A Little Trip

Different places tend to have different effects on individuals. It is always interesting to visit a place that you have been to before and experience it with someone new. For the past twelve days I have been an Irish tour guide for my friend Willie. I grew up with Willie and we have stayed close friends through my college years. He had always wanted to come and visit Ireland and when I said that I was moving here he jumped on the opportunity of a visit. It has been nice to have someone to travel with. I have for the first time realized just how much I have learned while here about the country, how things work, how to get around, and just where to go for the best food, drink and music.

            We started off in Dublin, both of us flying in from various destinations on the same weekend. The morning of his arrival I was late to the airport and franticly tried to find out what terminal his flight was coming into. After discovering that his flight had been delayed and I was in fact early I headed to find a nice cup of tea to fuel up on caffeine and sugar and waited for his flight to land. I sat down in what I thought was terminal one where he would be arriving and I waited and waited and waited. Even after the flight had said it had landed I just figured that customs must be taking forever and I would still be the good friend who was waiting right outside of the sliding doors past the duty free perfume counters. By this time I was starving, my tea was long gone and my kindle was about to die. Being a bit exhausted from sleeping in a hostel the night before and having my sleep interrupted by numerous loud German girls, I was to out of it to realized that it was probably taking way longer than normal for Willie to arrive through those frosted sliding doors out into the real world.  I even had what I was going to say all though out for when I first saw him. All of a sudden I am yanked from my frilly romance novel back into the real world by a tall red head coming up behind me and saying in true American style, “Howdy Stranger!!” I nearly jumped out of my skin and my next though was how the hell did I miss him coming through the magic doors?! His next line after a bone crushing hug was, “You know you are in the wrong terminal.” I counted it by pointing at a sign and saying, “No Willie, this is Terminal One, see the sign up there.” Unfortunately the words died on my lips when I noticed the large arrow pointing to the right…

We stayed in Dublin for a few days taking the city bus tour which I had never done, hopping of at both the Guinness Store House and the Jameson Whiskey Distillery where Willie became a certified Whiskey taster and I nearly threw up after smelling the stuff. The bus tour was great because I learned that I knew almost as much as the bus drivers about the city, I just didn’t pair my information with all of the corny bad jokes.

After we had had enough of the big city we went down to Kilkenny where I am currently living. We caught the championship game of Hurling which is a sport that is a cross between field hockey and Lacrosse played with a baseball. Hurling is Kilkenny’s pride and joy so the whole town was decked out in yellow and black. Flags covered houses, cars and the whole downtown.  Thousands of people turned up the day after the match to party all week in our town after our win!!  After a few days of celebration and laundry, Willie and I headed down on a bus to Cork. We picked up our little SUV and headed out the next morning.

            The next few days were full of driving narrow country roads, listening to Galway Girl and Whiskey in a Jar on our handy Irish CD’s picked up after kissing the famous Stone at Blarney.  We then drove into Killarney and decided that we would have enough time to do the Ring of Kerry that day.  The Ring of Kerry is one of three scenic loops that are well known in Ireland. It is probably the most famous and the most traveled by tourists. It is full of beautiful scenic views of the coast and riddled with cute colorful Irish tourist towns.

I believe that there are places that you can go where the sheer physical beauty can actually affect you physically. For me my head starts to rush like there is a small twister inside of it and my feet tingle and pins and needles go up my legs. I don’t get this feeling much but when I do I know that wherever I am is not only usually a breathtaking spot but I feel connected to it. I remember feeling this way on the Isle of Skye in Scotland after I climbed through the heather to a crumbling castle on the ocean. Here in Ireland I have felt this numerous times faintly in places like the Cliffs of Moher, Croagh Patrick, and the Wicklow Mountains but I have never felt it as strongly as I did in the Killarney National Park. I stood at the top of a ridge and looked out over a beautiful lake in a lush valley surrounded by mountains. This was the Ireland I had come to find, the lush green, the mountains, the wild flowers, creeks, waterfalls, hills of heather and misty woods. As the beauty of this spot washed over me I knew that this is why the Irish still believe that fairy’s still exist in these hills, why would they leave? Why would anyone or anything?

