The Gloved Hand on Fashion Friday!

I grew up believing there were two genders:

ladies and gentlemen.jpg

My mother was a big fan of ladies, especially if they were old, or pregnant. We always gave them our seats on buses, and helped them across roads and things like that.

Why did we like ladies so much? Maybe it was because they had good manners and said, ‘thank you,’ when we helped them. They also looked nice; stood up straight; didn’t slouch, and  wore gloves. (I like gloves!)

All well and good. Harmless, you might say. But imagine my surprise when I went to university and discovered the lady was a thing of the past- the deeply patriarchal past, I may add!  I learned that ladies and gentlemen had been succeeded by:


men and women.jpeg

AND (shock, horror) that it was not ok to refer to a woman as a lady! Well, not if you were a student in the Department of Sociology and Gender Studies, in any case.

Now, thirty years later, I am free to say what I like! (Phew!)

So, on fashion friday, it is my pleasure to write a little retrospective about the lady of yesteryear and that quintessential element of ladylike dress, the GLOVE.

Why gloves? Well apart from the fact that I personally like gloves, the formidable Virginia Wolf has observed that:

“  …. a lady is known by
her shoes and her gloves.”

Mrs Dalloway

Let’s save shoes for another day. That’s a very big subject.

What do we know about the not so humble glove?  It certainly has a long history.  Up until the 1400’s, gloves were most commonly made from the skins of animals. No surprises there. What might surprise you is the range of animal skins that were used.

Historian S. Beck cites an example of dog skin gloves being sent to a certain Lady Knolles, with a letter saying:

‘These gloves, madam, are made of the skin of a dog, the animal most praised for its fidelity.’

Gloves were also made from such unlikely material as chicken skin. Chicken skin gloves being a big hit with the ladies between 1500 and 1700 as they were so light and delicate, they could fit inside the shell of a walnut!

Dogs, chickens and ladies across the country must have breathed a collective sigh of relief when glove makers discovered that they could use ‘normal’ materials like cotton, silk and linen.

A rather nice convention kicked off round about the 1500’s, with perfumed gloves becoming highly desirable.  And, if you didn’t have the wherewithal to buy perfumed gloves, our historian friend S Beck has given us a useful tip. Housewives could scent their own gloves by boiling them in a bath of angelica and rose water with cloves, ambergris, musk, and lignum aloes…. ! Sounds like an old fashioned forerunner of fabric conditioner.

You  might think the function of gloves is to protect our hands, keep them warm on cold days. And you’d be right. But there was more to it than that, back in the day.

In fact, there was a lot of etiquette governing when you could and couldn’t wear your gloves. For instance:

Ladies were  expected to wear gloves on the street, at church and other formal situations but they had to remove them when eating, drinking or playing cards.

When lunching out, a lady was expected to remove her gloves ONLY  when she  sat down at her table- UNLESS the said gloves were winter mittens, in which case they should be removed when she took off her coat.

A lady was expected to leave her gloves on when she shook hands with someone. However, if she happened to be wearing gardening gloves it was OK for her to refuse to shake hands!

Believe me, it was no joke being a lady. There was an awful lot of etiquette to fret over. A lot of potential faux pas to trip you up.

Today’s modern women wouldn’t have time for all stuff. She’s too busy multi-tasking- forging a career, running a home, caring for kids, grandchildren, elderly parents. As well as being an active member of her community, she’s expected to keep fit, improve her mind, meditate, cook, and fill in forms.

I wonder if she ever experiences a pang of regret when she recalls the conventions of yesteryear?

I don’t know. Maybe.


Carer's Lament
Carer’s Lament


Check out this great blog for an in depth-history of gloves:


And of course, there’s our historian friend who probably wrote the definitive text on the subject!!

(Beck, S. William, F.R.H.S. (1969). Gloves, their annals and associations: a chapter of trade and social history. London: Singing Tree Press, Book Tower)


Hark, Hark on Fashion Friday!!


I’ve always been a big fan of nursery rhymes. I like the simplicity of them, that element of the ridiculous. I like the fact that lurking under all that cosy, childhood innocence, is some nasty, unpalatable piece of history. Not always, but sometimes.

Take Goosey, Goosey Gander, for example, wandering around ladies chambers.  Sweet? Not really. This intolerant old bird came upon an old man who wouldn’t say his prayers?? She took him by the left leg and threw his down the stairs (to his death??)

What, you may say has all this got to do with fashion and dress? Not alot.

