The blank diaries

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

'The great thing to be recorded is the state of your own mind; and you should write down everything that you remember, for you cannot judge at first what is good or bad; and write immediately while the impression is fresh, for it will not be the same a week afterwards.'

'Nothing will come of nothing.' Get writing that diary.

So advised 18th-century English writer, Dr Samuel Johnson, to the man who would go on to write his biography, James Boswell. The conversation was about the importance of journalling, of keeping a diary, something that Johnson told Boswell 'he had twelve or fourteen times attempted . . . but never could persevere.'

Digital duplicity

One reason, perhaps, why Johnson couldn't persevere with a journal is that he had plenty of other great works to write during his lifetime. Journalling for a full-time writer may be something of a busman's holiday. Although Johnson, writer of almost all of The Idler series of essays, didn't hide the fact that he suffered from bouts of idleness — what he viewed as being idle in any case. He did, after all, get through quite a lot in his life.

Whatever the case, in the 18th century, one didn't have to deal with ubiquitous digital distractions. So, in theory, those who had the wherewithal to write should have been able to find the time to keep a journal going, if they truly wanted to.

Conversely, today's digital devices make it easier for anyone to write or even dictate a diary. So when, just a few months back, I first read those lines quoted at the start, taken from the straightforwardly titled Life of Samuel Johnson, I decided to start a diary that very day.

It hadn't been in my mind at all but I figured that if I couldn't keep a diary at this moment in my life, when I have lots of me time, then I'll never write one.

Travel thoughts

Now, it's not the first time I've had a go at this. I vaguely remember a couple of attempts at writing a diary in my childhood but, like Johnson, I didn't persevere.

Years later and with much more success, I kept a travel journal when I went on what turned into a ten-month trip around South America, New Zealand, Australia and Southeast Asia between 2008 and 2009. The impetus to do so came from my immediately older brother. He had done his own bout of global travelling and he told me that he regretted not jotting down his thoughts.

Considering I was constantly moving around, I figured at the time that the best way to securely write and keep such a diary would be as a draft email on my Gmail account. It has stood the test of time in any case. And it's now backed up in a Word document just in case it were to be accidentally deleted from my draft emails.

It has proved useful in reminding me of what most likely would have been forgotten details from a period that had a huge bearing on the subsequent direction of my life. Only recently I was re-reading segments as research for my work-in-progress memoir on my time in Colombia.

'If one makes the effort to keep a diary, rigorous introspection should be a fundamental part of it, as Dr Johnson suggested.'

I will concede, however, that a handwritten journal is more authentic. Reading it, flicking through its creased pages, one knows that it has served as a tangible paper crutch for the writer. It has been there with him, giving it an anthropomorphic quality. In comparison, a digital version seems rather lifeless.

Yet, again for practical reasons, when I returned to journalling this year, it was to the digital domain I headed. Indeed, the arguments for going digital are stronger today than they were when I wrote the last entry into my travel diary some 16 years ago.

Back then, I had to find an internet café or wait in a queue to use a hostel computer to type in an update. For the latter, use was often time-restricted. So I was writing against the clock — not the best environment when giving a deep disposition of one's coming of age. Or, more accurately and less profoundly, when trying to remember details and write coherently with a delicate head the morning after the sketchy night before.

Now, though, with a smartphone at hand and access to a Word document that automatically updates and saves previous versions across various platforms, maintaining a diary couldn't be simpler. It can be done from pretty much anywhere at any time, as long as one's device doesn't die.

Nothing will come of nothing

Nonetheless, rather than 'write immediately while the impression is fresh', as Johnson counselled, I've struggled to write an update even just once a week.

One major factor for this, reflecting a particular fallow period I'm going through, is a predominant feeling of 'What's the point?' Why take an hour or whatever out of my day to transcribe my thoughts? Couldn't I be doing something more useful and potentially rewarding with my time, like reading? Or socialising? Although, I don't think I'm suffering from a lack of socialising of the beer-fuelled variety in Colombia in any case, conversation-light as it often is albeit.

The idea that there's a cathartic element to keeping a diary is one strong reason to do so. And that's probably more important in these economically inactive times I'm experiencing.

