Yes, I miss Penneys but what I really crave is the healing power of the ocean

Idon’t think I’ve ever gone this long without seeing the sea. Usually, without even thinking about it, I’ll check in with some sort of an ocean every few weeks, to make sure it’s still there and – more importantly – to drink in its restorative properties on my mental health (you don’t really think all those people who walk Dún Laoghaire pier or the Salthill prom are doing it for the exercise, do you?)

But I didn’t know this was coming and so I didn’t dash off to Dún Laoghaire or jump on the bike to Howth back in March just before the country closed down. And I was so busy with weekend work in January and February that I didn’t catch a wave then either. And now here we are in June and I haven’t seen the sea this year. I miss it more than Penneys, and I miss Penneys a lot.

The only small consolation is that the last sea I did see was my favourite one. The Atlantic, crashing up onto the shores of the Dingle peninsula. That was back in December, when we were down for Other Voices.

On the last morning, before we turned the car towards Dublin, we visited Brandon Creek, the spot from which St Brendan is reputed to have sailed to America – though why he wanted to leave the peninsula at all has always been beyond me. If I didn’t have to, I’d never leave the place. Then we drove out to our beloved Ballyferriter, where I bought a calendar for 2020 that featured local scenery and some utterly random photographs of the emigrant sons and daughters of that lovely place. That was to be my work and family calendar, in which I would mark meetings and matches and nights at the theatre. It’s still in my in-tray, unmarked, unopened.

But I’m glad we had that beautiful day and that my last glimpse of the sea had the Blaskets in it. Tomorrow, all going well, the 5km restriction will be extended to 20km and that will allow me to take in the waters again, albeit the less satisfying ones of the Irish Sea. I don’t know if I’ll take a spin out to the sea tomorrow – I still haven’t gone to Woodies, for God’s sake – but as soon as the excitement dies down a bit and the teenagers disappear, I’ll be there, on one of the piers, drinking it in, restoring whatever chemical my brain is currently missing through this prolonged lack of exposure to the ocean.

I might have been missing out on that one of my five elements, but where fire is concerned, I’m completely sorted. On the night that Leo did his whole ‘you’re going nowhere’ speech, I did what I presume every concerned citizen did: I went online and bought a chiminea. I’d secretly lusted after one of these patio stoves for years, but my green credentials had ultimately prevented me from heating the air. Still, while I was prepared to sit outside on summer nights with a hoodie and a blanket, less hardy members of my household preferred to retire to the less interesting indoors, and if this was to be our summer, then I was going to warm up the outside.

It arrived without any instructions – to be honest, I was quite surprised it arrived at all – and so I had a little poke around the internet to see what we should put in it. Wood, seemed to be the consensus, so I bought a bag of logs and we christened the chiminea in the first week of phase one, with The Best Friend and her Boy for company.

Only we couldn’t get it to take, so we put down a layer of newspapers which essentially flew up the chimney on fire and fluttered all over us, the patio and the garden beyond. Even at that, the logs still wouldn’t light and so, on that first night, we essentially burnt several newspapers and a box of firelighters and charred a log. The following morning, we all smelt as if we’d smoked 80 Benson & Hedges, the whole house smelt like it was singed and The Best Friend had to put all their clothes in the washing machine before other members of their household would talk to them.

Anyway, it turns out that the internet was wrong. Fire logs are the answer – and our lovely shiny chiminea is now heating the air like a beast and we are staying outdoors till all hours. Talking about Kerry, obviously, and craving the day we can all get our feet back into the water.