29 April 2007

What an adventurous past few days I’ve had! Wow! I’ll catch you up, but today, I’m writing from Navan, which is a lovely little city situated on the Boyne river pretty much in the north central part of Ireland (what McDowell described as the Iowa of Ireland). I really enjoy the hotel where we’re staying because a) they didn’t serve the vegetarians pasta (I’ve had nothing but overcooked pasta in one bland sauce or another for dinner for the past two weeks. Uggggg…The Irish do not do justice to Italian cuisine) b) our hotel room is various shades of red with polka dots and big modern red and gold flowers c)our bedroom overlooks a cathedral d) the hotel is really old and quirky e)the window to room area ratio is just right, plus the windows open all the way and e)the beds are extremely comfortable. I’ll forgive the fact that we didn’t have hot water this morning. A little hypothermia in the morning wakes you right up. It’s lovely that this hotel doesn’t require a four minute walk from lobby to room and isn’t an old mental institution.

I suppose I’ll start from where Ieft off journaling. The first day after I left off, Dr. Mann was sick and we weren’t able to secure a classroom space, so we just had McDowell’s class in the stairwell and it was pretty boring because it was more material that we covered in my medieval lit class of last term. In the afternoon, I headed out to explore Sligo on my own. I found a nice little bakery and coffee shop and did some writing there and then just looked around until I found an art supply store. I bought some charcoal and chalk and a sketch pad, and for the first time since junior high, I went outside and sketched. It was glorious! It felt so good, and I think my eye has improved. Also, Mark, Beamer, Carsen, Gina, Ryan, and I made plans to go surfing for Friday. Thus I started getting excited.

Actually, out of order, the day before that, Tuesday, the class went to Knocknarea, which is a cairn (BIG man made pile of stones) on top of a mountain. The cairn on top of Knocknarea is said to be Mabdh’s tomb (or Maeve’s tomb in the anglicized version). Queen Mabdh is pretty interesting because she is supposed to be both a stone age or bronze age warrior queen (yup… I said both. The archeologists place her in the stone age (about 3000-5000 years ago) while the historians date her to be a bronze age queen) AND she’s supposed to be also the queen of the Sidhe or faerie folk. Both. Plus, the tales of her suggest that she was a saucy minx and the very first feminist. I like her. But I digress. So, we visited her tomb, where she is supposed to be buried standing up with a spear, facing her enemies in Ulster, under the huge cairn that is about a hundred feet in diameter and about fifty feet tall. What is especially cool is that this cairn is so old and visible from everywhere in the surrounding area that all the later stone age tombs are oriented towards it, so all the other passage tombs and court tombs faced Knocknarea. The climb up the mountain itself wasn’t too bad. After climbing Mangerton, everything else seems like a piece of cake. When we arrived at the top, we found that people had taken a lot of stones off the cairn and spelled out their names and various messages on the ground surrounding Mabdh’s Tomb. It offended our sensibilities as burgeoning archeologists/historians/folklorists, especially offending Dr. McDowell, so we were all encouraged to bring a rock or two back to the cairn.

I misunderstood and thought he meant that I should bring a rock up to the top of the tomb, so I picked up a hunk of pink granite from the middle of the “f” of “Fatima” and started up the really tall cairn. As I was making my way over, a little old Irishman passed me and said “Ah, looks like you have a really big wish there!” I smiled not knowing what he was talking about and straining under the weight of a really big chunk of stone, and he continued walking past saying: “Trust me, he’s not the right one!” I kept going up the cairn with my little boulder thinking mubling angry thoughts about little old men thinking that I would waste a wish on meeting the man of my dreams when I could wish about more important things like peace or environmental stewardship. That’s the problem with little old Irishmen: they think that if you’re young, female, and unmarried that your first priority in life ought to be finding a husband, and they’re not afraid to say it. They’re old and flirtatious and chatty. In a way, they’re kind of the last of an older way of thinking, so it’s a little sad, but I’ll be happy to return to a place where I can go to grad school and be successful and indepent without being considered unusual, though it does make me feel like I’m going to wind up a lonely old cat woman. What I don’t like is being considered just a pretty face who’s going to make some man very happy someday. Why can’t some man make me very happy someday? Or even better, why can’t we both make each other happy in a mutually supportive relationship that takes into consideration both of our equally important careers and ambitions?

