we drank Malibu and Pineapple like we were living in Miami. It was all very Saturday Night Fever.

But I was always a rock chick! I grew up in Dun Laoghaire in the late 70s, hanging out in the infamous Dunelles pub – a dark cavern of a pub in the basement of the not long opened Dun Laoghaire Shopping Centre – where we listened to local musician Dominic Mulvaney playing Bob Dylan and Neil Young. On Saturday night we headed to the late night movie in the Forum Cinema in Glasthule which always seemed to be Pink Floyd’s Live In Pompeii.

My work social life with its Disco beat continued with summer BBQs in Joe Walsh’s house, occasional weekends in Ibiza and Majorca and an annual conference which kicked off a hectic Christmas period. But there was one social event in the travel business year to which invitations were highly coveted. A certain travel agent threw a BBQ in his family home, which was large property on the beachfront in Sutton. Only the very coolest and trendiest people got an invite. And for years I was not one of them.

Then one summer, just like Cinderella, I got a call to the ball, or rather the BBQ. I was beyond excited. I had made it, finally. I can’t remember what satin creation I deemed suitable for this important event but I do very clearly remember arriving into the garden in Sutton. I thought I had stepped into a film set. May I remind you that this was the early 80s. Dublin was a dreary place. BBQs were not yet on sale in every DIY shop in the country, nor were fairy lights. So, the sight of this huge garden lit by fairy lights in the trees was breathtaking.

In the centre of the garden was an outdoor swimming pool which had been drained for the party and was in use as the dance floor. The BBQ was on one side of the pool and the bar on the other. All around the garden were dotted tables and umbrellas and at the end of the garden a gate opened out to the beach. I took all this in and tried to keep my mouth from dropping open. As I wandered towards the bar, trying to look as cool as possible, I passed a table and almost fell over a pair of long, leather clad legs. At that point I am sure my jaw did drop. I was at a party with Phil Lynott and beside him was Scott Gorham. If I could have imagined heaven at that age, this would have been it.

I don’t remember the rest of the evening. I think I snogged some young fella on the beach. But I do know that my eyes kept wandering back to Philo.

I generally don’t do regrets but I do regret that I didn’t have the courage just to go over and thank him for the music, for the story telling, for the magic, for changing what it meant to be Irish and for making Ireland and Dublin a little cool.

Although what I really mean is I regret is not going over and just kissing his beautiful face. But I know now that that might be assault.

Phil Lynott died 40 years ago yesterday. He was only 36.

2026 – how the hell did that happen? 2000 seems like just a couple of years ago and now we are over a quarter of the way into this century which still feels (to me) brand new.

Remember when we used to write cheques to pay for things? It took all of January before you automatically wrote the correct year but at least by then it was cemented into your brain. Now I think it may be at least September before my mind accepts that it is 2026.

A new year is loudly touted as a time to begin again. A time to review the year that is dying and time to make all kinds of plans for how you will do things better, be better in this brand-new year.

I am not immune to this and I love the idea of a new beginning….. like when you get a new notebook and for the first few pages you do your best writing and use your favourite pen until the notebook becomes just another notebook into which you scribble shopping lists, To Do Lists and maybe if you are lucky pearls of wisdom or beautiful phrases or descriptions you might use in the future.

But increasingly I am thinking that our new year rush to be better, to be happier, to be more successful happens at the wrong time. Sure, the year has turned on the solstice and we are now facing back towards the longer days and the sun, but we are still deep in winter.

The older I get, the more I become fascinated by the natural world. With every year I become more enchanted by wildlife and the cycles of Mother Earth. And in January the earth is still sleeping. Nature is quiet. Animals are hibernating. The energy is still within.

Our ancestors lived according to the Celtic Calendar. They believed that winter began on the 1^st of November. Spring begins on the 1^st of February which in Ireland, is now the official Feast of the Goddess/Saint Brigid. And these pagan ancestors were right. If you pay attention to what is happening in the natural world you will feel Mother Nature stirring in February. Life is beginning to return to the soil. Animals are outt looking for mates and new life will follow soon after. In the Celtic Calendar, February 1^st is the Feast of Imbolg which means ‘in the belly’ or other words the natural world is pregnant.

But that new beginning is still a month off.

So, as we say good bye to 2025 and welcome the new year in tonight, remember that the calendar we live by is the Gregorian Calendar which was introduced in 1582. The old Celtic Calendar, sometimes called The Wheel of the Celtic Year is far older and far more in tune with the cycles of nature.

Nature is not something outside of us, we are of nature too. Despite our industrial world which is largely driven by commercial interests, nature runs deep within our veins.

So be kind to yourself as we face into January. Remember that nature is still sleeping and dreaming. There is no need to rush into all kinds of new resolutions. Think about them, dream about them, but take action slowly. And shhhhh, don’t make too much noise… the Earth is still in deep slumber.

I wish you all a sleepy, dreamy January and that you know how grateful I am to all of you who have subscribed to my Newsletter and especially those who took out a paid subscription. My substack is a vital part of my work. Keeps me writing. And the fact that some readers are happy to pay for my writing is what keeps me doing it. You can change to a paid sub anytime!! But either way I am grateful - so go raibh a mile maith agaibh.

Long days in summer and long nights in winter suit me. I love change. I like that living in Ireland means being constantly reminded that nothing stays the same forever. Change is an inevitable part of life.

And now, in the darkest part of the year, we have our biggest festival – Christmas which like most Christian festivals ‘happens’ to fall very close to the winter solstice or as our ancestors called it - Grianstad an Gheimhridh.

Walking home at dusk last evening, through my suburban neighbourhood, I was stuck by how magical it looked. Most houses have lights in the windows or strung around a tree or a bush in the garden so that the street seemed to sparkle and shine.

When I got indoors I began the not insubstantial task of illuminating the house by turning on all the fairy lights that aren’t on timers. As the house began to glow I thought how much Christmas in Ireland has changed in recent decades.

In the ‘60s and ‘70s the decorations in homes generally consisted of simple tinsel strung around pictures and mirrors and paper chains that stretched from the central ceiling light to the four corners of the ‘good’ room. The only Christmas lights were likely to be one simple, multicoloured set on the Christmas Tree, which made the switching off at bedtime a lot easier! It’s currently taking me a good fifteen minutes to switch everything off before I climb the stairs at night. But amid all the enchantment of twinkling lights I began to think about the one very special piece of magic that we have lost.

I can still feel the anticipation I felt as a child on Christmas Eve; the mounting sense of excitement, leaving out the carrot for Rudolph and a glass of milk and a biscuit for the big man. Going to bed and lying awake, wondering if that was sleigh bells that I could hear carried on the wind. The Night Before Christmas… and not a creature stirring. But before bedtime there was one ritual that always enchanted me and that was watching my mother going into the front room to hitch up the net curtains in order to place a lighted candle on the window sill.

As a child I would gaze out onto the street, waiting as each of our neighbours did likewise. In the darkness of mid winter, these tiny spills of flickering light from the candle in the windows was a powerful symbol of hope and of welcome.

I know that many homes, including my own, still light a candle in the window on Christmas Eve, but it’s somewhat lost in the glow of the all the myriad of fairy lights. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we all just killed all the lights for an hour on the night before Christmas so that the candles in the windows were the only lights visible, emphasising our message of welcome.

But even in the glow of a million fairy lights, the candle in the window on Christmas Eve still carries the same, very Irish message, unchanged for hundreds of years. There is a welcome here. Failte anseo.

I wish you and yours a very Happy and peaceful Christmas. And thank you for all the support you have given me this year!