Is this the way to Amarillo?

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Sha lala  la la lala la la(boom, boom)  Sha lala etc..  Gerry Manners and his band did a great version of Neil Sedaka’s 1960’s classic, in the Windmill Restaurant on Saturday nights ‘back in the day’…You say ‘back in the day’..when your memory becomes confused. You could have a  prawn cocktail with real Dublin Bay prawns and a ‘Windmill special’ steak with a few pints, or even wine. If the spirit moved you there was a dance floor. I still judge a restaurant by whether or not the prawns have a Dublin accent. I eat and enjoy most of the immigrant prawns no matter how they speak, but your Dublin Bay lads are your only man. As for dancing, my ineptitude is still a cause of contention. I may attempt a comeback sometime but at present I am resting. I can still manage the prawns and the steak though, no bother.

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Joe Plunkett and his brother, Terry, were the first fishermen to land prawns in Skerries, as recently as 1950. I know a few people who resist prawns, on the basis that they are merely the insects of the sea. Great. That leaves a few more for the rest of us. Prawns became synonymous with Skerries. We once had a prawn festival to encourage the eating of prawns. No encouragement is needed. All the others are impostors disguised in sauce. But I digress.

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In the great state of Texas there is a city called Yellow. Not a word you associate with Texas when used as a term of abuse. Gelb is yellow in German, according to the label on the paint tube but the word sounds like the discharge from a pustule. The French say jaune which suggests a jaundiced view of the colour. Amarillo is the proper name of the city, the capital of the Texas Panhandle and gateway to the great South West. It evokes sunshine and sandstone deserts; mesas and canyons; Coronado and his Conquistadors; mission bells, Arapahoes and Apaches; cowboys, dusty trail drives and all the romance and panoply of the West. Why did Johnny Cash or Jim Reeves, not have a Forty Shades of Amarillo to match the shades of green? There are many more than forty shades of yellow. We get quite a few of them in spring and early summer.

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Get the last of the daffodils!! Windsor yellow.

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Chrome yellow, poppies.

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Cadmium yellow

Admittedly Neil and company engaged in some extravagant displays of grief and longing: huggin’ my pillow (rhymes with…come on; weepin’ like a willow..rhymes with…that’s right. You’ve got it.) Sweet Marie might be a bit alarmed if he were to arrive in such a heightened emotional state. I like to think that she was Sweet Marie Rose, inventor of the ideal seafood sauce. I can appreciate Neil’s desire to  get back to her without delay…. prawn cocktail followed by a nice steak a few pints and a fond reunion.  There might even be a spot of dancing. Gerry had another favourite, The Snowbird. Snowbirds, I understand, are elderly people who fly south to avoid the winter. Amarillo has the occasional blizzard so they would be well advised to go further south. Food experts write that prawn cocktail is hopelessly out of fashion; so nineteen seventies, certainly not ‘cutting edge.’ Strangely though, it still tastes good. The Windmill restaurant has revived some of its old favourites. Well done to them. If you hang on to your old clothes for long enough they will come back into fashion. |You will be ‘cutting edge’, a trend-setter.  Maybe drunken-uncle-at-wedding dancing will be the next big thing.

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Oilseed rape is the latest thing too. It can shine a light on the landscape on even the dullest day. Aureolin yellow, another  of the forty shades. It lights up your journey.

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I went into a shop that specialised in kitchen equipment. It was a slow day for trade. The young woman at the cash desk was reading Fifty Shades of Grey. The title puts me in mind of Ikea soft furnishings.  She was engrossed. I wanted to get a gadget for crushing garlic cloves to make garlic butter for some prawns and mussels. It struck me as possibly a bad time to ask for it. I settled for half a dozen teaspoons and beat a hasty retreat.

Sha lala la la lala la la (Boom boom)

In the Field of Human Endeavour

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Just beyond the art shop in Balbriggan, someone has painted the top of the hill with aureolin yellow. Faraway hills, in this instance, are not all green. Oilseed rape has the capacity to shine a shaft of sunlight into a dull, overcast day. It enlivens the patchwork quilt stitched together by centuries-old  hedgerows and the normally green and brown Irish landscape.The field of rape takes centre stage on a grey and sullen day. It is unlikely that the farmer thought of Gauguin and Van Gogh discovering the colours of Provence, when he planted his crop, but I thought of them. I went into the art shop and bought some tubes of sunshine.

