I know, I know, I know, I know… You’re thinking of Pink’s famous song, right?

Dear Mr. President,
Come take a walk with me
Let’s pretend we’re just two people
And you’re not better than me
I’d like to ask you some questions
If we can speak honestly

And you’re thinking: where is the song about the current President? – And you’re probably right.

I’ll be leaving very early tomorrow morning, not to DC (!) but to UL whose President would like to meet with me ahead of me being awarded my university’s award for services to the community in about two week’s time.

I’ve been thinking about what to tell him. Answers to questions he won’t ask. Or only the answers. To his questions. Politely. As expected.

As I am getting older, there are things I never did and will never be able to do. There are things I did and will never be able to do again. I wonder – are there things I was never able to do before but am able to do now, as I am getting older?

Are these silly thoughts and questions? I mean, it’s something you could ask yourself when your 6 or 16 or 60, at any point in your life, really. There are kids who want to stay kids and there are teenagers who want to stay teenagers because they are afraid to loose what they’ve got.

There are few people who want to get older, the older they are the fewer there are.

There was a time in my life I could not wait to get older. I wanted to live independently. I wanted to be able to drive. I wanted to have girl friends. I wanted to pick my jobs. I wanted to start my own family. I wanted to retire. I wanted to do what I thought was the right thing to do.

Recently, my perspective on life and ageing has changed. Now, I don’t want to get older. Because I think getting older now implies that, in the not too distant future, I won’t be able to do what needs to be done but nobody else is doing.

Is it all in my head?

Pádraig is settling back into the routine here. Life is slightly more predictable here (but only slightly) and slightly less exciting. Today he wanted to listen to the ‘letters to the Pope’ published by the Irish Times on the occasion of the visit by Pope Francis to Ireland in a week and a bit. He didn’t want to go shopping, he didn’t want to go for a walk. More than anything else he wanted to find out about what is going on, about what keeps people’s minds and souls occupied.

Confirming what I have been thinking (and saying) for some time: Pádraig needs people to keep him in the picture, to keep him connected with the mood in society, with the people around him, with culture, business, art…

The sooner the better.

Second day of the journey, second time on a ferry. This time from Holyhead to Dublin.

And there they were: three of Pádraig’s friends from college who had studied history with him. We had never met them, although they had been in our house for this small event Pádraig had organised for his 21st.

He was so happy to meet them again, just out of the blue! We had a chat and they updated Pádraig on what had been going on in their lives since they left college. None had the job for life. All agreed that these days, jobs last for about 2 years and then you change.

The last five weeks are crushing down on me. As if my body was telling me: it’s time to recover. Straight into bed.

If you should ever take a ferry from Rotterdam to Hull, the overnight ferry, be careful.

There are no signs on the motorways of Rotterdam showing you the way to the car ferry. There are literally hundreds of signs directing you to ports that are numbered into the thousands, though.

The confirmation email we had received from Irish Ferries just said departure Rotterdam.

Luckily, we remembered that we had to look for the Europort.

Driving through the vast port area in Rotterdam is like driving through a science fiction movie. It’s industrial, there are no humans (visible), it’s all pipelines, containers, and huge ships.

We made it to the port and onto the ferry after almost eight hours in the car. And had a wonderful meal!

Globally, this is shaping up to be the fourth-hottest year on record — the only years hotter were the three previous ones. – So says the New York Times today.

In Tating today, the weather returned to ‘normal’: a bit of rain, a bit of wind, a bit of sunshine, and temperatures that allowed you to breathe.

We’re just in from our last dinner (I was going to say ‘supper’ but resisted) in Tating before heading to Rotterdam, Hull, Holyhead and Dublin tomorrow morning. It’ll take us probably 36 hours to get to Dublin. One of those epic road trips. With plenty of time.

It felt as if the thunder was right on top of us and the building had just been hit by lightning. The heavens opened and tried to make up for three months of drought.

Pádraig had a brilliant evening out in that restaurant, under the marquise, half-sheltered by the glas screens, but still sitting (almost) in the eye of the storm. Kind of riding the storm, kind of being the one of the riders on the storm. Into this house we’re born. Into this world we’re thrown. Like a dog without a bone. An actor out on loan.

For what it is worth. To remember. This day in 1945, the second atomic bomb was dropped by the Americans on Nagasaki. In order to end the war. They said. – Which is when I just want to be ‘out there’. Away. In the middle of the ocean.

Husum was first mentioned as Husembro in 1252, when king Abel was murdered.

