In other words, I've finally posted my Ireland pictures. All of them. With captions and whatnot. I hope you will enjoy. Check them out here.
... and in later news, I will tell you about how I went to see Shakespeare on the Common with my favorite Latvian, and how we Ended up North instead.
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
7.30.2007
7.12.2007
reliving the memories, one MB at a time
I'm back. I'll get around to putting the pictures up on Flickr when I have a moment, but considering I'm still trying to shift my mentality into "work-school-sleep" mode, it might be a day or two.In the meantime, everyone has to figure out what this picture means. And then tell me what you think. The person who gets it right will get a T-shirt with the image on it. And I'm not even joking.
7.09.2007
scraps and scribbles, PARTE DEUX
--Dear Leigh, if you're still reading this, I'm meeting you in 20 minutes for dinner. We will meet by Molly Malone, 'The Tart with the Cart' as my cousin gleefully calls her. If I'm lucky, we'll get to go to Salamanca the tapas bar for dinner. If I'm not, we might end up at...That Place again.
--I'm back in Dublin after two and a half days in London. English prepubescents are just dreadful.
--Ireland is full of an immigrant Polish population who've come to work in the booming economy. This reminds me of Under the Tuscan Sun, when the Poles are the laborers who fix her villa up. I refer to this as factual evidence of a massive Polish diaspora. My mother calls me on this. I sulk.
--Maybe if the Irish gave corporations incentive to write advertisements in Irish, it would prompt a swifter increase in Irish language usage. At the moment, it's not looking so good.
--Britain is a funny place to fly out of. I think Stansted might even be more multicultural than Dulles. It's also kind of ugly and fascinating to fly over, and is definitely very smoggy. I haven't flown out of such a dirty area since I left L.A.. The napkin I used to wipe perspiration (or, rather, 'a glow') off my face came away dirty, which has never happened to me.
--The weather in England has been far superior to that in Ireland, except for the flooding in Sheffield and Hull.
--Ambre is very well, thanks for asking. She was in her element, surrounded by other socialists and demonstrators. The conference was fascinating. I'll talk about that later.
--On a rather sobering note, the US Army uses Shannon Airport as a transportation stopover for ALL of its international flights and shipments, including that of troops and armaments. A percentage of the Irish population are not very happy about this, as it technically means the Irish are no longer neutral, which is in violation of their constitution.
--There are indeed Irish people who do not know about The Boondock Saints. I'm not sure whether or not to tell them about it.
--I'm back in Dublin after two and a half days in London. English prepubescents are just dreadful.
--Ireland is full of an immigrant Polish population who've come to work in the booming economy. This reminds me of Under the Tuscan Sun, when the Poles are the laborers who fix her villa up. I refer to this as factual evidence of a massive Polish diaspora. My mother calls me on this. I sulk.
--Maybe if the Irish gave corporations incentive to write advertisements in Irish, it would prompt a swifter increase in Irish language usage. At the moment, it's not looking so good.
--Britain is a funny place to fly out of. I think Stansted might even be more multicultural than Dulles. It's also kind of ugly and fascinating to fly over, and is definitely very smoggy. I haven't flown out of such a dirty area since I left L.A.. The napkin I used to wipe perspiration (or, rather, 'a glow') off my face came away dirty, which has never happened to me.
--The weather in England has been far superior to that in Ireland, except for the flooding in Sheffield and Hull.
--Ambre is very well, thanks for asking. She was in her element, surrounded by other socialists and demonstrators. The conference was fascinating. I'll talk about that later.
--On a rather sobering note, the US Army uses Shannon Airport as a transportation stopover for ALL of its international flights and shipments, including that of troops and armaments. A percentage of the Irish population are not very happy about this, as it technically means the Irish are no longer neutral, which is in violation of their constitution.
--There are indeed Irish people who do not know about The Boondock Saints. I'm not sure whether or not to tell them about it.
7.08.2007
'Cooooke on the waaaater/I'm higher than the sky...'
Everywhere I've been and everything I've done has been in vivid high definition. I don't think I've ever slept better, just because I'm so worn out by the days.
Going from northish to southish emphasizes that there is more than one kind of Ireland, even though it's a tiny country. Mayo was one kind of Ireland, with silences that dwarfed me, made me tiny in the face of a million years of sea and sky and wind and rain. It was beautiful but it was stark. It would be quite a trick learning how to live there without going insane. Kilcrohane in West County Cork, on the other hand, is a different kind of Ireland, almost stereotypical in its Irishness. We drove for about seven hours, I think. We arrived in Kilcrohane after watching the landscape shift from sweeping hillside to more nook-and-cranny hillside -- more rocks and trees, less ruins and stone walls. It was only my parents and Pat and I; the other siblings had gone to Dublin for a few days. This made our new cottage bearable in terms of space. There were eight people and six beds, and it definitely got a little tight.
We just happened to be staying in the town closest to the point where a huge shipment of cocaine was seized off the coast of Southern Ireland. Two Italian tourists came into the small grocer-post office and asked where to go see the seals that live and play off the coastline. The shopkeeper shook his head and suggested that they might not have much luck, seeing as the bay was full of coke right now. Later in the week, at least one house in the town was sealed off by the Gardai (pronounced 'Guard-ee' as far as I can tell...no one get on my case, okay?) and a pretty decent size search was going on to find both perpetrators and loot...er, evidence. I saw one police van.
Kilcrohane is just 20 minutes outside of Bantry which is also really lovely town. Kilcrohane itself is almost as isolated as Lacken Pier had been, but at least this time we were actually in a town, staying in a cottage on the one street right down the middle of the village. There is a pub three buildings away (one could quite literally stagger home from the pub in less than a minute) and our cottage is right next to the school, a bright blue building with a brand new clock tower (including tide clock) that was just commemorated the Sunday after we arrived. There was a series of speeches and a huge potluck lunch following the 10 o'clock mass, lunch being replete with scones and pastry and a tiramisu, small children underfoot, all kinds of hearty dishes including potatoes, coffee and tea and plenty of bottles of wine. The Bishop had originally been scheduled to show up and give both mass and a blessing to the clock. Sadly, the Bishop had been called away...to the Cork vs. Kerry Gaelic football match, it was speculated. He hadn't even called to cancel. The commemorative plaque was kept under a curtain, and removed without comment later that day. I suspect tithes might be down in Kilcrohane for a few weeks.