But, I digress once more. I made my wish at the top, took a picture, and then headed down to do some more cairn re-building. I found this cute heart that someone had made out of stones from Mabdh’s tomb, and decided that I’d break another heart in the interest of monument preservation (if I had a dime for every time that’s happened…) So I made it my personal task to disassemble the heart rock by little bouldery rock. There is nothing more theraputic post-breakup than chucking rocks from a useless heart on the ground onto a great big pile of rocks that is a 3500 year old monument. Turning something broken and useless into productivity and healing, quite physically manifested. Plus, you get to throw rocks.

Anyway, I was summoned away from my righting the wrongs of my romantic ambitions by McDowell when he got pretty much the whole group together to form assembely lines of rock putting-awayness. It was a very physically demanding half-hour, but together, we managed to clear about a sixth of the mountaintop of the names and “hi!’s” and smiley faces besmuding the landscape. It was an amazing experience, working together and passing rocks. We sang songs too, in the true chain gang fashion. Though, we tended towards “Build me up, Buttercup” and “Bohemian Rhapsody” (including guitar solos) and the Beatles rather than spirituals or labor songs. It felt so good too, to put the rocks back where they belonged on the cairn. After that, we went to Strandhill to play on the beach, which, coincidentally, was the beach where we were going to go surfing. We popped down to the surfschool to confirm our reservations for Friday, chatted with the instructor, and the joined the rest of our friends on the beach. While leaping and dancing down the beach, I tripped over my feet and fell into the water, fully clothed. It was at that moment I truly understood why we needed wetsuits for surfing. The beach was lovely though, and the waves looked promising.

After sleeping soggily on the bus home, I had enough energy to play an amazing game of bridge and some more poker! I remain terrible at poker, though I did bluff everyone out of their hands on one round. Note to self: Abstain vigorously from strip poker if ever invited to play. We did play a game of hearts too, and let me tell my hearts playing friends back home that they better watch out because I count cards now because of bridge. Yeah, that’s right Andrew. You’re not the only card counter anymore.

Thursday we went to Yeats land: Drumcliffe, the church where he is buried, Benn Bulben, the cliff he wanted to be buried under and wrote about, and Parkes Castle (14th century norman castle, reconstructed) situated on the lake where resides the Lake Isle of Inisfree, the subject of one of Yeats’ most-loved poems. The lake tour via ferry boat was pleasant because of the sunshine, unpleasant because of the tour leader’s incessant touristy banter, but it is a gorgeous lake. The whole day, I kept thinking about surfing on Friday. Thursday night brought more bridge and poker, and I actually got third place out of six people.

Finally, the sun dawned on Friday morning and I was out of bed like a kid on Christmas! The sun was shining, and the clouds were dissapating, even at half six. The surf report looked excellent. In the morning we had a gallery visit to see some works of Jack Yeats (W.B’s little brother) also from the Sligo area, but I didn’t enjoy it very much because I was too busy daydreaming about surfing. After the gallery visit, a gaggle of us trekked over to the pizza parlor in town to take advantage of Four Star Pizza’s five euro “Lunch Special”. It was amazing, and definitely NOT pasta or granola bars, so I was happy. After that we had to book it down to the bus station to catch our bus out to Strandhill. It turns out that pretty much everyone in our class and the McDowell’s were planning to go out with us and have a little beach party. Unfortunately, that meant that my certain un-friend was coming with us, but I think she’s finally received the hint that I don’t like her and her unnerving demeanor, plus I would be surfing, what could bother me? Once we all arrived at Strandhill (luckily, some of our surf party that had to go back to the hotel caught a cab out to the beach without incident), we checked in with Paul and Paul, our surf instructors from New Zealand. The one Paul looked like a baby giraffe with his sun-bleached shaggy hair and ridiculously long eyelashes. The other Paul looked like an ancient Mariner. Their accents were absolutely amazing to hear, though, because they had a little bit of an Irish lilt, but the Australian-isms like “mate”, plus the surfer drawl. So, any given sentence would sound something like this: “Right, so you’re going to grab your board, mates, and head nose up into the surf, eh?”