However, many of my blog articles over the last few years have been quite personal, diary-esque entries. So in a sense I've been writing a public diary since late 2011, presenting my heart and mind to the world, infrequent as the updates have been. At the risk of sounding as if I'm putting myself in the same bracket as Johnson, something similar might have been at play with him. Why double work?

Of course, there's a lot more going on in my mind and, to a lesser extent right now, my life than what I blog about. Equally, my social media posts offer little real insight into my state of affairs. This is where a private journal comes in. It allows for deeper introspection, should one wish to probe. And if one makes the effort to keep a diary, rigorous introspection should be a fundamental part of it, as the good Dr Johnson suggested.

It's that making — and sustaining — the effort, however, that is proving to be quite the challenge. The words of another literary legend may provide extra motivation: 'Nothing will come of nothing', said Shakespeare's King Lear. A blank diary is of little use to anyone.
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'I do care but that doesn't make me a great carer'

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

For those of us lucky enough to see our parents live to what's generally considered a decent age, this does come with their inevitable sad decline, both mentally and physically.

Master of his herd. Or maybe not.

From being the guardians and providers of their children, the roles then get reversed in many families. It's the offspring who become the guardians of the parents.

There is, though, one major difference: Most parents who care for their children do so with the expectation that their young ones will grow up to become self-sufficient, to be independent (as independent as one can be, that is).

With elderly parents — and the elderly in general — it's the opposite. The trajectory is towards dependence. It's like they become children again. In some cases, they require as much care as newborns. Of course, not all elderly go the same way before they breathe their last. Some do remain active and with it up to their final months and days.

Care necessities

With my own parents, at the risk of sounding facetious here, if we could merge my mother's physical fitness with my father's mental acuity, we'd have a fairly robust individual — robust considering the ages in question anyway. My mother is a few years shy of her 80th birthday, my father is already an octogenarian.

As it is, a life of toil appears to have taken its toll on the body of my father. That and arthritis. As for my mother, she's afflicted with Alzheimer's, the 'disease that gnaws away at the kernel of who you are, leaving only the dry empty husk of the person you love behind', as I heard it accurately, if depressingly, put recently.

All this makes for visits to my parents that are more melancholic than filled with the making of new, positive, memorable moments. It's hard not to think back to livelier times, even if they weren't always happy. Nostalgia can be rather nefarious.

That I haven't regularly seen my parents over the last decade-plus plays a part in this.

'My mother used to be able to find anything. She was like St Anthony's representative on Earth. Now she's the one who misplaces almost everything.'

There's also the fact that my own situation is far from stable. Over the last few years, I've done more pondering than producing. Indeed, returning to the house I grew up in to help out on the farm and whatnot is, in a way, a welcome departure. And, somewhat shamefully, I'm happy to avail of the rent-free board. However, this positivity is nothing more than temporary. After a few days, it brings little to no satisfaction because of my overall uncertainty. I start to think I'm better off lost in Colombia's llanos than lost in Lisacul.

I wager such thoughts are made worse by the fact that I am childless. Were I a father, I probably wouldn't be in a position to be under the same roof as my parents for weeks on end. Also, I most likely wouldn't have the time nor the luxury to be so reflective. Or to be picky about potential employment. One can be guilty of overthinking.

Omniscient offspring

Yet, even if my own situation were more stable, I don't think I'd make for a great carer, even just occasionally, of my now more dependent parents.

With my mother, as much as I know that there's a disease taking over her brain, I still find it difficult to overlook all the frustrating things she says and does.

From somebody who seemed to be able to find anything — she was like St Anthony's representative on Earth — now she's the one who misplaces almost everything.

One dubious positive with her condition is that any disagreement or argument we may now have is forgotten by her moments later. If only this had been the case when I was a teenager.

In my father's case, while he's clearly physically impaired, he is largely refusing to accept that he can't operate like he did even just ten years ago. While I wish he would scale down what he has to manage to levels that he can personally carry out, he's still scaling up.

OK, I think I understand the mindset. To show weakness is to become weak. So he's manifesting strength and growth.

The problem is, he needs assistance for many of the tasks under his control. Caring for the cattle he currently has is, at times, beyond his capabilities. Yet, right now, he's firing ahead with what I consider to be an unnecessary, fairly substantial farmyard construction project. From what I can see, there's more than enough to keep him busy if he tried to clean up and organise what he already has — fix what's already broken. Or at least what's already terribly untidy.