My own enthusiasm for the grand spread was somewhat diminished by the fact that I'd had one too many Guinness the night before (perhaps there should be a plural version -- Guinni?). When we'd arrived in town, the family grumped about the location of the cottage being smack in the middle of everything with a rather temperamental view. Depending on the weather, sometimes you could see the Bay from the 'Bayview Cottages', and sometimes you couldn't. The weather, of course, changed every fifteen minutes (I don't know if anyone else has heard but there were apparently huge floods in Great Britain, in Sheffield and Hull, indicating that the kind of non-stop rain we saw throughout our vacation was not normal. Could we PLEASE get on some Global Warming prevention stuff?). However, there was dancing down at the pub, which is actually called the Bayview Inn. I don't know if they have the same technical difficulties with the view. After a meal of pork chops and beets and potatoes, my parents and I trucked down to find out about the dancing.
The moment the one-man band with his accordion and his keyboard (for the beats, you know) struck up, the token drunk guy asked me to dance. He was the most active member of the bachelor party that had set up shop in the pub since early that day, but he didn't have much conversation; just dancing. He danced well and I danced as best I could; we danced a few more times before he was completely falling down drunk. Watching the ceili dancing was probably the best, however; once the pop tunes of the seventies, eighties, nineties, and today (or whenever. I do remember hearing "if I told you you had a beautiful body/would you hold it against me?" and there's nothing to compare. At least, not on the squeezebox). "Wild Irish Rover" and "Molly Malone", some traditional reels and jigs. The difficult part is watching the steps themselves. Mom was trying to figure them out, but every time you think you understand how they work they've changed the pattern somehow. There's stomping, which I love. It looks very much like square dancing, which is really great fun if you haven't tried it.
I only had three Guinness, all right? I confess. I'm a total lightweight these days. Compared to the last Guinness hangover I had in Ireland (after, I think, seven beers) how I felt Sunday morning was sweetness and light. Nevertheless, this is a perfect example of why I won't drink Guinness in the states, or anywhere were it has to be imported. In Ireland, it's worth the hangover for how absolutely fresh and fantastic the beer itself tastes. Once you have a Guinness in Ireland, you can't drink it elsewhere. It tastes 'stale, flat and unprofitable' (Hamlet, yo). But despite my great love for the fresh-from-the-Liffey pint (how else do you think they make it so brown??), I'm scaling my consumption back for the rest of the trip. All things in moderation, right?
Well, most things. I don't think you can ever have enough of a good chocolate.
Going from northish to southish emphasizes that there is more than one kind of Ireland, even though it's a tiny country. Mayo was one kind of Ireland, with silences that dwarfed me, made me tiny in the face of a million years of sea and sky and wind and rain. It was beautiful but it was stark. It would be quite a trick learning how to live there without going insane. Kilcrohane in West County Cork, on the other hand, is a different kind of Ireland, almost stereotypical in its Irishness. We drove for about seven hours, I think. We arrived in Kilcrohane after watching the landscape shift from sweeping hillside to more nook-and-cranny hillside -- more rocks and trees, less ruins and stone walls. It was only my parents and Pat and I; the other siblings had gone to Dublin for a few days. This made our new cottage bearable in terms of space. There were eight people and six beds, and it definitely got a little tight.
We just happened to be staying in the town closest to the point where a huge shipment of cocaine was seized off the coast of Southern Ireland. Two Italian tourists came into the small grocer-post office and asked where to go see the seals that live and play off the coastline. The shopkeeper shook his head and suggested that they might not have much luck, seeing as the bay was full of coke right now. Later in the week, at least one house in the town was sealed off by the Gardai (pronounced 'Guard-ee' as far as I can tell...no one get on my case, okay?) and a pretty decent size search was going on to find both perpetrators and loot...er, evidence. I saw one police van.
Kilcrohane is just 20 minutes outside of Bantry which is also really lovely town. Kilcrohane itself is almost as isolated as Lacken Pier had been, but at least this time we were actually in a town, staying in a cottage on the one street right down the middle of the village. There is a pub three buildings away (one could quite literally stagger home from the pub in less than a minute) and our cottage is right next to the school, a bright blue building with a brand new clock tower (including tide clock) that was just commemorated the Sunday after we arrived. There was a series of speeches and a huge potluck lunch following the 10 o'clock mass, lunch being replete with scones and pastry and a tiramisu, small children underfoot, all kinds of hearty dishes including potatoes, coffee and tea and plenty of bottles of wine. The Bishop had originally been scheduled to show up and give both mass and a blessing to the clock. Sadly, the Bishop had been called away...to the Cork vs. Kerry Gaelic football match, it was speculated. He hadn't even called to cancel. The commemorative plaque was kept under a curtain, and removed without comment later that day. I suspect tithes might be down in Kilcrohane for a few weeks.
My own enthusiasm for the grand spread was somewhat diminished by the fact that I'd had one too many Guinness the night before (perhaps there should be a plural version -- Guinni?). When we'd arrived in town, the family grumped about the location of the cottage being smack in the middle of everything with a rather temperamental view. Depending on the weather, sometimes you could see the Bay from the 'Bayview Cottages', and sometimes you couldn't. The weather, of course, changed every fifteen minutes (I don't know if anyone else has heard but there were apparently huge floods in Great Britain, in Sheffield and Hull, indicating that the kind of non-stop rain we saw throughout our vacation was not normal. Could we PLEASE get on some Global Warming prevention stuff?). However, there was dancing down at the pub, which is actually called the Bayview Inn. I don't know if they have the same technical difficulties with the view. After a meal of pork chops and beets and potatoes, my parents and I trucked down to find out about the dancing.
The moment the one-man band with his accordion and his keyboard (for the beats, you know) struck up, the token drunk guy asked me to dance. He was the most active member of the bachelor party that had set up shop in the pub since early that day, but he didn't have much conversation; just dancing. He danced well and I danced as best I could; we danced a few more times before he was completely falling down drunk. Watching the ceili dancing was probably the best, however; once the pop tunes of the seventies, eighties, nineties, and today (or whenever. I do remember hearing "if I told you you had a beautiful body/would you hold it against me?" and there's nothing to compare. At least, not on the squeezebox). "Wild Irish Rover" and "Molly Malone", some traditional reels and jigs. The difficult part is watching the steps themselves. Mom was trying to figure them out, but every time you think you understand how they work they've changed the pattern somehow. There's stomping, which I love. It looks very much like square dancing, which is really great fun if you haven't tried it.
I only had three Guinness, all right? I confess. I'm a total lightweight these days. Compared to the last Guinness hangover I had in Ireland (after, I think, seven beers) how I felt Sunday morning was sweetness and light. Nevertheless, this is a perfect example of why I won't drink Guinness in the states, or anywhere were it has to be imported. In Ireland, it's worth the hangover for how absolutely fresh and fantastic the beer itself tastes. Once you have a Guinness in Ireland, you can't drink it elsewhere. It tastes 'stale, flat and unprofitable' (Hamlet, yo). But despite my great love for the fresh-from-the-Liffey pint (how else do you think they make it so brown??), I'm scaling my consumption back for the rest of the trip. All things in moderation, right?
