Who knows what evil lurks...
The woods aren't for me.
My home town in South Texas did not have a drainage and sewage system. When it rained, water sat and stagnated in great puddles until the heat of the sun evaporated it. Until that happened, each pool functioned as a veritable Garden of Eden for breeding mosquitoes. Now, Gulf Coast mosquitoes are big. When I say big, I mean quarter-inch long s.o.b.s who attack like Stukas. Sometimes, the best way to kill one was to let it gorge itself for a few second before slapping. This usually left a bloody mess. Warding them off kept my arms in motion like a Dutch windmill, and it was no fun at all.
Not only that, flying insects like me. Whenever I'm in their neighborhood, a cumulus cloud-sized swarm seeks me out and finds me within minutes. Yesterday during our walk in the Brackloon Woods, T. admitted that she had never seen quite as impressive a swarm of bugs flying around a single human head, so many Messerschmitts beleaguering a wounded B-17 Flying Fortress. (Confidential to Bob: Some of them Messerschmitts was Fokkers!)
Meanwhile, I'm flailing desperately lest the hexapodine vampires drain every last drop of Irish-Texan blood from me. So, what started as an innocent walk in some lovely, dark, deep glades of the woods wound up as a primal death clash between me and the devilish little bastards, stimulated by the repressed memory of the mosquito molestation I suffered growing up.
Not that it wasn't good exercise. Once I figured out that the faster I walked the sooner I escaped, I hustled out of there faster than, well, a newly-bred mosquito from a Kingsville puddle looking for live game. Only in this case the goal was a lunch of mussels and Guiness at the Sheebeen. The mussels were so fresh that barnacles adhered to their shells. Sweet and tender doesn't begin to describe them, especially when washed down with a pint of mother's milk (the Guinness). What started out as a near-death experience developed into a total life experience. Living can be that way, sometimes...
It looks so innocent.
Not that it wasn't good exercise. Once I figured out that the faster I walked the sooner I escaped, I hustled out of there faster than, well, a newly-bred mosquito from a Kingsville puddle looking for live game. Only in this case the goal was a lunch of mussels and Guiness at the Sheebeen. The mussels were so fresh that barnacles adhered to their shells. Sweet and tender doesn't begin to describe them, especially when washed down with a pint of mother's milk (the Guinness). What started out as a near-death experience developed into a total life experience. Living can be that way, sometimes...
Blogging in Ireland while listening to John Carty is a good thing. Here he is:
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