dublin
Crayic and the Toupatou- Part II
And here is Part II!
“Fer feck’s sake,” said Crayic. “’Tis roit damp, an’ colder den a tinker’s dagg’s nose.”
In other words, Crayic the mouse had had enough. He decided to map out the easiest routes to the sun. By darting through certain alleyways and circumventing certain undesirable places (like St Jame's Hospital, where they hated mice) he could, at least, have more time in the sunny locations. In addition, he decided to avoid the sewers altogether, partly because they were overcrowded with his kin (seeking the safety the sewers provided) but also because while he was underground he had almost no idea what was going on above. It was good to miss the rains, but missing out on the few bits of sun was too painful for Crayic to bear.
Sure enough his routes were extending further and further afield. Chasing the sun meant expanding one's perspective; you had to find the places that weren't blocked out by trees, towers, churches or pubs. He found that one of the best places, both out in the open for sunbathing and relatively free of predators, was along the Tolka Quay and Dublin Port. There he saw the big ships and ferries roll in. They would unload their cargo, of containers or people, fill up again and roll out once more, for Holyhead, Liverpool or beyond.
One time Crayic saw a ship that had come in from a place called Saint Lucia. It sounded nice and all the men on the great ship spoke in melodious tones like the people of Paris, only much sweeter. In addition, all of the men had remarkable, dark skin. Crayic was not accustomed to seeing such blackness, and grew instantly intrigued. Their bodies were strong and dark and smelt fragrant of strange fruit, tobacco and sweetest cane sugar.
“Smells loik Guinness cakes, if der was such a ting.” said Crayic.
Most of all, he admired the mahogany skin of the men. “Dey must come from a place dat’s full o’ sun, surely,” said Crayic. “Just look at da tans on ‘em!”
He examined the ship from a distance and found the words Caribbean, Commonwealth and Castries written in various places. They all sounded so delicious. So fun! So cheesy! It was a lot for Crayic to resist.
Following the North Wall Quay he came to one of the long, thick ropes bridging the gap from dock to ship. He looked at it carefully, and as he did, the rain started to come down on his head.
“Feck dis.”
With a last wink of hesitation and a glance all around him he leapt up and scampered across the rope nimbly. He was on board.
It didn't take him long to find the ship's mess. Most of the men were on leave, so there was little danger for a little mouse like Crayic. He zipped here and there scouring the kitchen area for morsels. In fact, there was quite a lot of food, and much to his delight, he found a secret passage of a long, wooden crawlspace leading directly to the pantry. The pantry—you won't believe it when you hear—was chock full of cheese: Limburgers, Port Saluts, Camemberts and Roqueforts, in full wheels and in easy-to-nibble triangles. A treasure trove of coagulated delight!
It only took Crayic a moment to make up his mind. He would stay on board as a stowaway and see what was happening in St. Lucia. Surely the ship would return to Dublin before too long.
The ship was almost ready to leave, but Crayic was (what the locals liked to call) “a chancer,” so he whipped back to his nest of a home under the canal bridge in Rialto to gather his things. Imagine his surprise when he realised he didn't have anything worth taking! His most important possession was the nest itself. He felt certain it would be overtaken by the time he got back, so he did his best to seal up the entranceways.
Then with a hop and a flip he legged it down to port to board the ship. It was just about to raise anchor, and for the first time, Crayic saw her name, in big red and gold letters on the hull: La Toupatou. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded good.
And at 5am, with it bucketing down all over Dublin, the Toupatou set sail down the Liffey. Crayic settled his nerves with a few tentative nibbles of the Port Salut.
“Deadly,” said Crayic, in curd-mouthed ecstasy.
“Fer feck’s sake,” said Crayic. “’Tis roit damp, an’ colder den a tinker’s dagg’s nose.”
In other words, Crayic the mouse had had enough. He decided to map out the easiest routes to the sun. By darting through certain alleyways and circumventing certain undesirable places (like St Jame's Hospital, where they hated mice) he could, at least, have more time in the sunny locations. In addition, he decided to avoid the sewers altogether, partly because they were overcrowded with his kin (seeking the safety the sewers provided) but also because while he was underground he had almost no idea what was going on above. It was good to miss the rains, but missing out on the few bits of sun was too painful for Crayic to bear.