Well, most things. I don't think you can ever have enough of a good chocolate.
7.03.2007
scraps and scribbles
In Dublin for approx. 24 hours with the whole fam...yesterday was my brother's birthday (and Aunt Francie's...happy birthday Jo!!) and so we all hung out for a bit in Temple Bar at the Royal Bank. Bad Jokes were told by all ('Zree peanuts vere valking down zee strasse...') and beers were had.
Spent the day heading through Dublin Castle and St. Patrick's Cathedral, which is more like a creepy monument to British Imperialism...just wait til you see the photos!! But still, Jonathan Swift and the bard Carolan...
Pat and I went to see Sweeny Todd at the Gate Theatre. We were in THE VERY FIRST ROW and got to watch spit showers and sweat, smell the baby powder and perhaps a little of the halitosis. It was A-MAZING. Afterwards I wheedled us into the backstage, but missed talking to Sweeny himself. Nevertheless, I can still say my brother's been on stage at the Gate in Dublin. Whoot!
Watched Britain's Next Top Model. Improvement on the American version -- in this one, catfights break out, with throwing drinks and fisticuffs. Pretty sweet.
Back to Cork, and more from me later.
Spent the day heading through Dublin Castle and St. Patrick's Cathedral, which is more like a creepy monument to British Imperialism...just wait til you see the photos!! But still, Jonathan Swift and the bard Carolan...
Pat and I went to see Sweeny Todd at the Gate Theatre. We were in THE VERY FIRST ROW and got to watch spit showers and sweat, smell the baby powder and perhaps a little of the halitosis. It was A-MAZING. Afterwards I wheedled us into the backstage, but missed talking to Sweeny himself. Nevertheless, I can still say my brother's been on stage at the Gate in Dublin. Whoot!
Watched Britain's Next Top Model. Improvement on the American version -- in this one, catfights break out, with throwing drinks and fisticuffs. Pretty sweet.
Back to Cork, and more from me later.
6.29.2007
Touching Down, Finding Roots
Everyone knows that 'getting there' is the super-boring-if-not-downright-awful part. My flight was no exception (well, I did get a free [mini] bottle of wine for trading seats with someone) just really long.
It wasn't raining in Dublin, not at the moment I arrived, anyway, so skipping from the tarmac to the macadam was drier than it had been before (the first time I'd come from Dublin I'd taken a ferry from Wales. I was considerably less wet this time). Dublin wasn't that different to me -- I didn't see anything that I couldn't remember -- but I am very different. On the 20 minute ride from the airport to City Centre I stared down the road signs, trying to pronounce the Irish in my head. The signs look like the ones you'd find in Canada, with the same information written in English and in Irish. I don't know what version they use for the national road signs (Connaught? Munster?) and I'm beginning to learn that, like all languages, even beyond the three main dialects there are hundreds of other little subdialects that distinguish one parish's tongue from another. Here in Lacken, we're in North Mayo dialect territory. I regret not having finished Irish class last year.
The 748 bus goes straight from the airport to Heuston Station, following the Liffey through Dublin City. As you're driving along you get to see different bridges (including the famous Ha'penny Bridge), the little sandwich shops and markets and, of course, the pubs. I got a sudden and unexpected urge to take the same walk that Bloom took on June 16th of 1904 -- I wonder if this doesn't happen to everyone who reads Ulysses? I'll bet you it does; I'll get around to it when I get to Dublin.
Insert chilly three-hour train ride here.
Needless to say, pulling in to Ballina, County Mayo to find my entire family (plus my brother's Rugby Buddy Tim) standing on the platform waiting for me was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Pat took my picture -- twice -- through the foggy window of the train car. The day was indeed somewhat cold and grey but spirits and voices were high as we trooped back to the car, stopping for a family photo in front of the 'Ballina' station sign. I'd forgotten what an exhilerating and terrifying experience it is to be driven on the wrong side of the road. All my father's precious cargo (i.e., his family) in the car and him at the wheel surely didnt help, either. Not least because we continued to jabber as he drove. The roads in North-Western Mayo are fairly narrow. Road markings and signage are optional and courtesy in granting right-of-way is heavily relied upon.
The towns hadn't changed much since I'd been here for the first time in 2003 -- the same small cottages made with thick plaster whitewashed walls, square-ish, symmetrical windows and little walls around gardens and carparks. The roads have become a little smoother, more paved and more cleaned up, but this seemed pretty new. Polish work crews (Poles represent a sort of migrant worker community here and across Europe) were still putting the pipelines in down by Lacken Strand where we're staying for the city water.
The gardens are sparse but the actual flora is intriguing -- palm trees and giant elephant-ears plants, side by side with furze bushes and pines. I had no idea rhododendron and fuschia (fuschia shrubs or trees, no less) were native to Ireland. The fuschias are just gorgeous, though their blooming season is passing. The blossoms are narrower and less plump than our potted fuschias, but their color is even richer and deeper and their stamen hang down quite a ways, making them look like tiny, brilliantly colored Art Deco chandeliers. The rhododendron had already bloomed, but I'm promising myself that one day I'll be back to see them flowering on the road to Belderrig [insert proper traditional Irish homecoming tune here].
My whole family is staying in two little cottages by Lacken Pier -- right up the hill from the somewhat deserted boat-launch itslef. From our kitchen window you can see wee Lacken Bay with its huge golden strand. The beach disappears almost entirely with every high tide. The locals hunt for sand eels as bait; some fishemen still launch their boats from the pier here. Limpets (??) and periwinkles cover the mostly sandstone rock-beach by the pier. The other side of the pier shows those shelf-like layers of basalt that the coast of Ireland is so famous for; the hardest stone, black and perfect, stacked in blocks under the bog land. By the waterline it's covered in purply-red delisk seaweed and bright green seamoss. Slick brown algae is invisible against the stone and you only know its there when you begin to skid toward the edge of the rock shelf. On our second evening walk, Pat and I found out what I firmly believe to be a prehistoric, petrified tree stupm. Growing right in the middle of layers of baslat, approximately 5 1/2 feet high, the whole thing in diameter might be seven or eight feet. It's a light brown, almost pinkish color, and the veiny, cell-like form looks like nothing so much as live wod when the living matter has rotted out f its tiny capillaries leaving only the shells behind. Its 'roots' grow and gnarl down through the basalt, and it juts out of the face of the minicliff as though thousands of years of surf-beating had finally revealed it.
Pat and I got stuck on this stroll; I made him walk through four or five sodden cowfields rather than taking the easy (albeit less-accessible, due to the incoming tide) way back. We got soaked. But it's good for his character.
