The Spanish girls nicknamed the house, in Blackpitts Dublin, La Chaparrita. I think it was mainly Agatha’s idea, she seemed the most enthusiastic when it came to zany ideas, and less zany ideas. She just liked ideas in general I think. Chaparrita means short woman. Indeed Agatha and Ines were both short statured people. I can’t recall the name of the Basque woman, I didn’t chat to her very much, but she was a bit taller.
The La Chaparrita household wasn’t entirely Spanish. Even out of the 3 Spanish girls (women) living there, Ines was the only one who truly considered herself Spanish. She was from Madrid. Agatha was from Barcelona and vehemently committed to being referred to as Catalan. She could have been a character out of George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, which was one of my favourite reads. She wouldn’t teach me any Spanish, preferring I try and pick up the Catalan language. The Basque woman was more ambivalent about her nationality but definitely considered herself Basque first and Spanish second. There was a German, I’ve also forgotten her name. My memory of her was that she was more of an average height and had no obvious link to Spain. And there was Irish Guy, also can’t recall his name but I think he was the one who created the connection with the Inisglas biodynamic community as his mate regularly travelled between Inisglas and Dublin. He was a little taller than me I think, quite a gentle fella, and the only fella of the house.
So while La Chaparrita wasn’t entirely Spanish, 3 out of the 5 inhabitants held Spanish passports and could speak Spanish even though 2 of the 3 strongly preferred their mother tongues and cultural identities.
The household wasn’t that far from Temple Bar, a bar and restaurant district of Dublin. They were near some big church or cathedral. When I used to get into Dublin I’d just walk to their house, which took me maybe 20 minutes or half an hour. I never took much notice of the times or distance back then. But it wasn’t far from the bus or train station. Looking at Google maps around 27 years later, I see it was St Patrick’s Cathedral, a few blocks from the house, that I used to use as a landmark to find their place. You used to have to resort to just techniques before smartphones.
I became a regular visitor to their house, popping up from Wexford every few weeks. Sometimes I’d wait for the Inisglas community van to go up to the markets on Saturdays and get a lift with them, see some bread and then head to their house. Sometimes I’d just hitch a lift. People were pretty up to giving people lifts in those days so I usually didn’t have to wait too long. I think a couple of times I forked out the money to take the train back as it wasn’t as easy to get a lift the other way.
The girls mostly worked at the Elephant & Castle in Temple Bar. They get much for working there. Around £40 a week plus tips, from memory. I think the tips pretty much doubled their wage though most weeks. They were flush with cash and were appreciative of their mothers’ food packages that appeared every now and again from Barcelona, the Basque Country or Madrid. I think the Basque woman had a bit more money and may have had her own room. I think she may have also had a boyfriend. Agatha, Ines and the German shared a room. I’d sleep on the couch when I visited most times.
I usually didn’t make pre-arrangements to come up to Dublin. I tried to call a few times but they’d always say, just come up! So I’d just be bored at Inisglas one day and then get up and go to Dublin for a night or 2. Mostly mid-week when I didn’t have any bakery chores. I never really stopped doing my bread making activities while at Inisglas but I did neglect the vegetable gardening part a bit and became more of a casual labourer supporting Frankie to pick veggies and spread compost as required. I also helped Stuart with the cow milking many evenings. Though there were only 2 cows to milk so sometimes he’d just do that himself, especially when he was grumpy and wanted to be alone. Which was not too uncommon, him being a poet and all.
If I couldn’t find anyone at La Chaparrita house I knew I could go off to the Elephant & Castle where they’d usually be working and just get a drink while waiting for them to finish a shift, or just walking around Temple Bar for a while until they finished. Sometimes Irish Guy would be there by himself and he’d let me in and I could dump the small backpack I usually brought with me, which just contained some underwear, a new shirt and whatever bread, yoghurt and farm produce I had at hand at the time. It would usually be enough to contribute to cooking up something for the household during my visit, which was appreciated due to their poverty. It certainly wasn’t a spiritual poverty and they mostly displayed a bubbly zest for life. It reminded me of another of my favourite books by George Orwell, Down and Out and Paris and London, except maybe a We’re Poor but Don’t Care, We’re Still Up for a Party in Dublin version. One day finances were so bad that Agatha made lettuce soup. I’m pretty sure that’s not even a real thing, but we didn’t care.