Sure enough his routes were extending further and further afield. Chasing the sun meant expanding one's perspective; you had to find the places that weren't blocked out by trees, towers, churches or pubs. He found that one of the best places, both out in the open for sunbathing and relatively free of predators, was along the Tolka Quay and Dublin Port. There he saw the big ships and ferries roll in. They would unload their cargo, of containers or people, fill up again and roll out once more, for Holyhead, Liverpool or beyond.
One time Crayic saw a ship that had come in from a place called Saint Lucia. It sounded nice and all the men on the great ship spoke in melodious tones like the people of Paris, only much sweeter. In addition, all of the men had remarkable, dark skin. Crayic was not accustomed to seeing such blackness, and grew instantly intrigued. Their bodies were strong and dark and smelt fragrant of strange fruit, tobacco and sweetest cane sugar.
“Smells loik Guinness cakes, if der was such a ting.” said Crayic.
Most of all, he admired the mahogany skin of the men. “Dey must come from a place dat’s full o’ sun, surely,” said Crayic. “Just look at da tans on ‘em!”
He examined the ship from a distance and found the words Caribbean, Commonwealth and Castries written in various places. They all sounded so delicious. So fun! So cheesy! It was a lot for Crayic to resist.
Following the North Wall Quay he came to one of the long, thick ropes bridging the gap from dock to ship. He looked at it carefully, and as he did, the rain started to come down on his head.
“Feck dis.”
With a last wink of hesitation and a glance all around him he leapt up and scampered across the rope nimbly. He was on board.
It didn't take him long to find the ship's mess. Most of the men were on leave, so there was little danger for a little mouse like Crayic. He zipped here and there scouring the kitchen area for morsels. In fact, there was quite a lot of food, and much to his delight, he found a secret passage of a long, wooden crawlspace leading directly to the pantry. The pantry—you won't believe it when you hear—was chock full of cheese: Limburgers, Port Saluts, Camemberts and Roqueforts, in full wheels and in easy-to-nibble triangles. A treasure trove of coagulated delight!
It only took Crayic a moment to make up his mind. He would stay on board as a stowaway and see what was happening in St. Lucia. Surely the ship would return to Dublin before too long.
The ship was almost ready to leave, but Crayic was (what the locals liked to call) “a chancer,” so he whipped back to his nest of a home under the canal bridge in Rialto to gather his things. Imagine his surprise when he realised he didn't have anything worth taking! His most important possession was the nest itself. He felt certain it would be overtaken by the time he got back, so he did his best to seal up the entranceways.
Then with a hop and a flip he legged it down to port to board the ship. It was just about to raise anchor, and for the first time, Crayic saw her name, in big red and gold letters on the hull: La Toupatou. He didn't know what it meant, but it sounded good.
And at 5am, with it bucketing down all over Dublin, the Toupatou set sail down the Liffey. Crayic settled his nerves with a few tentative nibbles of the Port Salut.
“Deadly,” said Crayic, in curd-mouthed ecstasy.
Comments
Crayic and the Toupatou- Part I
Here’s the beginning of something I wrote a while back; it’s kind of an adult kid’s story.
Crayic and the Toupatou
There was a mouse living in Ireland, Dublin specifically, not far from the Guinness brewery. His name was Crayic, and with his keen olfactory sense he could find his way home very easily—even from miles away—because the smell of cooking barley from the brewery was very distinctive indeed, and it wafted all over the great city.
Crayic lived along the canal near Dolphin Barn; actually he lived beneath the bridge going over the old water lane. He held a lovely spot full of newspaper clippings, tire rubber and bits of wire all piled together into a magnificent, tunnelled nest. He insisted upon multiple routes in and out of his fabulous little abode because the neighbourhood was crawling with rats, cats and people. You never knew what might happen next where he lived, especially at night when the cats and rats were active, and when the men came stumbling out onto the streets—themselves smelling much like the brewery down the way.
Unlike other city mice, Crayic liked to get up very early in the morning and roam about the city until late afternoon. He loved the hubbub of his home town, and sought out those places where people would toss away perfectly good bits of food, like along Grafton Street and in the vicinity of Trinity College, with its lofty beige walls and its plethora of students—discarding pizza crusts, apple cores and even the occasional yogurt container or hunk of cheese.
