Early morning in Dalkey is a special time. It’s when one can hear the sea slop over and around smooth granite. The local inhabitants have not awoken yet to overlook a house which overlooks another house which has a view of the sea. The houses look like barnacles adhering to the sea-washed headland rising above the granite bowl of Bulloch Harbour. A rank of benches crenulate the harbour walls; facing their backs to the afternoon sun. A bunch of plastic-wrapped petrol station flowers is cable-tied to one of these benches like a improvised epaulette. I decide to sit beside the wilted flowers as though tentatively meeting a date for first time. For whom were the flowers left?
On the chest of the bench was a dedication to ‘Betty, 2021’. Perhaps this was her favourite place, perhaps she died here. I thought about the person who left the flowers, who packed the cable-tie before driving or walking to the petrol station. Did they intend to come back with scissors or a blade to remove the cable-tie from the bench when the flowers had wilted?
A woman walked calmly past me, with a litter picker. I could sense she was examining me as she quietly picked small pieces of indistinguishable litter from between the cracks of the large granite pavers. She had the gait of a pigeon, and her eye was upon me. Internally, I was building the courage to thank this woman for her service in keeping the harbour area clean but before I could, she took a small bag from her pocket. She proceeded to empty the small bag on to the ground in a neat pile, and then she left, looking at me with her other eye as she disappeared out of my view. I couldn’t resist inspecting what the litter-picker had discarded on the ground. It was cooked asparagus and fish skins, probably left for the seagulls.
My peace was ruined as the seagulls became impatient for their meal and I wondered did Betty ever smell fish skins when she sat here. Had I interrupted the litter picker’s early routine, perhaps it was she who had brought the flowers from the petrol station and perhaps she sat here every day thinking of her friend and feeding the seagulls. Perhaps litter-picking was her way of protecting the flowers she had left for her friend. Perhaps she would one day have a blade to sever the cable tie and remove the plastic wrapping from the bench. Perhaps one day, the bench may include a small memorial plaque to the litter picker. Who then, will feed the seagulls?