We paid up and headed to the back room to get our wetsuits and boots (we didn’t need hoods or gloves because the water was about 15 degrees celcius.) Mark, Ryan, Carsen, Beamer, and Gina all got their suits without incident. Paul would just look at them, and pull a perfectly fitting suit off the rack. Impressive given that Ryan is 6’5’’ or something really tall like that. But I managed to trip him up. For some reason or another, everyone thinks that I’m much tinier than I actually am. I managed to squeeze into my wetsuit, which wasn’t too tight, but it was about four inches too short on the arms and the legs. I felt kind of goofy when I saw that everyone else’s fit, so I asked Paul if I needed a different size. He asked why, and so I pointed to my exposed legs to which he replied: “Well, shite, you’ve got some long legs, eh?” and got me a new wetsuit that was less tight and actually a little too long on the arms. Putting on a wetsuit is an ordeal and a half, especially because my second wetsuit was brand new. So, it was kind of like putting on panty hose over your entire body made out of quarter inch thick neoprene. But I was happy that it fit and it would keep me warm and toasty in the Atlantic.

After suiting up, we headed down to the beach, feeling like we were going on a lunar mission or something. We set up camp on the beach and got our surfboards: big foam numbers that would hurt less if we got smacked in the face with them. We set up in a semi-circle and proceeded to run through the steps for surfing on land. Which was pretty funny, truth be told, practicing paddling in the sand. I felt kind of like a very very warm sea turtle trying to make it back to the ocean unsucessfully. Paul instructed us how to hold the board, how not to hold the board (to avoid breaking fingers… his pinky looked something like this: ___/\___. No joke.), how to paddle, how to push yourself up and balance. Then, we took to the waves, with our friends snapping pictures like paparazzi. It was the most amazing fun! I love surfing! I even stood all the way up about three times. Beamer did the best out of all of us because he goes waterskiing every summer. It was incredibly hard work, with the hardest part being wading out against the current, like the going uphill when sledding. But it was worth it, soooo worth it. Once you get out far enough, you flip your board around to face the beach, hop on and hook your toes over the back edge, and start paddling to orient yourself in the direction of the wave and then paddle like crazy once it approaches you. Then all of the sudden, you feel this catch of the surfboard on the wave and you’re off! It’s up to you to push yourself up and slip your feet under you. That’s the hardest part, getting your feet under yourself. Once your feet are set, you stand up and balance and feel completely amazing because YOU ARE SURFING! WOOOOOOOO!!! Then, if you’re Steph, you tumble off your board or flip over or get smacked in the face with it or some other cool move. But it was completely justified, because YOU WERE JUST SURFING!!! YEEEEAAAAAHHHH!!!

In other words…. It was a blast. I don’t think I’ve been as sore as I am since I went up Mangerton in Killarney, but it was definitely worth all the stiffness and bruises. I think this was possibly my favorite adventure yet. And there’s nothing a little advil and 11 hours of sleep won’t cure. Yesterday was a long day on the bus and another cool stone circle, so I’ll just sign off here and leave you with this sentiment: YEEEEAAAAAHH SURFING!! WOOOOOOO!!!

***Sorry I've been playing catch-up! The great lot of travelling we've been doing means that it's hard for me to whip out my computer and play the update game. But I'm all caught up now, so I think we're grand.***



22 April 2007



Here we are in Sligo! I haven’t ventured into town just yet because town center is pretty far away (about a 15 minute walk) and we didn’t get into our hotel until about quarter to six last night. We drove up the coastal road through Connemara, a beautiful “rugged” territory full of hills and mountains and lakey and streams. Lots of rocks too. Always lots of rocks. But absolutely gorgeous. We stopped at the Ceide Fields, which is a neolithic farming community. Archeology galore! I enjoyed it quite thoroughly, even though it was really really really windy. I almost got blown off the boardwalk. I picked up a book on bogs and found some really cool bog cotton grass. Well, I didn’t originally find it. Dr. Mann picked a fluffy little stalk for me and then the tour guide reprimanded me for picking the bog flowers. Dr. Mann apologized to me and to the guide though, and so she just laughed and said it was ok.