However, I do prick my ears up when I come across any reference to dress in nursery rhymes. This one in particular, has interested me for a long time.

Hark, Hark the dogs do bark,

The beggars are coming to town,

Some in rags,

And some in jags,

And one in a velvet gown.

It’s that little twist at the end that hooks you in. Why would a beggar be wearing a velvet gown? It doesn’t make sense.

Velvet has always been associated with opulence and luxury.  This fabric has an impressive lineage. Our earliest samples of velvet dates from 403 BC.  Velvet originated in China. It was woven from silk on a special loom. It’s production was costly and time-consuming, and because of this, it commanded a very high price. Naturally, when European traders came across it, they wanted it! Lots and lots of it.

Then, the Italians figured out how to make it themselves and set up a lucrative velvet industry which flourished from the twelfth to the eighteenth centuries. Only the most wealthy customers could afford this sort of luxury.

And who were these wealthy customers?  Royalty, of course, and their lesser noble cousins and kin. And then there was the CATHOLIC CHURCH, which played a unique and uncontested role, at that point,  in soul saving. At the height of its power, it owned up to one third of the land in Western Europe.

And the church loved a bit of bling. Look no further than those wonderful late medieval cathedrals, churches  and monasteries for confirmation of this. And when it came down to the attire of those presiding over the aforementioned buildings, well… a little velvet says an awful lot- and bucket loads of velvet says even more, especially if it’s woven with threads of gold and silver.




Carlo Crivelli: St Jerome and St Augustine c. 1490 Tempera on wood, 208 x 72 cm Gallerie dell’Accademia, Venice

That’s not to say that everyone  was taken in by the lure of velvet. Some time later, Napoleon Bonaparte famously remarked that:

‘A throne is only a bench covered with velvet.

Old Boney was nobody’s fool! He just wanted to chop off some royal heads and rule everything himself.

Getting back to that beggar in the velvet gown. Who was he? Well, interestingly, he might well have been a dispossessed canon, friar or monk, forced to take to the streets during the reign of Henry VIII.

Enraged that the Pope was less than delighted with his decision to shaft his first wife Catherine of Aragon, Henry set about wresting power from the church. Between the years 1536 and 1541, he closed down loads of monasteries, priories and convents. There were up to 900 religious houses at this time, and it is thought that 12,000 people were effectively out of a job!  Many a cleric took to the roads with little more than the coat on his back. The fact that the coat in question might have been a velvet gown was of little comfort to him in his new reduced circumstances.

So, that’s it for Fashion Friday!

See you next week. wink


What’s the Plan? Stan


I have an interest in fashion. It’s not fashion, so much that interests me, it’s more the idea of fashion. What we wear means different things to each and every one of us.

dress meanings.png

So where does this interest  come from?  I’m not sure really. I spend most of my time slopping around in the most comfortable thing I can find.

Do I follow seasonal trends, celebrity dress, what’s in, what’s out?  NO, No and no.

I don’t even buy many clothes. When I do, they are mostly the vintage, pre-owned, pre-loved variety.

Yet, I have an endearing love of dress and all things to do with textiles. This love of dress has taken me in all sorts of directions in my life, and I suspect it may take me off in yet another path over the next few weeks.

It  blossomed in my late teens when I realised that I could in some way ‘express’ myself through what I wore. Throughout my early twenties I perfected an, ‘anti’ style  way of dressing , adopting all sorts of cast off’s from charity shops and combining them in the whackiest way I could conceive. The whole point of this was to show that I didn’t fit in. And it worked. At that time it all seemed to matter an awful lot.

At the same time, I learned a whole range of  textile crafts such as knitting, crochet, tie dying, batik, weaving, felting, embroidery and tapestry. I realised that I love the feel of fabric. Having wool in my hands and making something with it, is one of the great joys in my life.

As luck would have it,  I met a wonderful woman who has since become one of my oldest and firmest friends. Esther was disillusioned with her career in hairdressing and I was just plain disillusioned. Together we came up with the idea of opening a vintage clothes shop. We called it ‘Rip the Calico’ because we thought it was a cool name.

‘Rip the Calico.’ lasted for about eighteen months, before we conceded to the fact that it actually wasn’t making any money for us.

We paid off any debts remaining from the shop by crocheting hats and making bloomers and camisoles, then we moved on.

Esther went on to run a very successful vintage shop with the mega cool name of ‘Hale Bop.’

I meandered this way and that way. At a certain point I decided I would like to write about ‘dress.’ The only forum I knew to write within was academia. I proceeded to spend six years writing a Phd Thesis offering a sociological perspective on the meaning of dress in women’s lives.

