Clams

Clams

The Corcorans live in a thatched cottage at the head of the creek.
You'd hardly notice it. The little house is tucked away between the
water and the road, almost hidden from view by a thick sprawling hedge.
Usually the only sign of life is a thin wisp of smoke from the chimney
stack. The four brothers live a simple life. The locals regard them as
hilly- billies, but I like them. Francie makes model boats. They say he
inherited the skills from his father who was a shipbuilder once, before
he took to the drink.

The brightly painted little miniature boats are all different shapes
and sizes and look pretty, bobbing at anchor in the creek just in front
of the cottage. From time to time Francie sells one to a passing
motorist. Mrs Murphy at the village pub is happy whenever that happens.
The four have been known to polish off a barrel of stout after a
profitable sale. Sometimes Francie will buy drinks for the house as
well. A very popular family, the Corcorans - at least on the day of a
sale.

Willie works with the County Council, on the roads. He's the steady
one, the only one with a `proper' job - and the others depend on him.
He sets out for work every morning on his push bike and sometimes does
the supermarket shopping on the way home. They say he even does the
cooking too. Then there is the eldest - Paddy, grey haired and bearded
and the youngest Timmy, who is hardly seventeen The pair pick
Periwinkles and sell them to Monsieur Deschamps, the large moustachioed
Breton Fish Buyer who drives by once a week in his pick-up truck. He
doesn't speak English and they don't speak French, but they manage just
the same. They let their hands do the talking

Winkle picking is best at Spring Tides when the tide is dead out. I
watch them sometimes from the house, two dark silhouttes at the waters
edge. The work is tedious, as they burrow through masses of Kale and
Carrigeen in search of the little blue black shellfish so prized by
diners in expensive restaurants on the Champs Elysees The Corcorans
have never been abroad; in fact they have never been outside their
native county. Monsieur Deschamps, with his black beret, twirly
moustache and knitted Guernsey sweater smelling strongly of Gauloise
cigarettes and stale fish is the closest they'll ever get to the
France..........

You'll know they're out there on the tide when you spot the two old
bicycles lying in under the roadside hedge. It's hard work, picking
Winkles. Sometimes they'll stand in freezing water for hours on end in
all sorts of weather, bent over double and painstakingly filling
plastic bags from the local Supermarket, specially saved for the
occasion. One day I called across to them - "If you ever come across
any Clams, I'll take them off you".

OooOooo

"I brought you them Clams" said young Timmy, standing shyly at the
kitchen door. Rainwater dripping from his oilskins formed puddles on
the slate floor. He was soaked to the skin. "Come in and dry out" I
said.

There must have been at least 10 kilos of Clams in the sack, all
shapes, colours and sizes. Timmy had wrapped them in large bunches of
glistening brown seaweed, to keep them fresh. There were cockles as
well and a few mussels and periwinkles for good measure. He wouldn't
take any money and seemed a bit embarrassed as he peered at me from
under the mass of curly black hair. "They're a present" he said. "You
were good to Paddy once, that time he was in hospital".

We hung his oil-skins out to dry. He seemed glad of the mug of tea and
leaned over the Aga, soaking up the warmth. Curious eyes peeped out
from under the tangled hair as I scrubbed the shellfish briskly at the
large porc
elain sink.

"I'm going to make Paella" I explained, "a speciality from the South
of Spain. It's a bit like a Meditarranean version of an Irish stew. You
combine shellfish with bits of fresh and smoked fish, chicken, and
rabbit- when you can get it - and cook them all together, slowly in a
deep flat-bottomed pan with saffron rice, peppers, onions and garlic
and any other odds and ends you feel like chucking in. It's really very
tasty".

He laughed at the notion of cooking meat and fish together. "I can get
you rabbits" he said. "They're all over our place and do a lot of
damage to the cabbage. Paddy gets mad and he traps 'em. We usually
chuck `em in the tide 'cause nobody at home likes rabbit".

Timmy was as good as his word. We now get a regular supply of clams
and rabbit with the occasional head of cabbage thrown in. He refuses to
take any money but we got around that problem one day when I came up
with the bright idea of insisting he take away a six pack of canned
draught stout. I buy them from Mrs Murphy at the Pub - so nobody loses
out. And Clam Chowder, Colcannon and Rabbit Casserole as well as Paella
have become regular dinner fare on our household menu. The Corcorans
make Poteen too, but that's another story?.

The End