Patrick Comerford
Oh, the silly things we do as families.
For examples, we were playing charades as an extended family around the dinner table on Christmas Evening.
“A movie?” Yes.
“One word?” Yes.
“Four syllables?” Yes.
“First syllable sounds like gold?” No.
“First syllable is gold?”. Yes.
And so we continued.
But no-one got the answer.
Eventually, we were told: “Goldfinger.”
“Goldfinger doesn’t have four syllables.”
“Well, it does on the northside: Go-ald-fing-her. Anyway, you don’t want to give everything away, do you?”
On the way back home, it was a bright clear night as we crossed the River Liffey from the northside, with the trees and the Convention Centre lit up like Christmas decorations, the lights of the riverside buildings reflected in the water, and the light of a moon that was almost full.
Saint Stephen’s Day was one for family visits, and it was a delight after celebrating the birth of a child on Christmas Day, to hold in my arms two children born since last Christmas, the sons of a niece and a nephew, and to be reminded how beautiful new life is and that life goes on.
This afternoon, four of us had planned to go to the movies to see The Hobbit: an unexpected journey.
But we never got there. Instead an unexpected journey, or at least unplanned journey, brought two of us to Greystones. The tide was coming in, there was a swell on the water, and there was a crisp bite in the air.
After coffee in Insomia, we were caught in delight by the full moon that risen in the east behind the Dart station. We walked back down to the bridge under the railway line, and onto the beach.
In the twilight, the full moon was shining on the water.
Within just a few minutes it was covered in clouds, and darkness had fallen.
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