After a long day driving we relaxed over a few glasses of wine and some excellent pasta at Salvador’s Italian Restaurant in Killarney and then headed out to a few local pubs for some traditional music. Our agenda the next day was the Dingle peninsula where we wanted to get some good mussels and local Sea food. We achieved that goal, saw some more breath taking views and were gifted with the sun popping out to reveal the mountains just in time to take a few pics before the famous Irish mist would swallow the mountains again as if they were never really there at all. 

            We then made our way up to Doolin, took in the cliffs of Moher and the Doolin coast line with its dolfins and the Aran Islands in the distance. Next was Galway with its traditional music and pub crawls! Then we spent a day at Kylemore Abby that lays through the Conamara national Park. The park is full of desolate mountains, windy fields dotted with sheep who roam freely across this barren but beautiful landscape. The Abby was once owned by a very wealthy family but then the family went into ruin after the property was gambled away. Now it is an Abby run by nuns and a girls school. It has beautiful grounds with a large lake and amazing vegetable and flower gardens.

            Since I have been in Ireland I have found a new appreciation for gardens. England and Ireland have some of the most beautiful gardens in the world and it has been amazing to be able to experience some of them. I never appreciated all that went into gardening even though I grew up with a beautiful garden and I am not naïve about how much work they are but here they are on a bit of a different scale then my mothers wonderful veggie and flower gardens. They always seem to have something in bloom, which is nearly impossible with the weather here. They incorporate different designs, textures and themes. I have never been so excited as I am now when I go into a garden and can identify the different plants and be able to tell people about why there are calendulas planted in with the cabbages or why a whole bed of comfrey is growing.

Next was Sligo which is a beautiful town surrounded by the foot hills. It was a dreary day so we took it easy spending a long afternoon at a pub watching a local soccer match. Then up to Northern Ireland to Derry, and over to Belfast. The north is different from the rest of Ireland. The history is rich, full and raw. Emotions still run high in Derry about the events of Bloody Sunday and the Bogside riots, battles and conflicts. It was fascinating to learn about the Civil Rights movement in Derry, I had known nothing about it really and had mistook what had been going on as just a religious conflict like much of the world believes. In the seventies there was a big push for civil and equal rights within the catholic and protestant communities which created quite a stir of emotions in Northern Ireland especially in Derry. The British ended up bringing in troops to keep the peace which seemed to escalate the situation in places like Derry and Belfast. Today although their has been a disarmament of the notorious terrorist group, the IRA tension in some places still runs high.

 In Belfast we went on the famous black cab tour and got some more insight about the recent conflicts and the divide in the country. We had a fabulous tour guide who took us through the Catholic and Protestant areas of the city and explained what life was like to live in Belfast during the rougher times and how it is different now. It seems that things have changed dramatically but there is still a great divide between loyalists and republicans. In Protestant neighborhoods there were murals of their “fallen soldiers” and in Catholic neighborhoods there were memorials for IRA members who had died on active duty.  It was fascinating to hear about how life was like growing up in a place where if you heard a car coming up behind you and slowing down your automatic reaction would be to look and see if the back window was rolled down and a gun was pointed at you so you could hit the deck. I can hardly imagine what it was like being a kid and living in that kind of environment. Northern Irelands history is fascinating and shocking.  This is not a conflict that happened years and years ago, civil rights is still an issue in these places and gang violence and political agendas have taken hold of the situation today that is still raw and very recent for its citizens.

We finished up our tour in Dublin with a fun night out in Temple Bar a section of the city that is full of pubs with all kinds of music. We went to three different pubs, all had live music and all was of a different genre. We danced, made friends and reminisced about our favorite parts of our trip. The next morning I got up went to the market and got my groceries for the week hugged and kissed Willie goodbye and hoped in a cab to the bus station. At the station I had to run to the bus put my stuff on it and then have the driver yell at me that he didn’t have change for my fifty so I then had to run back inside where I cut everyone off in line, courtesy of a nice Irish lady, bought my ticket and ran back to my bus where the driver rewarded my apology with a scowl. Two and a half hours later I was at Number 5 Nuncio Road, my new home at last.