It's why I find it difficult to enthusiastically offer a helping hand. But hey, if it makes him happy, fine.

We could do with a version of this for the elderly.

Thinking about all this does remind me of a sign that used to hang in our kitchen when I was a child: 'Teenagers, tired of being harassed by your stupid parents? Act now! Move out, get a job, pay your bills while you still know everything.'

A version for those in their twilight years would run something like this: 'Senior citizens, tired of being harassed by your stupid adult children/relatives? Act now! Downsize, hire non-judgemental home help and enjoy what's left of your hard-earned money while you still can.'

'While you still can', indeed. We all must succumb at some stage.
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Libtard Lynch

@wwaycorrigan

I don't personally know the Sunday Independent columnist Declan Lynch but from his newspaper musings he comes across as a holier-than-thou virtue signaller. And most likely quite the hypocrite.

Hence this latest letter to the Sindo editor (see below or find it online at https://m.independent.ie/opinion/letters/letters-trumps-british-visit-was-a-meeting-of-two-dysfunctional-monarchies/a1993281023.html.) It's not the first time lines by Lynch have compelled me to respond — see https://wwcorrigan.blogspot.com/2023/11/calling-out-illiberal-liberals.html.

No doubt he's taking note of my taking umbrage of his words.

Out for a Lynch-ing. 

Fianna Fáil: A party for all seasons

@wwaycorrigan

In my latest letter to the Irish daily newspapers, I suggest that Fianna Fáil's values are very Irish in one way i.e. they're just like the country's weather — changeable but largely dull. Granted, one could say that about most Irish political parties.

The letter can be found here and here.

Fianna Fáil: Whatever you're having yourself.

Lost in los llanos, Colombia

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

It was, like most things in my life have been, more by accident than design: my seven-month stint in 2025 living in los llanos, Colombia's vast plains and renowned cowboy country.

'To the horizon. And beyond!'

For most of that time, San Martín de los Llanos in the Meta department was the base. This was thanks to an invite to do a bout of house-sitting for an American native — that's a USA American, for the sticklers amongst us — a guy who I'd only befriended in December 2024.

Thanks to that, from February to early May I lived in relative comfort. In fact, it was close to my ideal: a furnished place to myself in a town with a nice vibe to it. Not far off my Goldilocks zone.

When that house-sitting stint ended, I still wasn't keen on an indefinite return to Bogotá, the place that has been my default setting in Colombia. So when I found a furnished studio-apartment (of sorts) for an agreeable 450,000 COP (about 95 euros) per month, bills included (and with the option to pay fortnightly), I took it. This led to another two-and-a-half months in San Martín.

Grand Granada

Then came an offer I couldn't refuse: a furnished room with kitchen access for 160,000 COP per month in Granada. This arose thanks to the partner of that American for whom I house sat in San Martín. It was the partner's sister who had the room. So even though I was fairly content, if not tremendously productive, in San Martín, the chance to significantly reduce my overheads appealed.

What's more, having stayed in Granada on previous occasions in 2024, returning wasn't a big deal. I knew what to expect.

Twenty kilometres south of San Martín, it's roughly twice as big as its northerly neighbour. To give Granada a one-word description, it's grand. That's the Irish grand, which means fine; not fantastic but not too terrible either. Middle of the road.

Meal deals

One area, though, where Granada rates highly, if one puts importance on value for money, is in the cheapness of eating out. This is because there are four (that I know of) restaurants that sell breakfasts and lunches for 5,000 pesos, just over one euro. Similar fare would be at least double that in Bogotá and other cities and towns.

For me, these meals are in the popular 3-Bs, bueno, bonito, barato, category. That's bueno for good, bonito for nice/pretty, and barato for cheap. That last b is undisputed, whatever about the other two, which are more subjective.

While I haven't tried the breakfasts — this is due to my version of intermittent fasting — the lunches are filling and wholesome. And, in at least one of the establishments, meals are served late into the afternoon. It's not a case of having little to nothing available after 2 pm, as often happens in other such places.

'If Granada is controlled by guerrillas, it happens on a different level to my humble comings and goings.'