Don’t get me wrong. It was a fascinating  subject. What constrained me was the fact that I was writing in the wrong groove, so to speak.

That’s not to say that it didn’t work. My PhD thesis  passed muster and I can claim the dubious title of Doctor.

But I found academia soul less. I love writing, and I can write to an academic brief, but personally,  I don’t find it satisfying. For me, it is too constrained, theory ridden and formal. Apart from anything else, it doesn’t enable me to communicate in the way I want, to the people I want.

And yet, sociology is an interesting discipline. It has it’s value. It just needs to work on making itself more comprehensible!!

So, that’s where I’m coming from. I want to use my blog space to return to that idea of dress and what it means. This time around, I intend to enjoy myself, have a little fun!!

So, here’s the plan, Stan. I’m going to write a regular Friday post about DRESS and all sorts of random things relating to it.

WHAT IT WON’T BE is a guide on how to dress, what to wear, where to shop- because I don’t have a clue about that sort of stuff!

IT WILL BE  a random assortment of dress related posts,  infused by fact, fiction, history, film, personal experience and, where it’s relevant  sociology.  I’d love to invite other bloggers over to write guest pieces for me. 

I’ll leave you with an important thought for the day.

as PJ.O’Rourke so famously said.

‘Women should never wear anything that panics a cat.’


smily face








Zenith and Zzzz….#atozchallenge

Z.jpg  Today is the end of the AtoZ challenge. Could we say the challenge has reached it’s zenith? Well maybe, if we are OK with seeing Z as the pinnacle of the alphabet.

But no. I think zenith probably has more to do with the challenge bit and not so much the AtoZ bit.

Getting to the end of any challenge feels a bit like climbing a mountain.


Marie on top of metaphorical mountain
So, here I am at the end of April sitting on top of my mountain.
Happy?? Yes of course. It’s Zenith day.
Hang on a sec, this feels wrong.  Let’s adjust the graphics.
Marie climbing up metaphorical mountain, helped by new bloggy friends!

Yes that’s much more like it. We did it!! Hurrah!!

There’s a great view from the top of this metaphorical mountain and I want to thank my bloggy friends for helping me get to the top of it. So what is it that I can see so clearly up here?



I hadn’t a clue about blogging when I started this challenge. It was all completely new to me. Without the challenge, I think I might have managed to post four pieces this year. I would have agonised over each one, ditched about a hundred possible ideas, because they weren’t good enough, and been so tentative and unsure about putting stuff, ‘out there’ in the scary world.

I would have thought that blogging was all about your own content, whether it was up to scratch or not. What I’ve learned is that, yes, content is important, but it’s not the whole deal.  Engagement is just as important AND it’s just so enjoyable engaging with people. Reading other blogs is like virtual travel. It gives you a unique insight into other people’s lives, cultures, joys, sadnesses. I find myself thinking about what other bloggers have said during the day, and recounting their stories over dinner at night to my family.

I’ve discovered that the blogging community is full of really talented, inspiring people who write brilliant, heart-felt, heart-warming, wise, funny content. At the start I might just have found this intimidating- as in, no, they’re all too good. I can’t do this.

But it’s not like that. The same people  who have awesome blogs are the one’s who threw out the ropes and helped me climb right up that mountain too.

They are kind enough to take time and check out new bloggers, like myself and leave a ‘like’ or a ‘comment’. And really it means the world. So, thank you, thank you, thank you to the  lovely people  (family members, friends and new friends)  I am getting to know through my blog. I can’t say how much this month of full on, daily blogging has meant to me. I feel sad that the month has come to an end. I shall miss my new found relationship with the alphabet, but hopefully not with this new community of people I’ve found. Having found a blog voice, I’m determined not to lose it.

Anyway, on Z day that’s what I see from my mountain top. It’s been a bit of climb. All this fresh air, clear skies. It’s making me sleepy… a snooze might be nice  ZZzzzz…ZZzzzz….




The Yeti Comes to Kerry#atozchallenge

Y.jpg I’ve always been fascinated by the idea of Yetis. Big, hairy human like creatures living way up in the Himalayas. Well, we have mountains here in Co. Kerry. We’d like a Yeti too. It’s just not fair!!


My husband also wanted a Yeti, a Skoda Yeti. Anyway all the Yeti talk inspired my youngest son Iarla (age 12) to write a little story, and here it is. Our Y day offering.

Over to you Iarla. I’m having a day off!!