Clean Exits and Colts

Hostels tend to bring in some strange characters. It always tends to make the days full of interesting conversations some you are intrigued by but some you are trying to duck out of as soon as an opening arises. The worst are forced conversations from people that are all in the same area at the same time but have nothing in common. Usually you can find something to talk about because you are all traveling, searching for something, maybe yourself, your roots, or just trying to have a new and exciting experience. This usually means that hostels are filled with young travelers who are hitch hiking, biking, or taking public transport from town to town and country to country. Occasionally you get the odd traveler that doesn’t fit this bill. This can usually be defined by an older couple, a family or a single traveler who is in their late thirties or forties who is generally socially awkward.

Older couples, meaning late fifties, (mom and dad you are not there yet don’t worry) seem to come in with tours, they didn’t necessarily read the fine print on Orbits about their accommodation but now that they are on the tour they tough it out because they don’t want to seem like a lame Grandma and Grandpa to their group. The wife is furious with her husband for being a cheap bastard and signing them up for this trip that is meant for teenagers who want to get drunk. She is to proud when she gets back home to tell her friends that she had a horrid time and she had to share a shower with filthy hitchhikers. Her husband is loving it because he is surrounded by young ladies who wear skimpy cloths and he has an excuse to go to a pub every night, just like he is back in College. This will be his last hurrah because he know as soon as he gets back to the States he is on lock down and my be permanently on the couch so he is living it up, getting tipsy and dancing with the young girls who think of him as a creepy uncle.  

Families in hostels are a bit odd, usually they are doing something like biking all over the country as a family. While I was in Kilkenney there was a family staying at my hostel from France that were doing just that. They had a baby and two young boys, the boys had bikes for themselves and the baby was in a little buggy behind the dads bike. They all looked so skinny and malnourished on their diet of brown rice and lettuce that I wanted to sneak the kids a candy bar so that they wouldn’t pass out half way to their next destination. Although this is a cool idea, who the hell does it with a baby, I mean come on, a baby in a buggy…

But the most out of place is the single travelers that are not in their teens or twenties. Who are they and what are they doing? Why are they staying at a hostel? Do they have a job? Why are they trying to make conversation with eighteen year old girls who just got out of high school and wanted to come to Europe so they could meet cute young boys with accents and drink legally. I guess this isn’t as bad if you are a woman, you can get away with it better but if you are a middle age man staying at a hostel why are you really there? I mean really at least stay in a B+B and  you wont seem as desperate for attention. Some seem harmless and easy to brush off but then there are some such as a gentlemen who I met tonight from Kansas City who came in on a tour full of young students from Australia and the US.  

I was in the hostels common room reading my book and eating my dinner of rice, beans and red peppers and these two girls an American going to school in Davis and an Australian girl were talking about voting. Our Davis Design major, being a stereo typical American had never registered or voted because she didn’t want to get jury duty. Funnily enough that didn’t pan out because she got it anyway, ha! The Australian girl seemed appalled as did I. I chimed in that I had dodged out on my jury duty due to my travels. Our conversation then went down the typical path of:  where are you from? How long have you been here? Where are you going?  And our Australian friend wanted to know if it was safe to travel as a single woman in the US. At this point our Kansas City fellow chimed in. This gentlemen was our stereo typical middle aged man from Kansas, balding, overweight, accent with lots of “y’alls” thrown in there. There was just one difference, he was Jewish.

 A Jew in Kansas who would have thought. Now to be quite fair as he continued talking he claimed he was from Israel…humm… he was clearly from the US in the beginning of our chat, but now since he is Jewish he comes from Israel. Now honestly what is with that, I keep meeting Jews that claim they are from Israel but look, talk and act like Americans. If it looks like a duck, sounds like a duck and acts like a duck it is  usually an American Jew from Israel….WTF… Am I missing something? Yes Israel is the “Father Land” so to speak, but really, come on, that is like me saying that I am from London or Granada when my family has not lived there for, well, hundreds of years. If you grew up somewhere and your parents grew up there in my book that is where you are from. Your ancestors may be from Israel or Granada or maybe you still have third cousins there but if you grew up in New Orleans, you can speak Creole and make a mean Jambalaya that is where you come from!