I don't know the history of our little cottage and oddly enough no one seems to care. We pretend to play Gaelic football-catch in the front yard and my siblings drink and play cards in the evenings. I've spent most of my time around them speechless with laughter. Being the oldest means that everyone else has to entertain you...you're never the funny one. I haven't been able to join in the revelry because of projects I've got to finish for school, which necessitates my staying up late and pining for the internet. As might be obvious, the closest internet is in Ballina, 18 km away from the cottage. That is why I hadn't blogged earlier; sorry.
Lacken Pier cottage is amazing. Its tiny couches are hardly big enough for mine and my father's sprawling largeness and are small enough to be doll couches, but big enough to fit our family in her tiny old-agedness. This woman makes amazing, absolutely kick-ass hand-knit Irish sweaters. I have one and I'm getting another. You will never need anything else for a cold winter than one of Molly's sweaters. If you want one, we can probably hook you up. If you live in Massachusetts, it will really come in handy.
The cottage is so quiet, and the roads are so infrequently used that the only thing you can hear are the wind and the waves. The farmer down the lane drives (literally: in his old Volkswagen) his dairy cattle from the fields below our house up to his milking barn twice a day, and the sheep get noisy on occasion., We have a tiny, 6 inch TV that no one's tunred on, and today was the first time I'd used the radio. We have to pay for the electricity here -- we don't use much and boy is it cold. I've allowed myself to be delightfully creeped out by the foreignness of the house in the dark, thinking of previous owners and their spirits and just the personalities of a sea and a land that I don't know well at all. I can imagine myself here, clearing my head in the quiet, breathing the cold ocean air.
I can also imagine myself going insane without sushi after a whole week, and moving to Dublin immediately. Or at least to Galway.
Later: Revisiting the homestead. This time with more detail.
It wasn't raining in Dublin, not at the moment I arrived, anyway, so skipping from the tarmac to the macadam was drier than it had been before (the first time I'd come from Dublin I'd taken a ferry from Wales. I was considerably less wet this time). Dublin wasn't that different to me -- I didn't see anything that I couldn't remember -- but I am very different. On the 20 minute ride from the airport to City Centre I stared down the road signs, trying to pronounce the Irish in my head. The signs look like the ones you'd find in Canada, with the same information written in English and in Irish. I don't know what version they use for the national road signs (Connaught? Munster?) and I'm beginning to learn that, like all languages, even beyond the three main dialects there are hundreds of other little subdialects that distinguish one parish's tongue from another. Here in Lacken, we're in North Mayo dialect territory. I regret not having finished Irish class last year.
The 748 bus goes straight from the airport to Heuston Station, following the Liffey through Dublin City. As you're driving along you get to see different bridges (including the famous Ha'penny Bridge), the little sandwich shops and markets and, of course, the pubs. I got a sudden and unexpected urge to take the same walk that Bloom took on June 16th of 1904 -- I wonder if this doesn't happen to everyone who reads Ulysses? I'll bet you it does; I'll get around to it when I get to Dublin.
Insert chilly three-hour train ride here.
Needless to say, pulling in to Ballina, County Mayo to find my entire family (plus my brother's Rugby Buddy Tim) standing on the platform waiting for me was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Pat took my picture -- twice -- through the foggy window of the train car. The day was indeed somewhat cold and grey but spirits and voices were high as we trooped back to the car, stopping for a family photo in front of the 'Ballina' station sign. I'd forgotten what an exhilerating and terrifying experience it is to be driven on the wrong side of the road. All my father's precious cargo (i.e., his family) in the car and him at the wheel surely didnt help, either. Not least because we continued to jabber as he drove. The roads in North-Western Mayo are fairly narrow. Road markings and signage are optional and courtesy in granting right-of-way is heavily relied upon.
The towns hadn't changed much since I'd been here for the first time in 2003 -- the same small cottages made with thick plaster whitewashed walls, square-ish, symmetrical windows and little walls around gardens and carparks. The roads have become a little smoother, more paved and more cleaned up, but this seemed pretty new. Polish work crews (Poles represent a sort of migrant worker community here and across Europe) were still putting the pipelines in down by Lacken Strand where we're staying for the city water.
The gardens are sparse but the actual flora is intriguing -- palm trees and giant elephant-ears plants, side by side with furze bushes and pines. I had no idea rhododendron and fuschia (fuschia shrubs or trees, no less) were native to Ireland. The fuschias are just gorgeous, though their blooming season is passing. The blossoms are narrower and less plump than our potted fuschias, but their color is even richer and deeper and their stamen hang down quite a ways, making them look like tiny, brilliantly colored Art Deco chandeliers. The rhododendron had already bloomed, but I'm promising myself that one day I'll be back to see them flowering on the road to Belderrig [insert proper traditional Irish homecoming tune here].
My whole family is staying in two little cottages by Lacken Pier -- right up the hill from the somewhat deserted boat-launch itslef. From our kitchen window you can see wee Lacken Bay with its huge golden strand. The beach disappears almost entirely with every high tide. The locals hunt for sand eels as bait; some fishemen still launch their boats from the pier here. Limpets (??) and periwinkles cover the mostly sandstone rock-beach by the pier. The other side of the pier shows those shelf-like layers of basalt that the coast of Ireland is so famous for; the hardest stone, black and perfect, stacked in blocks under the bog land. By the waterline it's covered in purply-red delisk seaweed and bright green seamoss. Slick brown algae is invisible against the stone and you only know its there when you begin to skid toward the edge of the rock shelf. On our second evening walk, Pat and I found out what I firmly believe to be a prehistoric, petrified tree stupm. Growing right in the middle of layers of baslat, approximately 5 1/2 feet high, the whole thing in diameter might be seven or eight feet. It's a light brown, almost pinkish color, and the veiny, cell-like form looks like nothing so much as live wod when the living matter has rotted out f its tiny capillaries leaving only the shells behind. Its 'roots' grow and gnarl down through the basalt, and it juts out of the face of the minicliff as though thousands of years of surf-beating had finally revealed it.
Pat and I got stuck on this stroll; I made him walk through four or five sodden cowfields rather than taking the easy (albeit less-accessible, due to the incoming tide) way back. We got soaked. But it's good for his character.
I don't know the history of our little cottage and oddly enough no one seems to care. We pretend to play Gaelic football-catch in the front yard and my siblings drink and play cards in the evenings. I've spent most of my time around them speechless with laughter. Being the oldest means that everyone else has to entertain you...you're never the funny one. I haven't been able to join in the revelry because of projects I've got to finish for school, which necessitates my staying up late and pining for the internet. As might be obvious, the closest internet is in Ballina, 18 km away from the cottage. That is why I hadn't blogged earlier; sorry.