The main dish usually comes with a mixture — if you ask for a mixture, that is — of beans, peas, chickpeas, pumpkin, plantain and a token salad. OK, the chicken/meat/fish portions are puny but the soup starter, often a sancocho, a type of stew with a mix of root vegetables and rough cuts of beef or chicken, is hearty. It's almost a meal in its own right.

So with such a selection for 5,000 pesos, you really couldn't buy the ingredients and cook them at home more cheaply. Trust me. I've done the experiment, not with all the same ingredients albeit. I do, however, still like to cook my own meals. This is chiefly because I enjoy cooking, I have the free time these days to do so and, in doing so, I have greater control over what I consume.

It's why for the month or so I had in the 160,000-pesos-per-month room in Granada, I ate the 5,000-peso meals no more than six times.

The town is also hard to beat for agreeably priced beer. Unhealthily so, it could be said, in that it may encourage one to drink more than desired. My tienda of choice, Doña Rosa's, sells 750 ml bottles of Tecate for 3,000 pesos with the same volume of Costeña for 3,500 pesos. It's as cheap as you'll get in the country.

Water wars

Now, while Granada might be good for keeping the costs down, it's less appealing in other aspects. And no, I'm not referring to the fact that it's said to be controlled by leftist guerrillas. If that is the case, it happens on a different level to my humble comings and goings. (For the record, San Martín and most places north of that town in Meta are in the hands of the right-wing paramilitaries, so it goes. From Granada southwards, down into Guaviare, it's largely guerrilla territory.)

One drawback is that Granada lacks an inviting natural watercourse nearby. Yes, there's the visually impressive River Ariari. But it's 6 km from the town, so a tad far to be a comfortable walking option. OK, it can be refreshing to go for a dip on reaching the river after the walk, but then one is faced with the trek back in heat regularly in excess of 30 degrees Celsius. Cycling would be a better option, if one was going to be based in the town long enough to make investing in a bike pay off, that is.

There is a smaller river that flows through the outskirts of the town, just north of the hospital. Alas, the one acceptable bathing spot it has is, unsurprisingly, very popular. It's regularly filled with screaming children and revellers blaring mindless music from portable speakers, the Colombian standard. Not only that, but its rather murky waters aren't that enticing.

The waters of San Martín's Caño Camoa, in contrast, are clearer. And the river offers a selection of more secluded bathing spots. Although, on Sundays and holidays, that seclusion tends to get smashed.

The San Martín view

Another plus point for San Martín is that it has various tranquil — as in traffic-light and with a feeling of being in nature — loop roads to wander. I didn't find anything quite as tranquil in Granada.

In addition, San Martín has a 130-step mirador, a viewing tower, to ascend, offering views of the seemingly never-ending plains to the south and east, with the alluring Andes introducing themselves to the north and west. The tower also doubles up as decent exercise, especially if one ascends and descends it a few times in a row.

'Thanks to Lejanías' proximity to both the Guape and the Andes, there's a freshness to the air that's lacking in Granada.'

On top of all this, in San Martín I was given WiFi access in La Reina, my panadería office there. I never had this privilege in the various panaderías I frequented in Granada. What's more, the friendly staff at the rustic library in San Martín had no issue in giving me the building's WiFi password. No such service came from the more modern but quite tacky library in Granada. (Only in Doña Rosa's tienda did I have WiFi in Granada, another pull factor, if one were needed, to her cheap beer.)

Whilst based in Granada, I did visit two other llanos towns, spending a few nights in both.

San Juan de Arama, 20 km south-west of Granada, has little going for it. About the best I can say is that it's fairly quiet.

A little of Lejanías does you good

Lejanías, 40 km west of Granada, at the foothills of the Andes, overlooking the broad River Guape as it flows at pace towards the plains, has much more to it. Its setting alone is satisfying. In fact, on that front, I think it's the best of the four towns mentioned here.

That it has another river nearby, a much smaller one than the Guape, where one can relax unperturbed, is a bonus. There's something about listening to the flow of water in a relatively unspoilt natural setting that puts one at ease.

Thanks to its proximity to both the Guape and the Andes, there's a freshness to the air that's lacking in Granada. Granted, Granada is far bigger and is a significant transport hub in these parts. With that, it has more people, more vehicles, more concrete and thus more pollution.