The bus ride was long because I was sitting next to the McDowell’s daughter the whole time, and though she’s adorable and quite clever, I’d forgotten how taxing playing make believe can be.

As I’m about to venture out (and check to see about surfing lessons for tomorrow, because apparently the surfing here is great) I’d like to mention the coolest thing about Sligo yet: the hotel. We’re at the Sligo Clarion, which is amazing because it is a renovated mental institution from the 1940’s. It wasn’t closed until 1992 when the newer facility was opened next door. Clarion purchased it and renovated it (a 45 mil. Euro job) and opened it in 2005. It is the biggest, most confusing, and creepiest hotel I’ve ever seen in my life. There must be something like 500 rooms. It takes me about 4 minutes to walk from the reception to my room on the second floor, and that’s if I book it. There are corridors upon corridors of narrow creepy hallways, made all the creepier by the maroon carpeting with occasional jagged orange designs woven into them, the mauve walls, and bizzare (sometimes violently so) modern art adorning all the walls. This picture here is of one of the paintings just before you get to my room. I like to call it Vein-Rune Study I. I’m not a big fan. It reminds me of Hannibal Lecter.

The exterior of the hotel is imposing gray stone, neo-gothic style with towers overlooking an enclosed courtyard. To take this picture, I had to go across the street. Exploring the hotel last night took a full hour, and I’m pretty sure there were still places that I didn’t get to. There’s even a very eerie old chapel on the grounds, that was shrouded by thunderclouds last night. I think that maybe I’ll go exploring again to take some pictures, but this time I’ll bring some bread crumbs so if I get lost, I’ll be able to find my way back to my room. If the cleaning personnel doesn’t vaccuum them all up. Hm… maybe a ball of twine would be a better idea. I do have quite a bit of yarn… Hm. Well, I’ll give you an update a little later. If I come back alive and sane.

------Update as of 23 April----- I played more bridge last night and learned how to play poker. I am a terrible poker player and am really glad I don’t play for real money. Maybe it’s because I have no poker face… Anyway, I ventured into town center, which is about a 10 minute walk from the hotel, and it’s a lovely little area. There are more trees around Sligo than elsewhere I’ve seen. PS: No surfing for Steph. It’s still too rough out there and the weather is nasty today.

20 April 2007

Today I bid farewell to Galway (at long last, here is a picture of the River Corrib running into the Galway bay. The river runs extremely fast and there are life rings dotting its banks in case anyone falls in), as we began our move to Sligo via Wesport (where I am writing from tonight. Even though since I have no internet here, I won’t be publishing this entry and the last one until Sligo tomorrow or later.) I found a part of a poem that I’d like to share to express my feelings of leaving Galway after nearly three very intense weeks there:

“…there is always the anticipation
Of the change, the chance that what is wrong
Is the result of where you are. I have
Always loved both the freshness of
Arriving and the relief of leaving.”
(From “where we are” by Gerald Locklin)

Galway was the site of many an interesting/amazing/unfortunate/heartbreaking/mysterious/cheering/delightful/terrifying/humilating/wonderful event. Oh, Galway, I feel like I’ve known you for both a minute and a month. I’m sad to be leaving, but I’m excited for the chance to leave some of my more negative feelings behind and pick up fresh with a new town.

For my last night in Galway, my friends Crystal, Sarah, Colleen, Erin, Ann, and I decided that some spirit-lifting going out was in order, so we dressed up (Sarah fixed one of my shirts for me with my sewing kit! She’s very much appreciated.) and headed out in search of any cool pub with music. Just by accident, we ran across this one pub that had the “West Coast Swing Band” playing. Attracted by the word swing, and the prospect of a real 17 piece big band, we headed in and took a seat. I didn’t stay sitting for long. The band was great, and it was killing me not to dance. So, when it got to be too much to bear, Ann and I broke out the swing in the rather unpopluated back section of the pub where we were. Once again, Steph goes about intimidating guys by leading girls in partner dances. After we started attracting some attention though, we gave it a rest and I got whisked away into conversations with some Irish people. Some of them were more middle aged men, others were my age and kind of dorky, but my favorite were the little old Irish men. They asked me to dance, in fact, even though I was most definitely taller than them by at least half a foot, especially with my shoes on. I don’t think I intimidate old men.