Lacken Pier cottage is amazing. Its tiny couches are hardly big enough for mine and my father's sprawling largeness and are small enough to be doll couches, but big enough to fit our family in her tiny old-agedness. This woman makes amazing, absolutely kick-ass hand-knit Irish sweaters. I have one and I'm getting another. You will never need anything else for a cold winter than one of Molly's sweaters. If you want one, we can probably hook you up. If you live in Massachusetts, it will really come in handy.
The cottage is so quiet, and the roads are so infrequently used that the only thing you can hear are the wind and the waves. The farmer down the lane drives (literally: in his old Volkswagen) his dairy cattle from the fields below our house up to his milking barn twice a day, and the sheep get noisy on occasion., We have a tiny, 6 inch TV that no one's tunred on, and today was the first time I'd used the radio. We have to pay for the electricity here -- we don't use much and boy is it cold. I've allowed myself to be delightfully creeped out by the foreignness of the house in the dark, thinking of previous owners and their spirits and just the personalities of a sea and a land that I don't know well at all. I can imagine myself here, clearing my head in the quiet, breathing the cold ocean air.
I can also imagine myself going insane without sushi after a whole week, and moving to Dublin immediately. Or at least to Galway.
Later: Revisiting the homestead. This time with more detail.
11.04.2003
Returned from the wilds of western Ireland (which is only about 3 hours from eastern Ireland, so we're not talking major travels here) and am now sitting safely ensconced in Seamus and Orla's Dublin apt. desperately trying to book tickets from Amsterdam to Paris and from Paris to London. Everyone is more than welcome to make fun of me for being completely disorganized and scatterbrained about making travel plans --- oh, but wait....I'm here, and you're over there. So nyah.
Please take a moment to think about the burning question posed on the MSN site for this afternoon: OK to freeze bananas? A question which may never be answered....dear god, can I possibly put this simple plantain into my Kenmore without incurring the wrath of evil forces uknown....How much more inane will society get before we all commit mass suicide??????
Sorry. I'm totally tangenting because the world will not let me book my tickets. I have money, can't you do anything with money?? Surely....
Anyway, on Saturday morning (having seen nothing more of Dublin's attractions than the inside of a couple pubs and the Writers Museum which is a cool little trip but only does you for about 1/2 an hour) Dad and I booked it for Mayo, which is, in case you're not aware, where at least one quarter of the ye olde McAteer family is from. Dad drives like a maniac on these roads. If I'd driven anywhere like what he did, he'd be hoarse from yelling at me the whole time. I can't say anything, I'm just the daughter, but it's my opinion that when you are less than a foot away from the embankment and all kinds of stone walls and road signs, you don't go 70 miles an hour and pass people on blind curves. God forbid anyone think us Americans should we be driving too slow or not overtaking 5 cars in one pass. Any of my friends who are afraid to drive with me, let me just tell you that I'm a grandmother behind the wheel compared to this action. Regardless, we made it to Ballina (which dad insists on pronouncing Ballin-I even after all the locals pronounce it Ballin-Ah). Ballina's about the 2nd biggest town in Mayo and has a couple hotels and b n bs, apparently Mayo has gone upscale since dad was last there, It's a cute little place but the town itself is maybe the size of Shepherdstown, definitely smaller than Charlestown, and if this is 2nd largest town then blimey, small towns in the US have nothng on this country.
By the way, they have the scariest most depressing recycling commercials here, I guess pollution is really a problem. Their anti-smoking commercials are pretty bad, too, they do the whole "these are the lungs of a 38 year old smoker" ones. It's enough to put you off your lunch. We could never run them in the states--someone would find them un-PC and there'd be lawsuits galore. But they're effective. AND Ireland will have a country wide ban on smoking in pubs and restaurants starting the 26th of Jan. of next year. And boy, I do NOT know what they're gonna do, because EVERYONE smokes. I mean everyone. Infants smoke. Dogs smoke. It's insane. The tobacco companies are scrambling to readjust the legislature but it's not going to fly, they'll never manage. Then all that'll happen is that people will simply stand outside the bars, and only go in to buy their pints. And in places like Belderrig (oh, just wait til you hear about Belderrig) the ban will be quietly ignored until about 5 yrs down the road when the town actually gets it's own Garda station (Garda are police) and will have to start enforcing it.
Anyway, we stay in Ballina for the night, after having driven into Ballycastle, 2nd smallest and most dead place in Mayo, to try the Stella Maris hotel. The Stella Maris is this amazingly beautiful hotel set on a sheltered cove off of Killala Bay. It's right out of some 19th c. Gothic novel, the hills rising behind it and the wind whipping right off, and i mean RIGHT off the cove in front of it, no joke, you could walk out the door and fall into the ocean. Unfortnately, the Stella Maris was closed til April (i'm coming back, tho. I should see if they need summer help---ohhhh, that's an excellent idea!). So we stayed at the Ridgepoole in Ballina, which was actually a Best Western in disguise and consequently upset dad's digestion although if he would stop eating so much pasta in marinara sauce he might let the acid level in his stomach drop and then he' d quit bitching about his tummyache all the time.
Our trip into Ballycastle both established the sheer emptiness of the town and the sheer nastiness of the weather (North Atlantic winter rain weather, absolutely miserable) and also helped us to find an old family acquaintance of dad's--Cauleen Caulfield Barrett. She's about dad's age, a little older, and is the daughter of a man dad and grandma met when they'd come up the first time to visit Mayo. Paddy Caufield was an archaeologist who lived in Belderrig and was familiar with some of our family history, helping my father to retrace his roots to where they'd originally lived (in Belderrig). Paddy's long since died, God rest him, but Cauleen was able to give us some pointers about where we might go and suggested that going to Mass in Belderrig would be a good idea, "since that's where the ancestars are." I wouldn't say that anyone was jumping out of their seats to welcome us, but it was a reserved and dignified kind of transaction, Dad and I trying to explain who we were and what we were looking for, and Cauleen and her husband sitting silently and listening, then coming up with a breif and concise answer. So needless to say, we took Cauleen's advice and went flying down the road the next morning to St. Theresa's in Belderrig.
Belderrig is no bigger than a postage stamp. You want a wide space in the road you got it. There is a church and a pub. And that's all. There are a couple B&Bs in what dad jestingly refers to as "greater Belderrig" meaning the outskirts towards the shoreline, but I have never seen a smaller town in my life. Even Leetown, WVa has a legit post office. So we were late for mass, just like our ancestors probably were, I think it's a genetic failing. And we crept in the back door with one other woman who was also late for mass and who gave me the evil eye when I accidentally shut the door on her going in. I was rewarded for my failure to wait by the fact that the door would then not close, no matter what i did, so I let it hang open and one of the men who sit in the back of the church, all the old farmer type guys who go to mass out of a healthy respect and superstition that should they not go, life might get even worse than it already is, walked over and shut it with a simple twist of the knob. I think I would make a really terrible diplomat. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining and the clouds that blew over head would sprinkle with only the tiniest of showers at times. Belderrig is chipped into the hillside, as there's no valley in the area, and all around are these huge barren hills with nothing at all on them. I've never wanted to hike up something in my whole life but these hills were calling me in the strangest way. It's as if you could see the rest of the world just standing on top of them---I've seen taller mountains and lusher hills than these but they were amazing.