The Yeti Comes to Kerry 

It was a lazy Thursday afternoon and Kieran was playing games on his computer. A big, flashing banner appeared on the top of his screen. ‘CONGRATULATIONS,’ it read. ‘YOU HAVE WON A HIMALAYAN YETI!

He nearly fell of his chair in fright. “I’ve won a yeti,’ he shouted. His mum came and looked at the screen. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘They don’t exist.’

Several months later, he came home from school to find a huge, wooden crate sitting outside his front door. ‘Mum,’ he called, ‘what’s in the crate?’

‘I don’t know. It arrived for you this morning,’ she replied.

Just then the crate gave a big lurch. Kieran jumped back in surprise. He knocked cautiously on the crate, ‘is any body in there?’ he said. The box gave a grunt. Kieran peered through a crack in one of the boards and spotted a big, hairy HIMALAYAN YETI. It had finally arrived.

Just then the parish priest drove by, ‘What’s in the crate?’ said Father. ‘It’s a yeti’ Kieran replied, ‘but I don’t know what to do with it.’ ‘Oh my word, a YETI in Kerry! I have never heard the likes of that. I’ll have to call the bishop and have him blessed.’

Minutes later Mylie Shea drove by in his tractor. He was on his way to the mart. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked. ‘We’ve got a YETI on our hands,’ replied Father. Mylie hopped off his tractor and grabbed his gun ‘I’ll take care of him, he’d only chase the sheep,’ he said.

‘I hope you have a licence for that gun!’ said Garda Sullivan who happened to be walking by. He strode over to the crate and looked in. ‘It’s clear to me that we have to take him into custody. I’ve heard those YETIS are awful trouble-makers!’

Mag Hanley had been watching everything that was going on from her bedroom window. She owned the B&B across the road. She marched over to them and said ‘No, no, don’t do that. I’ll take him. He’d be a novelty for the tourists. I’ll get him stuffed.’

‘Hang on,’ said Kieran. “ I think you’re forgetting he’s my YETI. I don’t want to do any of those things.’ Unfortunately for Kieran nobody heard what he said because they were shouting about how they’d like shoot him, arrest him, and possibly stuff him for the tourists. Of course Father didn’t join in with the shouting because he knew better than to fight.

All the shouting and roaring terrified the poor YETI. With a loud roar he burst up through the wooden planks and bounded up the mountain, never to be seen again.

The Mysterious Mr. X #atozchallenge


X     Imagine if X was a person. What sort of person would he be?

Based on what we know of X from his infrequent appearances in the English language, I would guess that X is a man.  X  just doesn’t feel to me like a woman- and that is despite the fact that way back when we were all just gametes, us ladies required two x chromosomes to kick off, whereas those of us who are not ladies developed from X Y chromosomes!  Interestingly, the role of the  said ‘X’ Chromosome was discovered by the American geneticist Clarence McClung in 1901. Clarence, being a person of xy derivation.

Biology bit over (Phew!)

Is Mr X a bit of a show off?? I think so. He likes to punch above his weight given that even the Oxford English Dictionary, which contains a lot of obsolete stuff, only has around 400 words beginning with X.

Is Mr X a man of science and technology?? Patently so.  Interestingly X-rays were discovered and named by Wilhelm Röntgen in 1895. Note, this champion of X was a Wilhelm and NOT a Wilhelmina.

Is he mathematically minded? Yes. So much so, that he inserted himself in mathematical symbology as a sign for multiplication in 1631. His champion on this occasion was one, William Oughtred. Not only is he mathematically inclined, he thinks big- EXPONENTIALLY so. Not for him, the diminutive role of little -.

Does X involve himself in the language of emotions? I think not. Does he involve himself in the language of love? I think not. Does Mr X like like clear, direct and simple communication? No, no, no. He makes xero effort on this front.

But, this is not to say that he is without his finer feelings, his softer side…And interestingly the first reference in The Oxford English Dictionary to the use of ‘x’ for a kiss was in 1763.

I would go so far, as to say that our Mr X is a bit of a strange fish. Indeed, the Greek letter Xi, which gave birth to Mr X originated from a letter called ‘samekh’ in, none other than the fabulous PHOENICIAN alphabet- and guess what it represented??? A FISH

Anyway, I stand firm. Mr X is a Mr, and a mysterious one at that! It’s just a hunch I have. Even the great old man of English literature had little to say about X, The only word or name starting with X in any play by Shakespeare is ‘Xanthippe’ who appears in, ‘The Taming of the Shrew,’ which is not renowned for its feminist sympathies!!