The funny thing about all this, though, was the fact that though they asked me to dance and had good rythym, none of the men I danced with actually did swing dance, in any variation as I know it. They had a couple moves from swing here and there, one guy had some pretty nifty lindy tricks, but for the most part swing dancing consisted of turns (especially elbow turns) and then breaking into a jig in time to Duke Ellington. It was at once amazing, comical, and delightful. Definitely not swing, but very fun, and very Irish nonetheless.

It was very fun talking to people. I got a big (and slightly uncomfortably lingering) kiss on the cheek from an older, slightly intoxicated Irish man who was originally from Dublin, worked as a newspaper person in Zimbabwe for 27 years (that’s why, he claimed, he likes Arizona so much. The climate is quite similar to Zimbabwe.) and then has lived in Galway ever since. He’s now opened his own business distributing newspapers and is quite happy, except he’s “in the market for a partner… of the female variety” at which I must have looked slightly terrified because Tony added: “but don’t worry, you’re much too young for the likes o’ me. I have grown children older than ye.” We also talked about the shooting in Virginia for a little bit. Apparently, the Irish concept of America is one big big big place with much bigger temperatures, butts, egos and guns than Ireland. I surprised him by saying I was shocked by the shooting. He told me that the predominant Irish reaction was one of great remorse and pity, but not shock or surprise. It’s America, something like this was bound to happen sometime, is their thinking here. The media too, is putting a much different spin on it than we would at home, I think. Insantly, they made the central issue about gun control laws. A poll on the Irish version of CNN said that more than 80% of Irish people think that America needs to revise the right to bear arms amendment to be more strict or eliminate it all together. Part of that is because gun crime is on the rise here in Ireland, especially areas with heavier immigration, and they’re struggling to supress a burgeoning illegal arms trade, which is quite distressing given that guns are banned here and in the UK.

I also talked to a couple of middle aged men who said that they would ask me to dance because I was “a complete knock-out in that outfit and witty as well” but they didn’t because when they saw me dancing, they said that I was “top o’ the floor” and too good for them. Then, there were a couple of really dorky guys my age. Well, one, Stephen, wasn’t so dorky, but he seemed to be really nervous around me, and got along much better with my friend Erin, who is a self-professed non-dancer. But the one who wanted to dance with me, Scruff, was a bit of a dope. He wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box and admitted that he neither wanted to go to college AND doesn’t really have a job. He was a terrible dancer and a bit inebriated. I much preferred the old men. But it was really interesting that even this dope of a kid, who looked like a bobble-head doll when he talked and said things like: “that’s craaaazy!” or “goin’ wild!”, was familiar with Irish poetry. He asked what we were seeing around the Galway area and asked if we’d seen Coole Park, where Yeats resided quite a bit of the time. He didn’t have the attitude that you’d except of an American equivalent of his, the type that would shun poetry in favor of football or nascar or whatever. He didn’t once say anything like: “Poetry? That’s gay” or laugh at me when I said that I was studying poetry. He knew all the names I did and even snipets of poems from them. I couldn’t believe that I was having a conversation with this dopey kid who said that “Yeats. Oh man, he’s wild! Brilliant. Just brilliant.” Poetry is a huge part of the culture here, with a rich heritage, but also a vibrant continued presence that I find absolutely endearing.

Today I find myself in Westport, a midpoint between Sligo and Galway on the coast. It’s a charming town and I really enjoy it. The buildings are brightly colored, our hotel is bright crimson! (Yes! Red!) and there are lots of hills that remind me of pictures of San Fransico. There is a river that runs through town and there are periodic fountains (see picture). It really is beautiful. I’m sad that we’re not staying here longer, because it really is adorable. I found a little craft shop (where they sell knitting and other things that people have crafted) and it was a little mom and pop’s shop. The little old woman proprietor greeted Ann and I and invited us to take a look at everything. We chit-chatted for a little bit and then I noticed the beautifully hand-knitted items, knitted and designed by some woman from Westport. I was indicating the excellent craftsmanship and difficult open lacework pattern to Ann, and the woman told me that I had a keen eye and good taste to pick out the best work in the shop.