I mainly hung out with Ines and Agatha. We’d hang out in St Stephen’s Green park when it was sunny, which was increasing in frequency once summer set in, just smoking and chatting, and maybe reading for hours on end. Or we’d just walk around exploring the place. I loved my time with Agatha, we felt like real soulmates. She told me she’d come to Dublin because the conditions in Barcelona were so bad and that her family just expected her to get married and have babies. It seemed like she lived in a high rise building complex there and that you were never far from a neighbours argument.
One day I took a walk around with Irish guy who showed me some Dublin street markets and gave me a bit of a potted history of the Irish rebellion which included showing me bullet marks at the main Post Office, which I’d still on occasions visit to see if my bloody Irish passport had shown up from the Irish embassy in London, after being sent from Canberra, Australia. It’d been missing for around 3 months at that stage.
When everyone was at work I’d sometimes wander around by myself, trying to find a decent coffee. Back in 1995 that was not that easy. And, having lived in Melbourne with access to some of the great cafes like Pelligrinis on Bourke Street and Tiamo’s on Lygon Street, I had high standards, even as a poor backpacker type. I tried Bewley’s coffee house on Grafton Street. It was the worst coffee I’d had at a place that claimed to make good coffee that I’d ever had in the world. They had a suggestion box and I suggested they learn to make coffee. I’m sure they’ve improved by now. Well, they still exist at least.
I found a second hand bookstore, that was in an old building that was on the River Liffey, which did better coffee, plus I could browse books. I don’t know if I ever bought a book, I feel like I was probably too stingy. Perhaps I bought Homage to Catalonia there. I’d like to think so. Perhaps I even bought Agatha one, if I didn’t I wish I had.
In the evenings, and days when the girls weren’t working, we’d party at the house. There was a fair amount of alcohol to be had and almost always some weed. I liked the weed the most and didn’t partake much of the alcohol. We did go out to a pub or two here and there, but I don’t think we stayed long. On one occasion we were in a pub and I saw on the TV that Prince Charles was visiting, which was the end of May. It was a pretty big deal as Lord Mountbatten, Charles’ great uncle, was assassinated by the I.R.A in the late 70s. I think that could have been a Friday – the day I saw that Charlie was visiting, it must have been before I took on the baking duties at Inisglas, which took up all my Fridays. I remember there being an awful lot of vomit on the streets of Dublin on the way back to La Chaparrita that evening.
At other times, when Charles wasn’t visiting, we’d just go have something to eat at the Elephant & Castle as the girls got some free food or discounts. Once we went to an illegal bar up on the top floor of some two-storey building. Because it was illegal they couldn’t open the windows so it was probably the smokiest, most disgusting place I’d ever been on earth. Yes, they smoked indoors back then, and I was probably exposed to the equivalent of 300 cigarettes in the space of 2 hours. But because it was illegal we could at least pass a joint around. I think I got sick from the smoke and asked if we could bail.
My visits became a cycle of smoking, drinking, chatting, and eating and then eventually crashing on the couch for me, and the girls in their bedrooms. Sometimes we’d go hire some videos. I always wanted to see Pulp Fiction, but the girls had all seen it several times so it wasn’t until upon my return to Australia sometime the following year, or even perhaps the year after that, that I got to see it. Apart from videos we’d also listen to hours of music, singing, dancing and shooting the shit. They were a ball.
I think I usually only stayed a couple of nights and then headed back to Inisglas in the morning so I could be back before dark.
On one occasion it took longer than usual to hitchhike from Wexford to Dublin and I arrived around 6 PM. I went to La Chaparrita and found Ines, hurriedly packing her mochilla (backpack).