So after mass--during which every single person in that church got a good stare in by they time we returned to the foyer after communion---dad was the only man wearing a suit in the whole place and boy, did we look ridiculous--we emptied out with everyone else and stood around in the lot waiting for the priest to come out (he never did). But there was a crowd that sort of lingered and dad and I were near a group of 3 older gentlemen who were apparently communing silently. I was not at all prepared to jump into the fray with any kind of ice breaker like, so, how bout we lost to Australia yesterday? Bummer, huh? or dad's favorite "So what do you think of the Euro?" That one's a real winner, let me tell you. Eventually dad drifted back to them and mentioned that we were originally from the town and that we'd been looking to research our roots. The men didn't really say anything. Dad takes the opportunity to introduce me. And then the ball gets rolling--slowly, to be sure, but it's going. We mention the Caulfields and the Carelans and make a few connections (but as one of the gentlemen point out, there are too many Flannerys out and about these days to really know when you're dealing with family) shake hands again and move on to the pub. Dad wanted his cup of tea.
So i'm thinking that the pub, at 11.30 am, will be kind of like the parish center, scones and tea and coffee and some hard rolls and a bit of jam and butter around. No. A pub is a pub is a pub. I never in my life would have believed it, I'd have thought it one of those exaggerations that some people make up when they've travelled, but honest to god we walked into the pub and every man jack of them was having a pint. The ladies had half pints. Not quite Guinness, no, but Carlsberg or what have you. I lost it (laughing on the inside, of course). No other place, probably not many left in Ireland as it is, would you walk in immediately after church and see half the congregation getting a start on their drinking. Once dad realized that tea would take a little longer (like, never) to get to us, he went up and switched the order to a couple pints. We sat in the corner and were just kind of dumbfounded. I didn't know what to say, or who I would have said it to.
We finish our pints and dad wants to go explore a bit--can't say that I blame him, like i said, i was ready to walk for miles, just to see what could be seen. We drove up towards my favorite of the hills, a knobby looking thing that looked as though it might have a promising sheer drop on one side if you could just get up there. These were the peat bogs,up on the mountain, and there were bags and bags of peat ready to be taken down and sold. There were little clear streams on either side of the gravel road and the rain swooped through and around once in a while. No treees, not much vegetation, just the water and the peat and our little Citroen. And..................
.................RAINBOWS. There are rainbows ALL THE TIME. You know how you'll see a rainbow maybe once a year if you're lucky? I'm not much of one for spiritualism or hokey holisitic ideas but this place must have been blessed by God. At no time was there not a rainbow, or a half of one or just a fragment, if not the full bow or a double bow, shining in the sky. It's the most beautiful place on earth. I didn't get a picutre of it but I will remember for the rest of my life, the best image ever which was to see the bay on one side, where the rainbow began, and the hills on the other where it ended, with the tiny town and its church and its pub and its taciturn and hardscrabble locals right in the middle. If everything else on this trip goes wrong, if I end up stranded in the Dam working the shopwindows in the Red Light District, or huddled under the bridges over the Seine in Paris, or even living in the tube tunnels in London, I will have the picture of Belderrig with the rainbows and that will make everything worthwhile.
Please take a moment to think about the burning question posed on the MSN site for this afternoon: OK to freeze bananas? A question which may never be answered....dear god, can I possibly put this simple plantain into my Kenmore without incurring the wrath of evil forces uknown....How much more inane will society get before we all commit mass suicide??????
Sorry. I'm totally tangenting because the world will not let me book my tickets. I have money, can't you do anything with money?? Surely....
Anyway, on Saturday morning (having seen nothing more of Dublin's attractions than the inside of a couple pubs and the Writers Museum which is a cool little trip but only does you for about 1/2 an hour) Dad and I booked it for Mayo, which is, in case you're not aware, where at least one quarter of the ye olde McAteer family is from. Dad drives like a maniac on these roads. If I'd driven anywhere like what he did, he'd be hoarse from yelling at me the whole time. I can't say anything, I'm just the daughter, but it's my opinion that when you are less than a foot away from the embankment and all kinds of stone walls and road signs, you don't go 70 miles an hour and pass people on blind curves. God forbid anyone think us Americans should we be driving too slow or not overtaking 5 cars in one pass. Any of my friends who are afraid to drive with me, let me just tell you that I'm a grandmother behind the wheel compared to this action. Regardless, we made it to Ballina (which dad insists on pronouncing Ballin-I even after all the locals pronounce it Ballin-Ah). Ballina's about the 2nd biggest town in Mayo and has a couple hotels and b n bs, apparently Mayo has gone upscale since dad was last there, It's a cute little place but the town itself is maybe the size of Shepherdstown, definitely smaller than Charlestown, and if this is 2nd largest town then blimey, small towns in the US have nothng on this country.
By the way, they have the scariest most depressing recycling commercials here, I guess pollution is really a problem. Their anti-smoking commercials are pretty bad, too, they do the whole "these are the lungs of a 38 year old smoker" ones. It's enough to put you off your lunch. We could never run them in the states--someone would find them un-PC and there'd be lawsuits galore. But they're effective. AND Ireland will have a country wide ban on smoking in pubs and restaurants starting the 26th of Jan. of next year. And boy, I do NOT know what they're gonna do, because EVERYONE smokes. I mean everyone. Infants smoke. Dogs smoke. It's insane. The tobacco companies are scrambling to readjust the legislature but it's not going to fly, they'll never manage. Then all that'll happen is that people will simply stand outside the bars, and only go in to buy their pints. And in places like Belderrig (oh, just wait til you hear about Belderrig) the ban will be quietly ignored until about 5 yrs down the road when the town actually gets it's own Garda station (Garda are police) and will have to start enforcing it.
Anyway, we stay in Ballina for the night, after having driven into Ballycastle, 2nd smallest and most dead place in Mayo, to try the Stella Maris hotel. The Stella Maris is this amazingly beautiful hotel set on a sheltered cove off of Killala Bay. It's right out of some 19th c. Gothic novel, the hills rising behind it and the wind whipping right off, and i mean RIGHT off the cove in front of it, no joke, you could walk out the door and fall into the ocean. Unfortnately, the Stella Maris was closed til April (i'm coming back, tho. I should see if they need summer help---ohhhh, that's an excellent idea!). So we stayed at the Ridgepoole in Ballina, which was actually a Best Western in disguise and consequently upset dad's digestion although if he would stop eating so much pasta in marinara sauce he might let the acid level in his stomach drop and then he' d quit bitching about his tummyache all the time.