One minor negative for Lejanías is that it's a buchona-free town: the big, 750 ml beer bottles aren't available. This is the case for many small towns in Colombia that are a fair distance from their department capitals. It's a manageable inconvenience all the same. And better for my health as I have a rough beer budget that I like to stick to i.e. I measure my beer-drinking by cost rather than volume. In any case, it's not a lack of beer that's my problem these days.

No, one of my main issues right now is finding income-generating work, something for which los llanos bears little responsibility — even if I do find the hot climate unconducive to doing computer work.

Sort my income issues out and I'd have no problem taking up residence again in San Martín, Lejanías or Granada, more or less in that order of preference.

One could be in worse places than lost, in thought, in los llanos.
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Picking Ireland's president

@wwaycorrigan

Ireland is due to elect a new president towards the end of 2025 (the election has to take place by 11 November). Currently, there doesn't seem to be much interest in what's dubbed the Race for the Áras (Áras an Uachtaráin, Irish for the President's Residency, is, unsurprisingly, where the Irish president resides).

So, in an effort to spice things up a little, I'm suggesting a new approach to elect Ireland's next head of state, a post that is largely ceremonial. 

Details of this novel method can be found in the Letters to the Editor section of the Sunday Independent, 13 July edition. It can also be read online by scrolling down on https://m.independent.ie/opinion/letters/letters-cant-our-politicians-see-the-damage-their-anti-israel-stance-is-doing-to-our-country/a482457731.html. Or, for simplicity, see the screenshot of the letter below. 

I do want to let it be known here that I would consider running for the office should some members of the electorate wish to nominate me. You know where to find me. 

Picking Ireland's president.

'Would you like some coffee with your cow's blood?'

@wwaycorrigan

[For an audio/vlog version of this story, click here.]

It's widely believed — and probably true — that Colombia's best coffee is exported. The high-income nations that receive the bulk of this are willing — and able — to pay bigger bucks for better quality. They're also seen as more adept at transforming the product in its crude form into a quality brew. Defined in Colombia, refined abroad, so to put it.

Some Colombians are convinced that ordinary coffee consumed in the country is mixed with cattle blood.

Of course, gourmet or at least half-decent coffee is available in Colombia. Not all of what's consumed here is substandard compared to what's available in the likes of Europe and the USA. Nonetheless, much of it is pretty ordinary.

This isn't always the fault of the alleged lesser-quality coffee left behind in Colombia. A lot of the time it's down to how it's prepared. An any-old-way-will-do approach, such as the use of grecas. These metallic monsters are responsible for many crimes against drinkable coffee.

'It's a rather nauseating notion if there is a drop of truth to it.'

Also, like many things, one has to pay a good bit more than average to get a better brew. Thus, I'm regularly left with the I-can't-believe-it's-not-coffee variety. (It's similar in the dating game. Hence, I remain single. If one is reluctant to or simply can't spend big, one is usually left with little better than the dregs.)

Bloody brew

Yet, I've recently discovered that many Colombians think there's more at play in all this than just inferior coffee brewed badly.

There's a belief, which I've been quick to dismiss as an urban legend, that most mass-produced, affordable, working-class ground coffee sold here is mixed with cattle blood. This is done to add more volume to it. It's a rather nauseating notion if there is a drop of truth to it. But it must be an absurdity, mustn't it?

Well, it isn't for almost all the locals with whom I've discussed this in San Martín de los Llanos. And this is cowboy country, so cattle blood is far from alien to the place. What's more, Colombians tend to make use of all parts of an animal that's killed for consumption. Little, if anything, goes to waste. 

On top of this, there are some questionable practices in the country. What you get isn't always what you're told it is. On the other hand, some do hold dubious beliefs, such as the idea that throwing water on your face immediately after exercise will leave your facial features in a stressed state permanently (that might explain a few things for me).

Now, I'm no scientist, but I figure a quick lab test of the alleged cattle-blood coffee should tell us if it has the substance or not. (I say cattle blood as I assume that if the practice is real, it matters little if it's from a cow or a bull. Although cow's blood probably sounds slightly better for marketing purposes: 'Well, if you put cow's milk in your coffee, what's wrong with a little cow's blood?)

So, can those with the means to do so stem the flow of this ruddy rumour and test these cheaper and cheerful coffee brands for traces of bovine blood? Time to bust this myth. Or are we really being fed a load of bull? It wouldn't be the first time we've been told something is other than what it actually is.
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