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Jacob Bronowski graced our television screens forty years ago, with his series The Ascent of Man. He made sense of things ‘that tease us out of thought, as doth eternity.’  He held in his hand the Taung Skull, a fossil millions of years old. He explained the importance of the brain cavity as evidence of rational thought. In this child, probably killed by some predator, he saw the origins of how humanity set itself apart from other creatures. He spoke of humanity ascending from our ancient ancestors, not descending. The distinction is important. He showed what a privilege it is to be human, to have the capacity to think, to anticipate, to adapt and shape our world to our ends. We have the ability to intervene. We have language, memory, forethought, writing, mathematics, art, music and manual dexterity. Had Bronowski, a Polish Jew, not emigrated to Britain as a child, his vision would almost certainly have been obliterated on one of the many occasions when humankind slipped back into barbarism and mindless savagery. It is time that Bronowski’s series got another airing, to shine some shafts of sunlight into the dull and turgid schedules of modern broadcasting. Perhaps his views are too challenging or unfashionable. Perhaps the latest researches have proved him all wrong. He would have found that interesting, worth thinking about, evidence of the capacity of the human brain for rational deduction from the evidence. It would make a change from talent competitions, game shows, bang bang car chases and explosions.

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He explained how agriculture evolved in the fertile river valleys of the Nile and Mesopotamia. It is still evolving. The river mud gave us bricks and tablets for writing. It gave us mathematics, history and law. Agriculture gave us surpluses and great cities supporting numerous trades. It created armies to guard that surplus and the cities sustained by it. It created war. Ancient wars were characterised by capture or destruction of the enemies’ resources. From such wars came heroes, kings, queens, legends and empires. The farmers persisted. Before one of the battles of the English Civil War, to decide weighty issues of state, a herald was sent out to remove a peasant who was ploughing the proposed battlefield. You can imagine the conversation: “Ho there, clown. Remove thy horse and plough and void this field. His Majesty intends to humble his enemies on this soil, in bloody battle, making them bow the knee to their annointed lord..blah de blah..etc…etc. “Battle! Battle?? Nobody told me about any effing battle.” (This is a speculative reconstruction of the conversation.) At Aughrim farmers still plough up cannon balls and weapons from a battle fought three hundred years ago. Unexploded munitions remain a hazard to farmers, from The Western Front to Laos, Cambodia and former Yugoslavia.. The bones of the fallen at Waterloo were dug up twenty years later and ground up for fertilizer.  The farmer ploughs on, digging for victory.  He has carrots to weed and hedges to trim. Drains must be kept clear or the whole thing reverts to chaos, to swamp and bramble. He has a landscape to mind. A farmer remarked recently that his greatest asset is a bad short-term memory. He plans ahead and hopes for better harvests.

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Seventy five years ago the people of South Eastern England looked up at a battle raging in the sky over their green and pleasant land. Their heroes fought off an attempt to grab their land, their way of life, their very existence. We are familiar with photographs of downed enemy pilots being captured by farmers wielding pitchforks. Resistance is futile when faced with an angry farmer with his pitchfork. When you were young, you assembled model aeroplanes and painted them in the colours of the landscape. You bought Humbrol paint in the art and hobby shop….Henry Power’s. You fought battles with your brothers over Spitfires, Wellingtons and Hurricanes. You hung your squadrons from the ceiling and watched them wheel in the draught. Bandits at ten o’clock. It was stirring to see them again on television a week ago, writing a story of heroism in the scribbled con trails of aerial conflict.

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According to Bronowski, every two years the Bakhtiari people encounter the Oxus River in their migration in search of grazing for their goats and sheep. They lose animals and family members in fording the river. They have no time to stop and build a bridge over the torrent, swollen with meltwater from the mountains. They must move every day to find fodder. They cannot grow crops. They migrate through the margins of Afghanistan, India, Iran, the former U.S.S.R. Turkey, Iraq, Syria, in a constant struggle for survival. They avoid other pastoralists and their competing herds. They avoid conflict. They have no eventful history and few chattels. Their flocks eat all available food every day. Only they can survive in the desert that they create. They must move on….and on….and on. At least they did.  How have they survived the savagery of war and religious fanaticism in those regions? Not much cranial activity going on there…except for the obscenity of decapitation.  Where are the Bakhtiari now? If he were around today, Bronowski would find out what has happened to a way of life that had/has persisted since human ingenuity first domesticated wild creatures and subordinated them to our needs.

He demonstrated the square on the hypotenuse equal to the sum of the squares etc.  by using fragments of roof tiles and some cherry twigs. He sat where Pythagoras must have sat on many an occasion, wondering about such matters. It was exhilarating to see. I can’t remember how he did it. My grand daughter, Alice, played with her youth orchestra in the street on Sunday. It was a delight on a sunny morning. I noticed that the bunting was composed of isosceles triangles and right angled triangles.

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Thank you to those clever and talented children for lightening the world and also to Pythagoras and Jacob Bronowski for explaining how it works. Think for a moment also, about the Taung child and the perilous world in which he or she lived and died.