Our trip into Ballycastle both established the sheer emptiness of the town and the sheer nastiness of the weather (North Atlantic winter rain weather, absolutely miserable) and also helped us to find an old family acquaintance of dad's--Cauleen Caulfield Barrett. She's about dad's age, a little older, and is the daughter of a man dad and grandma met when they'd come up the first time to visit Mayo. Paddy Caufield was an archaeologist who lived in Belderrig and was familiar with some of our family history, helping my father to retrace his roots to where they'd originally lived (in Belderrig). Paddy's long since died, God rest him, but Cauleen was able to give us some pointers about where we might go and suggested that going to Mass in Belderrig would be a good idea, "since that's where the ancestars are." I wouldn't say that anyone was jumping out of their seats to welcome us, but it was a reserved and dignified kind of transaction, Dad and I trying to explain who we were and what we were looking for, and Cauleen and her husband sitting silently and listening, then coming up with a breif and concise answer. So needless to say, we took Cauleen's advice and went flying down the road the next morning to St. Theresa's in Belderrig.
Belderrig is no bigger than a postage stamp. You want a wide space in the road you got it. There is a church and a pub. And that's all. There are a couple B&Bs in what dad jestingly refers to as "greater Belderrig" meaning the outskirts towards the shoreline, but I have never seen a smaller town in my life. Even Leetown, WVa has a legit post office. So we were late for mass, just like our ancestors probably were, I think it's a genetic failing. And we crept in the back door with one other woman who was also late for mass and who gave me the evil eye when I accidentally shut the door on her going in. I was rewarded for my failure to wait by the fact that the door would then not close, no matter what i did, so I let it hang open and one of the men who sit in the back of the church, all the old farmer type guys who go to mass out of a healthy respect and superstition that should they not go, life might get even worse than it already is, walked over and shut it with a simple twist of the knob. I think I would make a really terrible diplomat. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining and the clouds that blew over head would sprinkle with only the tiniest of showers at times. Belderrig is chipped into the hillside, as there's no valley in the area, and all around are these huge barren hills with nothing at all on them. I've never wanted to hike up something in my whole life but these hills were calling me in the strangest way. It's as if you could see the rest of the world just standing on top of them---I've seen taller mountains and lusher hills than these but they were amazing.
So after mass--during which every single person in that church got a good stare in by they time we returned to the foyer after communion---dad was the only man wearing a suit in the whole place and boy, did we look ridiculous--we emptied out with everyone else and stood around in the lot waiting for the priest to come out (he never did). But there was a crowd that sort of lingered and dad and I were near a group of 3 older gentlemen who were apparently communing silently. I was not at all prepared to jump into the fray with any kind of ice breaker like, so, how bout we lost to Australia yesterday? Bummer, huh? or dad's favorite "So what do you think of the Euro?" That one's a real winner, let me tell you. Eventually dad drifted back to them and mentioned that we were originally from the town and that we'd been looking to research our roots. The men didn't really say anything. Dad takes the opportunity to introduce me. And then the ball gets rolling--slowly, to be sure, but it's going. We mention the Caulfields and the Carelans and make a few connections (but as one of the gentlemen point out, there are too many Flannerys out and about these days to really know when you're dealing with family) shake hands again and move on to the pub. Dad wanted his cup of tea.
So i'm thinking that the pub, at 11.30 am, will be kind of like the parish center, scones and tea and coffee and some hard rolls and a bit of jam and butter around. No. A pub is a pub is a pub. I never in my life would have believed it, I'd have thought it one of those exaggerations that some people make up when they've travelled, but honest to god we walked into the pub and every man jack of them was having a pint. The ladies had half pints. Not quite Guinness, no, but Carlsberg or what have you. I lost it (laughing on the inside, of course). No other place, probably not many left in Ireland as it is, would you walk in immediately after church and see half the congregation getting a start on their drinking. Once dad realized that tea would take a little longer (like, never) to get to us, he went up and switched the order to a couple pints. We sat in the corner and were just kind of dumbfounded. I didn't know what to say, or who I would have said it to.
We finish our pints and dad wants to go explore a bit--can't say that I blame him, like i said, i was ready to walk for miles, just to see what could be seen. We drove up towards my favorite of the hills, a knobby looking thing that looked as though it might have a promising sheer drop on one side if you could just get up there. These were the peat bogs,up on the mountain, and there were bags and bags of peat ready to be taken down and sold. There were little clear streams on either side of the gravel road and the rain swooped through and around once in a while. No treees, not much vegetation, just the water and the peat and our little Citroen. And..................
.................RAINBOWS. There are rainbows ALL THE TIME. You know how you'll see a rainbow maybe once a year if you're lucky? I'm not much of one for spiritualism or hokey holisitic ideas but this place must have been blessed by God. At no time was there not a rainbow, or a half of one or just a fragment, if not the full bow or a double bow, shining in the sky. It's the most beautiful place on earth. I didn't get a picutre of it but I will remember for the rest of my life, the best image ever which was to see the bay on one side, where the rainbow began, and the hills on the other where it ended, with the tiny town and its church and its pub and its taciturn and hardscrabble locals right in the middle. If everything else on this trip goes wrong, if I end up stranded in the Dam working the shopwindows in the Red Light District, or huddled under the bridges over the Seine in Paris, or even living in the tube tunnels in London, I will have the picture of Belderrig with the rainbows and that will make everything worthwhile.
10.31.2003
Climbing out of Hangover Hell (c'mon, it's Dublin, right?) and feeling slightly guilty about deleting all of my MoveOn emails but I figure, if I'm not in the country, there's not much I can do about it. I know at least 5 of you will get on me about the inherent flaws in that argument but shit, people, let me rest.
So it's friday and presumably the rugby game--Ireland vs. Australia--is on and it should be pretty good. However, I only started forming coherent sentences about 15 minutes ago, so let's not rush into anything, okay? And I just passed, coming down the street, a guy who looked almost exactly like John Whitehead except sans beard and a little shorter. It was wild, I tried not to stare, but couldn't help myself. I had flashbacks to that picture of John and his friends, Abbey Road style, from his office.
Anyway, the rundown--and by the way i might not have mentioned but my dad is here with me and it's awesome cause he's paying for a real hotel room but he IS still my dad with me in Europe and this was supposed to be straight up debauchery for 7 days. Although after last night, diluted debauchery might be more to the purpose.