For the time being we will give our Kansas Jew a break. He had some relevant points to make about how some areas are better than others and that no lady should be out alone at night no matter where you go. Davis and I agreed but then the conversation took an interesting turn towards Texas. This is always a touchy spot especially if you have two Northern California’s in the room. I try and shy away from Texas as much as humanly possible because people for some reason either love it or hate it. Having never been there I just know the stereo types of cowboys and the Bush family. But our Kansas Jew from Israel informed us it was defiantly a safe place for a woman to roam freely in her travels as long as she carried a hand gun. To quote our friend, “God made man and woman and Samuel Colt made them equal.”

This is when I started looking for my excuse to exit.

Snoring and Sterio Types

I believe that I am a fairly easy person to get along with. I am not very high maintenance compared to most girls and I don’t easily get angry or upset about things. I tend to believe that it is a waste of time to be upset about most things especially when they are out of your control.  If you asked my parents they may say differently... Seamus the grounds keeper at Dunbrody Country House Hotel called me the “Sunny Californian” not only in reference to where I grew up.  I try to surround myself with people that are upbeat and to bring up those around me in the process. But although I try to keep my “sunny” disposition, it can be clouded by a few elemental things.

The first of these would be not getting a good night sleep. Last night happened to be one of those occasions. I had been staying at a lovely hostel that doubled as a guest house in Waterford. The place was great especially when I was the only one in my room!! It was absolutely fantastic the first few nights then last night I had company that ended up being disastrous. There was a lovely German girl who was about twenty and was traveling by herself around Ireland, a French gentlemen from outside of Paris and an Irish guy from Dublin.   

The Dubliner was a chain smoker who couldn’t be without a cigarette and brought wafts of smoke into the room at all hours. He slept during the day, in the nude without paying much attention to where the blankets were! And stayed awake until all hours chain smoking. Even though he was not in the room and most likely was standing at the door when he smoked it didn’t matter. Smokers don’t seem to understand that standing at an open door is almost just the same as being inside while smoking. The smoke just blows back in and we all get to breath it and smell like it and die slowly.

The German Girl was great. She was out going, interested in where to go, what to see and all of the touristy things I could help her with. She was a typical hostel traveler, young, on holiday for the summer, geared up with a backpack and a positive attitude.

Our French man on the other hand was an interesting fellow. He was most likely in his mid forties, traveling by himself, unmarried and didn’t speak much English. Now the French are a strange bunch, if in a group they stay to themselves and simply ignore all of those around them with a blatant aragent attitude of self righteousness. The refuse to speak any language but their beloved French, which is the most beautiful language in the world according to them, and they believe that they should be waited on hand and foot because simply it is expected.

 I was lucky enough to live with two French boys who were studying to be chefs for the past month. In fairness they were 18 years of age but it opened my eyes to what males of the French culture believe. Everything that is French is a step above the rest of the world. This is not simply a joke, but in actuality this is what they believe. Sometimes you can think that their pride for their own culture is beautiful but then you realize that not only do they think that French things are better but they actually go as far as to believe that everything else is shit. French food, French wine, French women. French cloths, French autos (which I have a hard time figuring out…) French artists, French musicians, French actors (another fairly difficult one) and of course just the French landscape is more beautiful, more lush and simply better then anywhere else.

After some time this arrogant attitude about everything French first becomes comical but then quickly annoying and down right rude. But mostly in the case of the two boys that I was living with it was plainly naïve. They had been brought up to think and behave this way so they do. Every culture is guilty of “hand me down” opinions from generation to generation and the French still must channel the arrogance of Marie Antoinette and her famous line, “Let them eat cake.”

But back to the real subject-The French man in the hostel, he was nice enough and tried to make conversation a bit but mostly said, “yes” and “ok” which seem to be French “go to” words that they have been taught to say after everything you tell them. This can be very entertaining and dangerous for them and incredibly hilarious for us English speakers.