So, our duty to Mr X is done.

He can leave now.

EXIT. Stage Left.





W is for Wrong….so wrong#atozchallenge


W   When my son Joe was seven, he wrote in a school copy book that he wanted to be a filmmaker. He spent the next twelve years making  film after film, using his little brother as his lead man, his sister on cameras and dog handling,  and the dogs as various baddies.  We heard a few weeks ago that one of his shorts was selected to be screened as part of a Youth Film Festival.  Great news, we were all delighted for him. He works hard.

Come the day of the event, we were all in a bit of a flurry. The event was taking place at a venue approximately three hours drive from us. We needed to be on the road for Joe had stayed at his friends the night before, so we had to collect him en route.  We left the house at 8.20. We never manage to leave on time.

When he was little I knew who all his friends were. I knew his friend’s mums, dads, step-dads. I knew his friends grannies, even their guinea pigs.  Not any more. Nowadays his friends don’t even have names…funny that. They are just ‘friends’ and I wouldn’t know them, so why do I even want to know?? Anyway, when I tell you that we didn’t know where this nameless friend lived, you won’t be surprised.

You may not be surprised either that Joe’s directions were pretty awful.

‘Drive on past the bend at Star Sailing, and keep going until you see the shamrock sign’

We did that. No sign. We drove back and did it again. Still no sign. We rang Joe, who didn’t have a clue what was going on.

Eventually we tracked him down, and sped off. I dissuaded my, ‘time challenged’ husband that we did not have time to stop and buy tofu at the wholesalers, as we were now running seriously behind schedule.

Further complication. Whilst we knew, broadly, where we heading, we didn’t know the specific location of the Arts Centre where the event was being held. Stopping pedestrians in the street and asking for directions all took time we didn’t have.

We did a couple of circuits of Youghal, before arriving at the Arts Centre. We had five minutes to spare before Joe’s film was due to be screened. Joe was getting serious jitters, as it is quite a big deal to see your work out there in the public domain. I managed to maintain a facade of calm.

Four of us leapt out the car, leaving Ger to negotiate parking. I bolted off to find the front door- which was locked.

Aaaah!! Why is it locked? Where is everybody? What sort of film festival is this, anyway? Minutes tick by.

We spot another passer by and demand to know what is happening. The passer by was as mystified as us.

Joe’s film is called ‘The Wrong Turn

Check it out. It’s very short. Short and kind of sweet. The bad ass drug dealing kid is my son Iarla. You will see the dog still has an important role.

Anyway, given it’s title this seemed like an appropriate post for W day. We certainly made a few wrong turns on our way up to Youghal.

But the thing that we got really  WRONG was the day. The festival was due to take place the following weekend.





V is for Victim#atozchallenge

V.jpg  I planned to call this post ‘Virus’ and then talk about an illness my father had as a young boy. Having googled it, I’ve just discovered his illness was not caused by a virus but an infection. So, quick reshuffle. Let’s say he was Victim of a nasty disease, which was not a Virus!   Satisfied that my obligations to the letter V are taken care of (phew!)  I can move on with the story.

In 1933 my Dad had rheumatic fever. He was 13 at the time. He was very ill for the best part of a year, and his mother feared that he wouldn’t pull through. She had ten children. If you saw our house, you’d wonder where ten children, two parents, and a granny actually fitted!

Dad was so sick, his bed was moved downstairs to the parlour. One day an elderly neighbour called to the house. Dad overheard her talking to his mother. They were talking about him. Essentially, what the old lady was recommending was that dad should be taken outdoors and beaten with a stick. His mother should then call upon the fairies to take this sick child and bring the real Joe back.

Thankfully his mother had far too much sense to heed such nonsense. I don’t know anything about the old lady. Maybe she was a bit mad. The scary thing is that her advice derived from a superstitious belief about ‘changelings.’ I mentioned in my post yesterday that the Irish fairies were a pretty dark bunch.  A commonly held belief in earlier times was that the fairies sometimes took children and replaced them with one of their own. The replacement would be odd or sickly or just not right. The implications for any child suffering from a developmental disorder were terrifying. Apparently the last known case of the murder of a suspected changeling occurred in 1884. changeling.

