The end of the...

Short trip to the west, for a sad occasion. To say goodbye to Beatrice. At eighty one years of age, she has defied many odds. With her 30 Caroll's a day habit until her sixties. And a firm belief that no food is fit for human consumption unless it has first been deep fried. 
She was born and raised in Scotland, but called Mayo home for the vast majority of her life. As teens, Uncle Martin and I spent most of our summers in her kitchen, having the craic with the lads. As if she didn't have enough mayhem as it was with her own eight kids. 
I never ever saw her lose her cool. Unless one of us came into the kitchen bleeding profusely, or with a broken bone. Which wasn't all that unusual. 
The packs of cigarettes and the deep fat fryer have finally caught up with her. It was a heartbreaking scene. To see her in her private room (it's never a good sign when they transfer you to a private room when you don't have private insurance), with her distressed kids relaying each other 24/7 by her side. The nurses now top up the morphine at regular intervals. I hope that she finds peace soon. She is a person with not a quarter of an ounce of meanness in her. She deserves peace and dignity now. 

When I got back to Nana's, we took the silly spaniels for a surprise evening walk to the beach. They were as excited as they were surprised.

And I went for a quick swim in the freezing water, with two daft dogs and my grannies ashes for company.