 When it was time for bed I made my way to the bedroom and red my book for a while. Our character of the week, the French man came in a little while after me and had a bunk bed directly across from me. He settled in while I was still reading and climbed in his bed. Once in his bed he continued to make little noises, sighing and sniffling and groaning. Right when you get into be this is explainable but a half hour after you have settled down it is a bit strange. I proceeded to grab my ear plugs to help drowned out the noise. It happens to be one of my pet peeves when people “over sigh” and make weird noises. It was almost as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t because he didn’t speak English so he made little noises to himself or to me and I was suppose to understand and squeak or gurgle in return.

This proceeded after my ear plugs went in and I closed my book for bed. All of a sudden right as I am drifting to sleep what to I hear but a freaking lawn mower crossed with a dump truck rumbling in beside me. Oh my god! It was absolutely offensive. I have never heard something so loud coming from something that was asleep in my life. I am not a stranger to snoring, my father, and mother, (sorry mom) do it and we use to call Sal a chain saw because we could hear him down the hall but this was amazing. People that snore that loud should not be aloud to stay in hostels. I couldn’t sleep for hours because of this man. So around two in the morning,( note I went to bed at eleven) I got out of bed and went into the kitchen for a while and had two cups of tea to try and calm myself down. I was beyond tired and pissed almost to the point of waking him up and yelling at him. I hate to admit that I had murderous tendencies last night but there was a point when I thought maybe it would be ok to just place a pillow over his head to shut him up.

 So now we had the champion snorer and a room that smelled of smoke and I was not a happy camper. Finally I think I feel asleep out of necessity and pure exhaustion.  In the morning I asked the German girl how she slept and she gave me a look that said it all. She had experienced the same murderous tendencies that I did. We were both astonished that he had not sought help in that department. If I had started dating someone like that there is no way I would be sleeping in a ten mile radius of them if they sounded like that! No wonder he was unmarried! To make matters worse when he woke up he did his weird sigh gurgle grunt things again. I got out of there as fast as I could and jumped into a cold shower ugg the hostel life...

I enjoyed my stay in Waterford for the most part and got to see some amazing things such as the tall ships coming through, Waterford Glass, traditional Irish music and just a lovely city but I can’t say I would want to be there again tonight for a repeat with our lovely character of the week.

Gooseberries

I arrived at my second Wwoof destination last Thursday. I have been here a week and it is very different from my last farm. My last placement was a farm called Mill House Farm and it was run by a little family with two small sons. It was an actual organic farm with six tunnels where they grow in the winter and several outside fields filled with row after row of potatoes, cabbage, broccoli, lettuces, spinach, carrots, turnips and chard, all of which I had a hand in planting or picking.

Where I am now, Dunbrody Country House Hotel is a little different than Mill House Farm. Here we have a little Kitchen Garden which grows some of the organic produce that they use in the Hotel’s famous Restaurant run and owned by Kevin Dundon a celebrity chef here in Ireland and around the world. The garden is quaint but it is no farm. There are also an herb garden, a fruit garden and extensive flower gardens around the grounds. Irene is the head gardener and Seamus is the grounds keeper and helps in the garden. I am the only wwoofer at the moment and it has been very fun to lean from Irene. She has extensive knowledge about plants, vegetables, fruit and flowers. I know I will learn a lot here not only about gardening but about myself.

A few days ago Irene asked me why I am doing this trip. She kind of figured it was the cliché of finding one’s self and a direction in life. I was telling her how difficult it is for me to figure it out because I enjoy so many different things. I have noticed that I have an ability to easily mesh into a situation and make a place for myself even if is not entirely what I desire. I was telling Irene about my previous job and how I enjoyed getting dressed up, wearing a suit and heals to work, chatting with customers and getting a thrill at the look on someone’s face when you have gone above and beyond to help them with something special. But I also am not sure if I want to be stuck in customer service where it can be grueling hours that get old fast.