‘Juanito!’ she said and kissed me on both cheeks in the Spanish way. ‘I’m going to Wicklow to see a musical. Do you want to go? We have to leave now.’
‘Sure!’, I said. And we literally left that moment. Somehow made our way to a country house in the nearby county Wicklow where Ines knew a few people. Turns out the people Ines knew were putting on the Pirates of the Penzance, the Gilbert and Sullivan show, out on a farm in County Wicklow.
They had a stage set up in front of a pond. It’s possible Ines and I got stoned before the show behind some bushes, who knows. Sounds like something we used to do. We managed to get there just before the show started, as the sun set. It was the craic as the Irish say, though I felt a bit like a dirty hippy surrounded by slightly more refined musical going Irish gentry type people.
It turns out Ines was keen on one of the Irish blokes whose family owned the farm where the Pirates of the Penzance was performed. He was one of the pirates I think. Or perhaps even a very model of a modern Major-General with information vegetable, animal, and mineral (he wasn’t as that fella was old and this guy was young). It became apparent I was Ines’ wingman and I stepped back and let them have their dalliance. I’d grown fond of Ines so I was a bit disappointed she’d got together with Wicklow Pirate man, but at least I got to see a musical, which I’m pretty sure I didn’t pay for, and they put me up at the country house overnight before Ines and I headed back to Dublin the next day. We’ll at least I think we headed back together, she may have stayed on and ditched me like Tom Cruise did with Goose in Top Gun. Tragic. It wasn’t just a weekend hookup though, Ines and the Wicklow Pirate kept together at least for the time I was in Ireland. The bridesmaid role was set to continue the rest of my trip, but I didn’t know that then.
I was growing fonder of Agatha, and she seemed to be growing fonder of me. We’d often just hang out by ourselves, especially after Ines started spending more time with the Wicklow Pirate. We had similar philosophies on life, Agatha and I, and would often stay up to the early hours chatting. Sometimes we’d go to someone else’s house and hang out a bit, I don’t remember much of that, but I think we’d go to another Spanish person’s house near some canals. Her name may have been Bee, or something similar. We used to call my Irish granny from County Sligo Bee as well, it was short for Bridget.
Agatha and I went to see a Lesbian violent travel film called Butterfly Kiss at some point. It was some sort of arthouse film, which premiered at some film festival in Dublin. I think we may have seen at least one other film together, maybe even at the same festival. We were all into the independent alternative scene. I’m not sure if she even ended up visiting Inisglas again one time. I’d like to think so, perhaps for our Inisglas festival we hosted towards the end of summer, but thinking it doesn’t mean it actually happened.
At one point towards the end of summer I picked up a fair amount of weed in Wexford that someone had been growing. I walked into the kitchen at Inisglas one day and there were a couple of very giggly residents there. They offered me some of the cause of their gigglyness, giving me a decent sized takeaway bag. It was good shit and the next time I visited La Chaparrita we had a really big party time, courtesy of that biodynamic magic. I’m sure Steiner wouldn’t approve unless the shit was first buried in cow horns under the full moon and left for a few months so it would pick up all the cosmic vibes.
I felt free and alive during those months. I had good friends, good times. I never really needed to spend much money either. It was the way life should be.
Meanwhile my life at Inisglas continued. I started doing a bit of writing, with the help of Master Poet Stuart, and I think I actually improved a little, though I don’t think I’ve saved any of that work. I think I may have sent the occasional letter to Agatha, or at least some notes about her in a diary I’ve long forgotten, and back to the family in Australia. I’d call my mum every month or so courtesy of the special phone card my dad had given me before leaving, just to say I was alive and kicking. I also sent a roll of film back to them to be processed. It was like posting pics on Instagram before it existed, only much less instantaneous and with more chemicals involved.
As the summer went on I started to get itchy feet and thoughts increased of moving on from Inisglas. I mean, I was still enjoying the place and we had some craic to be sure – which wasn’t, as I originally thought, the crack cocaine – but the Irish term for fun. I’m sure that’s a common confusion.