At times you wonder how useful wikipedia really is. I couldn’t think of a less relevant statement for someone who wanted to find out about this most beautiful city in the North of Germany. This week is the week of the port, the Hafentage, when the streets around the port are filled with stalls – mostly selling food and drinks. An incredibly variety of food and drinks, in fact. Much more complicated and much less straight forward than Tuesday summer evenings in Garding.

Instead of a rock band, they had a Shanty Choir starting off proceedings today.

I don’t know why, but old men singing about the ocean and the good auld times on the tall ships always makes me cry. Maybe it’s because since I was a kid, I was, one day, going to sail the seven seas, leaving all the noise of the city, all the busy-ness of no substance, all the absolutely inconsequential daily struggles of my life, the news that drive me mad but that I cannot do anything about – that I was going to leave all that behind and spend time on the ocean, under the stars, being directed by the wind and nothing else.

A classical example of a crash between dreams and life’s reality.

The thing is. Pádraig once wrote me a letter, when he was ‘small’ (I’m writing this in inverted comas because he was never really small) he wrote me a letter explaining how we all would, how our whole family would, manage to get onto that boat of mine and sail around the world.

And I still have that letter. Which is, in itself, is a small miracle.

Maybe this is why Hafenfest and Hafentage and old men singing shanties make me melancholic.

Tuesday is, at least during the summer, the day when life is easy and uncomplicated in Garding. Although the “Bratwurstmobil” advertises “Pommes, Bratwurst & mehr”, the “mehr” is not that much more. In fact, it’s just “Currywurst”. Drinks? It’s beer. Or “Alsterwasser”. Which is beer with a dash of lemonade. Simple. Not complicated.

We introduced some complications today by getting Crêpes. With Nutella. But even with that complication, life and dinner remained straight forward.

Pretty good music tonight. We always go and stay at the same stage, one of at least four stages filling the ‘city centre’ of Germany’s second smallest city.

For Pádraig the evening was like a, admittedly not very sophisticated, music therapy session, He tapped with his feet, he moved his fingers and his hands to the rhythm of the music, tonight supplied by a band from Canada, they said. But then, it turned out they all spoke German and at the end of the evening, I think it was more a matter of some of the members having been in Canada. Once.

I love the mix of people filling the streets of Garding on Tuesday summer nights. There are hippies from the 60s, Wacken veterans, families with small kids, families with adult kids, lone alcoholics, beauty kings and queens, weather-torn people from the North, beautiful people.

It was a great night out. For all of us.

It wasn’t the visit to the brewhouse, nor was it the fabulous meal in Gerardi’s that Pádraig most appreciated and enjoyed during his trip to Boston and Cape Cod. It was, by far, the walk, the last mile, from Brewster Police Department to the spot of the accident.

I can’t believe the similarities between Eiderstedt (where we are now) and Cape Cod. Loads of dunes, loads of beaches, loads of sky. We walked the mile today to the Arche Noah, the restaurant my sister and her husband ran for the best part of 30 years, and which Pádraig wanted me to buy (!). What caught my eye were the tracks left by the planes in the sky – coming from different directions, taking different routes, all aiming at the same destination.

I don’t know why, but it made me think of our lives…

We had some time to talk about life. Pádraig was in good form and it was easy for him today to share some inside into his life. We have the impression that, at times, he is trying to be nice, not telling us things that might hurt or might be difficult for us to hear. So we made it clear that this was a really open conversation.

Pádraig gave yes and no, pick one from a list, and  1 to 5 scaled answers.

What does he miss most (from a list)? – Being able to communicate.

Does he miss his ‘old’ life? – A very long 5 on a scale from 1 (a bit) to 5 (very much).

Is he bored with us? – That was a clear yes and a 5 on a scale from 1 (a bit) to 5 (a lot).

It really brought home the message to me that it is absolutely crucial and important to try and figure out what Pádraig wants to do, how he feels, what he likes… not by us thinking about it and trying to figure it out, but by allowing Pádraig to tell us.

Under the bludgeonings of chance, his head is bloody, but unbowed. It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll. He is the master of his fate, he is the captain of his soul. A Dreamboater.

He merits and is
worth and has a
right to
all the help
we can provide.

But he’s the one choosing the direction. He’s the captain.

Asterix’ and Obelix’ only fear was that the sky could come down  on them. Well, today, for a while, it looked exactly as if that was going to happen. The sky, the clouds came down on us pretty close.

Although it all looked really threatening, in the end, nothing happened.It didn’t even rain.

That’s life. It’s what happens to us all the time: we find ourselves in threatening situations where we fear that even the sky might come down on us. And we have choices.

What will we do?