Today she turns to me with a laughing look in her eyes (while we are standing under a tree to get out of the sudden down pore) and says "I just can’t imagine you in a suit and heals every day. I just can’t imagine it." I smiled and replied that I have had a really hard time choosing what I want to do, and what path I want my life to follow. I love to get dressed up and look good and go to work in nice cloths but at the same time I do enjoy doing what I am doing here, in my jeans and boots.

Later on I was pinning up the gooseberries and Irene was pruning. She turns to me and says, "Ok Oceanna, it is your turn, you have to prune these and only pick one stalk to train to grow." She smiles and laughs and says, "you have to be decisive about this."

I started by asking her questions and she just repeated that I must pick one on my own. Finally once I got the hang of it, it was rewarding and fulfilling and even though it was hard to whack of those berries it made me think that the ones left will grow and flourish into something beautiful. No matter what path we choose we can grow into it and grow from it. After I was finished she said, "It use to terrify me to prune things, but really the plants want to grow."

I know that no mater where I go and what I end up doing in my life I will continue to grow and I will think about those gooseberries and how maybe it will be a struggle for them to climb up the bamboo. They will try to grow different ways but if they follow their path they will always have something to help and guide them. Eventually they will grow strong on their own, their support will be taken away and they will produce beautiful fruit. As in my life I will have struggles and it will be difficult at times to follow my path but I have strong support and the will to grow.

Pilgrimage to the Top

On Saturday Hannah and I caught the train from Castlerea and headed up to Westport. We wanted to climb Croagh Patrick, and partake in the famous religious pilgrimage. It is named for St. Patrick and has powerful meaning to the Irish people. It is a beautiful mountain and quite high. People of all ages do it and it isn’t by any means really safe especially in the rain! We caught a taxi out to the mountain after wandering around town trying to find our hostel and then eating lunch. (wonderful soup and cheese garlic bread yummm)…

Noal our taxi driver gave us his # for him to come back and pick us up when we were done. He told us to be careful and take our time and we set out!!! Not five minutes from when we started up the path did it start to pour. The rain mixed with the sweat as we clambered our way up the rocks. It got very steep and gravelly at some points and we had wished we had hired a walking stick for the journey! Everyone but us seemed to have gotten the memo at the bottom and obtained a stick but not us, “lazy” Americans as Leo likes to call us. We were determined not to be lazy and use a crutch in this instance.

            Hannah and I were positive that we saw the top, not the top of the mountain but it was about halfway from the summit and how could elderly people in bare feet make it up further than that??!! Well we got to that point sweating and panting and realizing that even young girls like us are in the same boat as grandma there behind us with her stick. Groaning and loosing momentum fast on this little excursion we looked up towards the summit as rain pelted us creating a suction cupping effect with our jeans to our legs. There was a steady line of little multi colored dots moving steadily up and down the side of the mountain. On we trudge…

            The Irish have a tendency of being sure that they know how long it takes to get places. When asked if something is a nice walk a typical response is “oh yeah, ye will have no trouble. It will take ye near abouts ten min. No problem at all.” This is usually followed by a grin and a reassuring nod. If you add about a half hour to that, give or take a little then maybe you have a rough estimate of the time it will take to do something or to get somewhere. This was the case while heading up the last bit of the mountain. Rain had created a small river where a path should have been, people slipped and slid over slick rocks trying not to tumble down the eighty degree slope. As we scrambled up, wet but grinning descending Irish climbers gave us words of encouragement, “not long now girls! Five more minutes!” Twenty minutes later we are still huffing and puffing scraping up the hill, wishing we had decided to be “lazy” Americans.

            Once we hit the summit we were greeted by a toothless man selling Mars bars and crisps, a spectacular view over the bay and the blistering wind. We quickly took shelter in the door way of the chapel at the summit. The sun peaked through the clouds for a few instances, enough for a few pictures, and then the rain came again.