Other than that, Westport has been quiet. Ann and I watched some wildlife outside our window that overlooks the canal and some flowering cherry trees. There was a crow feeding frenzy on the roof, and then we watched some mice chase off a magpie and a crow! There were also some ducks we watched outside our window too, it being cold and rainy outside and just cold inside. I went to bed early after calling to wish Dad a happy birthday. The end.

18 April 2007

Today, I took an art history midterm and studied for a latin midterm… which is pretty much like what I was doing all weekend long, except with more paper writing this weekend. Saturday, I studied and walked to the beach and the art gallery so I could get a better look at the works for my paper. Sunday, I walked to the beach and worked on my paper and studied and talked on the phone to home for a while. Sunday was a bad day (the first actually bad day I’ve had here). Monday I worked on my paper, studied, turned in my paper, ate an ice cream cone, and tried to read poetry but failed. Monday wasn’t so hot either.

Yesterday was lovely though. Yesterday the entire class went to Inismore, one of the Aran Islands. I think it was my favorite class trip thus far. We took a ferry out to the island (about a 40 minute ride from the mainland) and then, once there, we took a little bus out to this amazing ring fort called Dun Aengus. Dun Aengus is another ring fort, situated on a cliff face, so one of its sides is actually just a sheer drop 200 feet down into the ocean. After walking around the fort for a bit, I just wanted to sit and watch the waves. So I did.

Sitting at the cliff ledge, I recalled my favorite episode of my favorite NPR show “Speaking of Faith”, the easter one I heard with the Eastern Orthodox priest/gardener/author. He said that in the Eastern Orthodox tradition, similar to the Celtic monastic tradition, they see nature as a type of scripture to be studied just as they would the Bible or other holy texts. Forty-five minutes later and feeling much more at peace with myself and the ways of the world, I went with some of my friends and Dr. Connolly to walk back to the harbour village of Kilroran instead of taking one of the two mini-buses. It was only a three and a half mile walk, and the weather was absolutely marvelous. Very conducive to adventuring.

The first thing we encountered were rocks. Lots and lots of rocks. Our friendly bus driver was telling us (in Gaelic peppered English, Gaelic being the predominant language of the Aran Islands over English) that one scholar estimated that there were about 7000 miles of stone walls on the Aran Islands. That is a lot of rock wall for three rather tiny islands. But, I could see it. There are more tiny, stone-fenced little pastures than what would seem logical. Most of these little pastures are about the size of our hotel room, some slightly bigger or smaller, some more irregularly shaped. There is a reason for this too, though. Our driver was telling us that for years now the families on Inismore have divided the land into little plots and splitting it up so that no one farmer would get all the good land. By splitting it up, everyone would get (in theory anyway) some of the good plots and some of the rocky, unarable plots. Most of the good plots are good because people, over the years built up layers of soil over the rock by bringing up baskets full of seaweed from the ocean and letting it decompose on the plot to form a rich, fertile soil, a very laborious and slow-going process. There are still more rocks on Inismore than anything else, though, I’m pretty sure.

Moving along our coastal road, we happened upon a seashore, a beautiful sandy beach with turqoise crystalline water. It was so clear and the sand was speckled with washed up seaweed and shells and stones. Sandy beaches are a pretty rare commodity in Ireland, most of the costal regions being tidal mudflats, rocky shores or cliffs (cliffs being the worst for wading and sunbathing), so I felt absolutely inspired to shuck my shoes and socks and wade in the water. The only problem being that though the scene looked like something from Florida, the water definitely felt like the North Atlantic should feel: freezing cold. Really, truly, bone marrow-chilling cold. But it was worth it. I also drew a llama in the sand before I left. I didn’t play with any of the kelp this time, but I remain convinced that it is one of the coolest plants ever (Ann took this picture. It’s spectacular!).