On a few occasions, when it was warm, we took the kids down to the beach and spent a few hours there. I remember chatting with Nora on the Wexford beach for a while, drinking homemade cordial and then going for a bit of a swim in the cold Irish Sea.
On one occasion most of the guys from Inisglas took the community row boat down the River Slaney to the pub where I’d stopped on my first full day in Wexford on the way to Inisglas. We had a few joints on the way, perhaps courtesy of Ross, who’d somewhat warmed to me and who had some secret weed grow plot about that I never came across despite my frequent walks into the forest. It could have been beyond the nettle forest, or close to the border of the rubbish dump that was adjacent to the property and which was the cause of a massive fly outbreak that meant we resorted to putting sticky fly traps in the kitchen for a few months that would be covered in a few hours.
But back to Ross, he had warmed to me to the point where he offered me some great advice that I’ll always remember.
‘John’, he said, ‘never drive a truck with drugs in it between Amsterdam and Britain. When we were importing from Amsterdam we’d occasionally set up a young dopey hippy like you to get busted by the cops.’
He went on to explain that they’d put a small amount in the dopey hippy’s truck and contact the customs people. ‘While they were busy busting the poor cunt for the small amount of drugs another truck would drive through with heaps in it, unchecked.’
It seemed Ross may have had some remorses around setting up naive hippies, and took me for the type who might fall for such a thing. But after my Bangkok Gem scam incident I was much less trusting of people anyway. And, even without being ripped off, that sounded like a seriously dodgy proposition anyway so I would certainly have avoided it. I’m quite confident in that. But I still appreciated Ross looking out for me. You didn’t want to get on the bad side of Ross. One day one of Michael’s Danish friends from the nearby disabled support community tried to get Inisglas to put money in to support their activities and Ross, smelling a rat, fairly violently reacted to the guy. He didn’t do anything physical, but the guy I’m sure shat himself, after getting a verbal serve from Ross, figuratively speaking, if not actually.
Anyway on the way to the pub in the row boat we saw a seal. On the way back up the Slaney River (which sounds like the title of an Irish folk drinking song) we were more stoned and more drunk and it was dark, and we were singing and then I looked out to the bank and I said: ‘Hey it seems like we’re not moving’.
Frankie, Stuart, Michael, Jay, and perhaps even Ross, looked over and there was some discussion on whether we were moving or not. I mean we were rowing so we should be going forward, but yes indeed it did seem like our efforts weren’t getting us anywhere. So Jay put the oar down and he said, ‘I think we’re on some sand bank’. And then he put his foot over and said, ‘yes, we are on some sand bank’. So we got all out and pushed ourselves off and continued rowing and singing all the way back to Inisglas.
On another occasion we’d all gone to a pub in Wexford and Stuart and I walked the few kilometres home in the dark ourselves, maybe leaving the others there for a bit longer. We had some deep and meaningful discussion that night I feel, by the light of the moon as we traversed the lanes between Wexford town and The Deeps.
Michael and I hitched down to Rosslare Harbour one night just because we were bored after doing a day’s baking, which Michale was now helping out with. We ended up inviting ourselves to some party at someone’s house and then trying to see if anyone would let us crash at their place. When it became apparent no such offerings were afoot I took my sleeping bag and headed to the beach leaving Michael behind to party some more. He joined me an hour or so later having had no success to convince neither man nor woman to give him a bed for the night. We had one of those cold and uncomfortable beach sleeps for a few hours and then got up and hitched back to Inisglas the next morning. I think Michael had wanted to get away as he’d recently been back to Denmark with his girlfriend, who worked at the same nearby disabled support community that the other Danish guy who had managed to piss off Ross worked at. He was meant to be staying at his girlfriend’s house but they somehow managed to break up on the flight over, so he just ended up sleeping on the street for 3 nights and then heading back to Ireland.
He wasn’t the only one getting rejected. But, perhaps more of that after. For there were a few other changes afoot at Inisglas.