            Once a year the Irish partake in a pilgrimage to the top of Croagh Patrick in honor of their beloved Saint. St. Patrick is said to have banished all of the snakes from Ireland from the top of Croagh Patrick. But since it is common knowledge that there were no snakes to be found in Ireland we can assume that these so called “snakes” were the other forms of religion, primarily the pagan religions that were present when Patrick arrived on Ireland’s coast. So in thanks and remembrance of their patron saint the Irish climb his mountain bare foot on one day out of the year. Well you know that Lazy American bit, this is where I jump in with the Crazy Irish bit. The path up the mountain is steep and full of rocks. It is not a mamsey pamsey, grassy climb, it is a hard and painful climb. You would have to be nuts or very, very dedicated to climb this mountain bare foot. It is amazing what people do for their religion…I would think they would be clear of the confessional box for a few months at least.

            The climb down was slippery but much faster. We in turn gave those words of encouragement to the Irish, while laughing and grinning. Once back down our knees were shaky and we were soaked through. I gave Noal, our faithful taxi driver and tour guide, a ring and he swung by and picked us up. As he dropped us back downtown in Westport he said beaming. “Well gurls, ye are half way to heaven now!”

            As he drove away I could only think what do I have to do to achive the other half? I have climbed Croagh Patrick, been to the Vatican, seen St. Peters and St. Pauls, am I there yet?

International Birthdays

I feel privileged to have been blessed with the most beautiful day I have had in Ireland yet, as my birthday. Audrey popped her head in the caravan in the morning and said happy birthday and we headed out to the field later on. It was hot, around 75, and not a cloud in the sky. This was fantastic but at a price, Hannah and I both ended up getting burnt. We planted purple broccoli and lettuce or as they say “salad” in the morning. Then before lunch I went and checked up on the pigs. I spent time over helping Mick fix up their shelter and going gaga over the 13 babies. That night we sat in the sun and munched cheese, apples, wine and chocolate and played hide and seek with Leo. Dinner was wonderful and I was presented with a tasty cake after dinner with candles. Mick went down to the store and got a couple more bottles of wine to enjoy and then us girls went out to the pubs.

After a few rounds of pool which Hannah and I quickly became the ultimate losers, we headed back home. We were both decked out in some kind of flashlight finery, Hannah with her handy, dandy crank light that her mother sent her after hearing that she was walking home from the pub at 3am on narrow Irish roads, in the dark.  Myself, I prefer my ever efficient head lamp (no literary embellishment needed for that statement). After dogging speaking cars twice and each stopping to use the toilet, aka a field, we came across an open gate leading into probably what we have learned is a cow pasture. Since it was and it was a gorgeous night we decided to venture in. We chose a nice bit of grass and decided to lay down and gaze up at the stars. In hindsight we probably should have known that the grass was wet, we are in Ireland and no matter how warm it seems to get a rain cloud could appear at any given moment and create a monsoon, so we got wet, and were most likely laying in dried up cow pies but hey it was a hell of a view.  After enjoying our view for a bit (not sure if it was five minutes or a half hour) we headed home to a mug of tea and shortbread.

I think I’ll have to make a tradition of being out of the country for my birthday. Last year it was watching monkeys in Costa Rica and this year I am in the little village of Williamstown in Ireland. Who knows where I will be when the next one comes along?

Car Bombs and Tea Time

Irish Car Bombs… these may be a big hit in the States but in West Ireland in the farm town of Williamstown they are unknown and the name is a little to close to home. Although it is a meshing of three of the most well known treasures in the Irish liquor cabinet, Guinness, Jameson and Bailey’s Irish Cream the Irish do not seem keen on the mix. Why mess up a perfectly wonderful beverage with “mussing” it with the other two? This is unheard of, and when ordered at a pub such as Feeney’s in downtown Williamstown (population near to 100), the owner of the pub just gave us dirty looks and we quickly changed the subject to Yeager bombs… 

Everyone knows that the English, Irish and Scottish love their Tea Time. On the farm this consists of a nice warm bit of black tea after lunch. You can add sugar or honey to sweeten your tea, but my hosts simply put in a bit of milk.  This gives me a nice bit of relaxation before realizing I have to go back out in the rain and sow more cabbages in the mud.  While on my hands and knees, I wish I had some cute Irish boy to give me a massage at the end of the day but instead I return to my trailer, with my plastic covered bed, temperamental hot water and spiders to brew myself yet another cup of Irish tea.