But scintilating aquatic flora isn’t the only the Aran Islands has going for it. No, Inismore is full of interesting animal-life as well. Contained within a lot of the rock-fenced pastures are cows and horses. Unlike the mainland, sheep don’t do so well here, tending to wander into other pastures, goats just jump the fences and wander away (one funny thing: I did see goats on the island, but they were often tied together by their collars because it takes them a very very long time to figure out how to coordinate jumping the fence together.) So, it’s mostly cows and horses, though I did see one pasture/backyard full of several types of ducks [I included the picture of the duckyard here. Enjoy, all you friends of the fine feathered fowl] and determinded that it would probably be heaven to be a duck in the duckyard on Inismore. There is also a bar on the island (one of seven. Population of Inismore: 720. Number of churches: 3.)

But as we departed the beach, prancing around in one of the stone-fenced pastures was a fat brown pony. He was so cute! But his looks were deceiveing. One of my friends fed it an apple from her backpack and we were all petting the horse when: CHOMP! He bit down on my hand and wouldn’t let go. I’ve gotten nipped at before, and I’m pretty sure Calypso, the camel at the llama farm, has chewed good-naturedly on my face some, but never has a horse bitten me and not let go. I calmly said: “Ow. Um… Care to let go?” and lifted my hand up so it’d have to adjust it’s neck and unlock it’s jaw that was quite firmly clenching my hand. It worked, and my friends were all laughing at me, impressed with my nature-communication skills while I stood there with my bruising hand covered in horse spit and little chewed up pieces of apple. Ewwwww… I do have a nice bruise on the top of my hand now, but at least the stupid horse didn’t break the skin. Really, I figure it must have been pretty stupid not to be able to tell the difference between my hand (soft, veiny, pink, and full of blood) and an an apple (crisp, red and yellow, and full of sugar and apple juice). He should go back to pony school because looking cute, innocent, and prancey will only get him so far in life. Horses these days. Seriously.

After the horse incident, my friends Christine, Mark, Ryan, Kade and I decided to take a little side road up a hill to see where it led. It actually ended up leading back to the main road, cutting up over the hill where the main road went around it, but the adventure was worth it. About halfway up, I found a little natural well and explored for my friends who were unsure about it. I didn’t drink from it, but the trampled grass leading to and from it, and its location behind a fenced area without animals makes me think that it’s some kind of holy well. It was only slightly after discovering the holy well that we were chased by a collie who was sitting outside on the porch of a house looking very sentry-like. He was all bark and no bite though, so it was ok. The good conversation continued as we hiked back to Kilroran. I’m a little sad that these excellent people will be graduating this year and I haven’t gotten to know them until Ireland term, but I feel fortunate to be able to spend the time we have now with them. Walking through the countryside and chatting, we saw some really cool thatched roof cottages and some ruins of older houses from before the famine. I actually saw my first potato field too while I was walking about. Back in Kilroran, I finally found the Aran sweater I was instructed to find. I love it! Grandma Dixie told me that it was the warmest sweater you’ll ever wear and it’s so true. I spent a pretty penny on mine (well worth every cent, though!) because it is handmade. As a knitter myself, I really appreciate the beautiful cabling and the craftsmanship is superb. I love being able to know the stiches and appreciate the skill and time needed to create such a sweater. I look forward to it lasting me many wonderful years.

We took the ferry back, and slightly sunburned and tired, but feeling happier, I retired to bed after a late dinner. It was definitely one of the best days on the trip, ranking up there with Fota and mountain-climbing.