Interestingly, the late 19th century and early twentieth century saw a burgeoning of academic and literary interest in the cultures and traditions of Ireland. The literary revival was an important time and it directly fed into the growing nationalist movement. The following is an excerpt from a poem written during this time by one of our great national poets, W.B Yeats.
The Stolen Child
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
Whilst this is a beautiful and haunting evocation of our culture, it is one sided. The other side of the coin is the cruelty and ignorance that went hand in hand with some of the fairy beliefs.  The fact that, as late, as 1933, it was conceivable that a parent be advised to beat a sick child, as a piece of folk wisdom is deeply shocking.
My dad made a full recovery from the fever. One small addendum, though. He had a relapse in his early twenties. It occurred just after he had enlisted in the British army during the second world war. As a result of the relapse, he was deemed unfit for service. He was disgusted. It wasn’t that he wanted to fight- he just wanted the opportunity to travel and the army was his ticket to France.
Who knows what would have happened if he went. He might have been fine. He might not.
So, back to the letter V. V is also for vagaries of fortune.
The rheumatic fever that nearly killed him, might well have saved him.  I’m just happy  Joe wasn’t stolen away from us before his time, in a war he would have hated.

U is for Ups and Downs#atozchallenge


U    I have to confess that U is not my favourite letter of the alphabet.

I struggled with U. But then it came to me-every challenge has to have it’s ups and downs.

And then I had it- that little concept that every blog requires to wrap itself around before going out into the world.

My first literary encounter with  the idea of ‘Up’s and ‘Downs’ was on my father’s knee, as he recited a poem remembered from his childhood. It was about the fairies. The fairies are big news in Ireland. Not the fluttery, pretty type, but the ugly, otherworldly folk of mythology and superstition. They are a scary bunch and you’d be well advised not to annoy them or there’s big trouble. Anyway, back to the poem. It was written by William Allingham -

‘Up the airy mountain, Down the rushing glen,

We dare not go hunting, for fear of little men!’

Where next for more juxtapositions of up and down? We needn’t go far. There are a whole host of up and down sayings out there.

Take the laws of gravity:

What goes UP has to come Down.

And of pyschology:

Your head may be UP in the clouds- (Yay!!) but then you could end up

Down in the dumps (Boo…)

Or outdoor pursuits:

You may find yourself UP the creek without a paddle.

But if you get DOWN to brass tacks, it was probably your own fault for neglecting to bring such a vital piece of equipment.

In poker, you might well UP the ante- (and not the aunty as I used to think)

If you were cheating at poker, you might need to get DOWN and dirty (as in intently and fiercely competitive, not bawdy and lewd mind!)

And finally, in this whistle stop tour of possible ups and downs, let’s look at our very own Irish addition to the gamut.

headUP here for thinking


DOWN there for dancing. feet


But no, I think the last word on this should go to Mehmet, who advises us:

“Climb up the stairs cheerfully, climb down the stairs cheerfully! Let your mind be unaffected by the ups and downs of life!” ― Mehmet Murat ildan

Well said, Mehmet!


T is for Buried Treasure #atozchallenge





T.jpgLast night I was lying in bed pondering the T challenge. The idea popped into my head that I could write about buried treasure, and then I drew a blank.  Apart from liking pirate stories, I couldn’t think of much to actually say about the subject.  Then I fell asleep, and had a dream.  It was a really weird dream.

In the dream, Ger and I were off on holiday somewhere exotic. I went off on my own for a few hours to explore.  So, off I flew…… as you do in dreams- careful not to rise to far above treetop level, wary of obtrusive telephone wires.

Anyway I flew, ha hum…past a bend in the river and came to some swampy ground. The place was lit up with a sort of luminous haze. It was beautiful but also a bit creepy.  I rested a while in the long marsh grass, and saw to my surprise that there were large chunks of rocks submerged in the mud. Each piece was brick shaped and had a series of cut out geometrical holes shot through it.

I fished one out and flew off.

Note, I was not able to fly quite so high this time due the weight of the rock.

When I got back to our accommodation, I found out that I had visited a place called, Jah.  It was an ancient burial ground used by Cuban witch doctors. Apparently, it was a popular destination for tourists!

Anyway, when I woke up, I thought EUREKA!

This dream was about BURIED TREASURE.

(It may also be about what’s buried deep in my possibly dodgy subconscious, but we’ll draw a veil over that!)

So, what I take from all this nonsense is the fact that my vision of buried treasure is a brick shaped rock, shot with holes.

Why did I consider this rock to be a treasure? Four reasons.

  • I liked its sculptural qualities.
  • I planned to give it to Ger, who is artistically inclined.
  • If he failed to appreciate it, it would look nice in my flower border.
  • It had provenance on account of all the dead witch doctors

What is your vision of buried treasure???