Crayic adored the sun, and what really bothered him was Dublin's—and Ireland's, for that matter—constantly changing weather. He would peek in at the audio-video store run by the nice Indian man on Mercer Street; in the front window a television would broadcast the weather report in Irish, and Crayic would watch and listen (he was a bilingual mouse, so he understood it all.) But it didn't seem to matter what the Weather Lady said, or what any of the Dubliners said, the weather always followed, every single day, the same, predictable, persistently pestersome pattern:
RAIN, CLOUD, SUN, CLOUD, RAIN, CLOUD, RAIN, CLOUD, SUN, CLOUD, RAIN
And so forth. Crayic liked the sun best of all things. It brought out more people and more excitement. It cooked the food ever so perfectly on the pavement. Most of all, the sun felt great on Crayic's soft pelt. He'd find himself chasing all over the maze of a city bits of sunshine to bask in, even if only for a few seconds. In the morning he felt the warm blast from Phoenix Park, at midday from Samuel Beckett Bridge or from Parnell's Statue or atop the Old Abbey Theatre, late afternoon he caught the dying rays on St. Stephen's Green.
But always Crayic found himself running around like a rat in a race. It was no way for a civilised Irish mouse to behave. He couldn't fathom how to control the weather, let alone predict what might happen at any given moment. By observing the changing shadow clouds and rainy area over Dublin he rationalised that it could be sunny on one side of the Liffey while it was bucketing down on the other. While it was pissing down on his home in Rialto it was clear in Ballybough.
How to make the weather do what he wanted? Could he? Should he?
Crayic and the Toupatou
There was a mouse living in Ireland, Dublin specifically, not far from the Guinness brewery. His name was Crayic, and with his keen olfactory sense he could find his way home very easily—even from miles away—because the smell of cooking barley from the brewery was very distinctive indeed, and it wafted all over the great city.
Crayic lived along the canal near Dolphin Barn; actually he lived beneath the bridge going over the old water lane. He held a lovely spot full of newspaper clippings, tire rubber and bits of wire all piled together into a magnificent, tunnelled nest. He insisted upon multiple routes in and out of his fabulous little abode because the neighbourhood was crawling with rats, cats and people. You never knew what might happen next where he lived, especially at night when the cats and rats were active, and when the men came stumbling out onto the streets—themselves smelling much like the brewery down the way.
Unlike other city mice, Crayic liked to get up very early in the morning and roam about the city until late afternoon. He loved the hubbub of his home town, and sought out those places where people would toss away perfectly good bits of food, like along Grafton Street and in the vicinity of Trinity College, with its lofty beige walls and its plethora of students—discarding pizza crusts, apple cores and even the occasional yogurt container or hunk of cheese.
Crayic adored the sun, and what really bothered him was Dublin's—and Ireland's, for that matter—constantly changing weather. He would peek in at the audio-video store run by the nice Indian man on Mercer Street; in the front window a television would broadcast the weather report in Irish, and Crayic would watch and listen (he was a bilingual mouse, so he understood it all.) But it didn't seem to matter what the Weather Lady said, or what any of the Dubliners said, the weather always followed, every single day, the same, predictable, persistently pestersome pattern:
RAIN, CLOUD, SUN, CLOUD, RAIN, CLOUD, RAIN, CLOUD, SUN, CLOUD, RAIN
And so forth. Crayic liked the sun best of all things. It brought out more people and more excitement. It cooked the food ever so perfectly on the pavement. Most of all, the sun felt great on Crayic's soft pelt. He'd find himself chasing all over the maze of a city bits of sunshine to bask in, even if only for a few seconds. In the morning he felt the warm blast from Phoenix Park, at midday from Samuel Beckett Bridge or from Parnell's Statue or atop the Old Abbey Theatre, late afternoon he caught the dying rays on St. Stephen's Green.
But always Crayic found himself running around like a rat in a race. It was no way for a civilised Irish mouse to behave. He couldn't fathom how to control the weather, let alone predict what might happen at any given moment. By observing the changing shadow clouds and rainy area over Dublin he rationalised that it could be sunny on one side of the Liffey while it was bucketing down on the other. While it was pissing down on his home in Rialto it was clear in Ballybough.
How to make the weather do what he wanted? Could he? Should he?
TO BE CONTINUED