Kids, I can't believe I'm in Ireland. I'm in Dublin. This is great, this is crazy. Dad and I have been planning to leave Seamus in the capable if neurotic hands of his mother in law for a couple days and run up to Mayo where at least one fourth of my family is from. We were walking down the street and Dad's looking around at people and mutters to me: "the thing is, we look like we're related to everyone here..." and he's absolutely right. My beloved Lydia would break out in hives at the pure IRISHNESS of it all. It is a little cloying after a while. Still, this city is just fun. As Megan was saying last night, it's a major city with a lot of diversity and all the amenities, but you still always run into someone you know when you go out. It's got that small town kind of feeling. And they're so chatty, too. They'll talk to you about anything and everything, but everyone's mostly been singing Clinton's praises once they find out we're 'Yanks' which is one I love (another good one is saying "on the piss" which means completely wasted when you're out for the evening). So that of course is right up dad's alley and he tries whenever possible to make the off hand remark of "oh, yeah, well, I worked for Clinton" "oh you did then!" "Yes, I'm in mining" "He was a lovely president..." "Yes, yes he was."
Back to me.
It's actually been fun having dad here with me. He was unexpectedly cool last night, leaving me at the bar with 2 other Yanks--Brian and Megan--Brian's a friend of Seamus's and Megan's a friend of Brians...but we had a riotously good time and I had way too many pints. One does not drink 7 Guiness in a sitting without paying a very great and unhappy price. Everything was a glorious haze last night, laughing, singing along to Dolly Parton and Kenny Loggins (yes, they played the Gambler. Yes, it was hysterical). I went up to ask if they had any John Denver, I really was going to request Country Roads, but no luck. So it was a golden time, Megan and I got along smashingly and Brian's all up for offering his cousin's house once dad ditches me on Tues. which would be superior if that works out. But I knew that this morning was going to be ugly. Sure enough, dad's up at 7.45 to go help move Seamus from the hospital (which hasn't happened yet, 4 hours later), and in an unexpected burst of kindness tells me he doesn't think i need to be up yet and just to wait until they're on their way back. Regardless, the sleeping dog had been shaken, and I responded to him in monosyllables until I heard the door snick shut behind him. Like a bolt of lighting (I've never moved so fast, I think) I was up and praying to that Celtic god of porcelin. A lot. Then I got up, staggered around the room for a while, went back to sleep, got back up, prayed some more, desperately tried to shower, and remained completely useless until Orla (Seamus's wife) called and told me that Sea. wouldn't be leaving for a couple hours yet. I tell her to hold on and dart for the bathroom once more. I come back and she tells me to feel better (with her husband in the hospital, she tells ME to feel better. What a lousy bastard I am). I will never hear the end of this from Seamus. I feel certain that had he been there, he would have plied me with more Guiness than I'd had anyway, not to mention probably more shots than just the solitary, not-quite-right lemon drop I made everyone do. Seamus is the devil, he is.
i should get back and try to see if everything's tip top yet. I'm scheduled to see the book of Kells this afternoon, and the gaol, and Dublin castle....and then i got invited out again. Only now am I beginning to think that's a possibility. I doubt it, though.
So it's friday and presumably the rugby game--Ireland vs. Australia--is on and it should be pretty good. However, I only started forming coherent sentences about 15 minutes ago, so let's not rush into anything, okay? And I just passed, coming down the street, a guy who looked almost exactly like John Whitehead except sans beard and a little shorter. It was wild, I tried not to stare, but couldn't help myself. I had flashbacks to that picture of John and his friends, Abbey Road style, from his office.
Anyway, the rundown--and by the way i might not have mentioned but my dad is here with me and it's awesome cause he's paying for a real hotel room but he IS still my dad with me in Europe and this was supposed to be straight up debauchery for 7 days. Although after last night, diluted debauchery might be more to the purpose.
Kids, I can't believe I'm in Ireland. I'm in Dublin. This is great, this is crazy. Dad and I have been planning to leave Seamus in the capable if neurotic hands of his mother in law for a couple days and run up to Mayo where at least one fourth of my family is from. We were walking down the street and Dad's looking around at people and mutters to me: "the thing is, we look like we're related to everyone here..." and he's absolutely right. My beloved Lydia would break out in hives at the pure IRISHNESS of it all. It is a little cloying after a while. Still, this city is just fun. As Megan was saying last night, it's a major city with a lot of diversity and all the amenities, but you still always run into someone you know when you go out. It's got that small town kind of feeling. And they're so chatty, too. They'll talk to you about anything and everything, but everyone's mostly been singing Clinton's praises once they find out we're 'Yanks' which is one I love (another good one is saying "on the piss" which means completely wasted when you're out for the evening). So that of course is right up dad's alley and he tries whenever possible to make the off hand remark of "oh, yeah, well, I worked for Clinton" "oh you did then!" "Yes, I'm in mining" "He was a lovely president..." "Yes, yes he was."
Back to me.
It's actually been fun having dad here with me. He was unexpectedly cool last night, leaving me at the bar with 2 other Yanks--Brian and Megan--Brian's a friend of Seamus's and Megan's a friend of Brians...but we had a riotously good time and I had way too many pints. One does not drink 7 Guiness in a sitting without paying a very great and unhappy price. Everything was a glorious haze last night, laughing, singing along to Dolly Parton and Kenny Loggins (yes, they played the Gambler. Yes, it was hysterical). I went up to ask if they had any John Denver, I really was going to request Country Roads, but no luck. So it was a golden time, Megan and I got along smashingly and Brian's all up for offering his cousin's house once dad ditches me on Tues. which would be superior if that works out. But I knew that this morning was going to be ugly. Sure enough, dad's up at 7.45 to go help move Seamus from the hospital (which hasn't happened yet, 4 hours later), and in an unexpected burst of kindness tells me he doesn't think i need to be up yet and just to wait until they're on their way back. Regardless, the sleeping dog had been shaken, and I responded to him in monosyllables until I heard the door snick shut behind him. Like a bolt of lighting (I've never moved so fast, I think) I was up and praying to that Celtic god of porcelin. A lot. Then I got up, staggered around the room for a while, went back to sleep, got back up, prayed some more, desperately tried to shower, and remained completely useless until Orla (Seamus's wife) called and told me that Sea. wouldn't be leaving for a couple hours yet. I tell her to hold on and dart for the bathroom once more. I come back and she tells me to feel better (with her husband in the hospital, she tells ME to feel better. What a lousy bastard I am). I will never hear the end of this from Seamus. I feel certain that had he been there, he would have plied me with more Guiness than I'd had anyway, not to mention probably more shots than just the solitary, not-quite-right lemon drop I made everyone do. Seamus is the devil, he is.
i should get back and try to see if everything's tip top yet. I'm scheduled to see the book of Kells this afternoon, and the gaol, and Dublin castle....and then i got invited out again. Only now am I beginning to think that's a possibility. I doubt it, though.
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