Day 44 - Galway

14 April 2007

Oh, Galway. Such an interesting town. I don’t know. I really like Galway, but right now with midterms upon me and the strains of living in a hotel room catching up with me, I was worried that I wasn’t enjoying it as much as I could. I’ve been doing a lot of classwork this week because we’ve actually been in the classroom, as opposed to being out in the field. Yesterday, we did go out to the field and I slayed another dragon. Castles, ironically enough, are great places to slay the dragons of your mind. I was climbing up the stairs to the first floor of the keep of the Castle of Athenry (which the locals pronounce A-then-roy) when I could climb no further. They were lovely carved wooden see-through stairs, leading up a wall to a door some distance away from the floor. I thought “Gee, I don’t like these stairs much” before the first landing and then up to the doorway, I just couldn’t move anymore. I was terrified. Of stairs. Stupid see-through stairs. I can scale walls, cram myself into the tightest of caves, do handstands and flip into the air for swing… but I can’t handle see-through stairs. I was so embarrassed. These stairs weren’t half as steep as the ones at the Norman Round Tower at St. Briget’s of Kildare. But for whatever panic disorder related reason, I just couldn’t do it. My rational brain was furious, yelling at my irrational fear to get it’s scaredy pantsed rear-end up the stairs and quit making a scene. But I couldn’t until Ann and Sarah MacDowell and my friend Kade coaxed and prodded and talked me up the stairs, just in time for me to slip, quivering sniveling teary-eyed mess that I was into a back row seat of the little movie area on the second floor to see a slide show. I have never been more mortified in my life. It’s exactly the thing I’ve been dreading since I’ve had panic attacks—that they’d happen in public in front of my friends. Really, I have never felt so ashamed and in wanting to melt into the floor and dissappear, I managed to trigger yet another attack so by the time the slide show was over and everyone had gone, I felt awful. All because of some ridiculous see-through wooden stairs with larger than usual gaps between them. The worst part was that I knew I had to go back down them. I just waited around in the movie area until Ann came back and asked if she could help. I sent her to get my Xanax from my backpack in the bus (damn pills. I hate medication.) and I sat there trying to relax until Dr. McDowell came to check on me and I started blubbering all over him too. My adrenal glands have no sense of shame. But after all that, after taking my Xanax and waiting around for a while with McDowell and Ann, I knew I had to get down the stairs and I wasn’t going to let McDowell carry me down them with his coat over my head (his rationale: “It works for birds…”) so with the help of tranquilizers, Ann, and McDowell (not carrying me) I did it! I walked down all those horrible, horrible see through stairs! I think that I would have been very proud of myself if I was able to feel feelings then, but the Xanax stops feelings dead in their tracks. Vile stuff.

Luckily, it wore off in time for the after dinner festivities I had planned: SALSA DANCING! I’ve been scoping out numerous salsa joints here in Galway, figuring that an artsy place would have ample salsa-ing. I was right. Last night, I went back to Garvey’s (that place where the bartender hassled me before) and salsa has never felt so welcome. We weren’t sure exactly what time the dancing started, so we just showed up at nine and while I asked the proprietor what time the salsa class started, he said 9:30 and some of the guys at the bar volunteered to salsa with me right then and there. I told them I couldn’t, there was no music. They just looked confused.

So, Meghan, Ann, Erin and I waited around, and pretty soon people started showing up. The instructor, Barry, was a wirey hard-looking man who looked more like an ex-soldier or a farmer than a salsa instructor. But he was very nice and encouraging. He asked us whether or not we’d done salsa before. I said that I had, so he pointed me to the advanced class while his wife took Meghan, Ann, and Erin to do a beginning lesson, which was awesome for them because it was pretty much a private lesson for only 7 euro. But I digress… when Barry asked us if we’d danced before and I said yes, I volunteered to do the lead part (what they call “the man part”) if we were short on guys. (they laughed whenever I said guys. People here don’t say guys.) Sure enough, we were short on guys, so I found myself stuck learning lead in a different style of salsa dance in the advanced class. And I loved it!

It was pretty confusing at times. They use different terms in Rueda salsa (I think that’s what they called it) because rueda is like salsa set dancing or salsa square dance where the couples all form a great big circle and they rotate partners frequently with certain moves and patterns. If you’d say for instance “right hand cross over to switch partners followed by cross body lead into patty-cake breaks” you’d never get to any of the really cool moves, hence the caller would just say what sounded like “dime-ay” which means the same thing. “dee-dee con noy” was cross body lead into patty cake breaks, “sententa” was a wrap turn plus a man hair comb into a cross body lead. “enchufla” was a girl turn. “enchufla ‘dime-ay’” was a girl turn plus the partner switchy thing. Then there were some of the crazier moves like the basket, which was a swing-esque wrap combination, the sombrero, where the guy leads a two handed turn (right hand up) into a kind of sleazy disco behind the head thingy into a x-body lead, or the prima (a guy turn plus a partner switch) or my favorite “prima ala man ala family” where it’s the prima plus linking arms with your partner and circling around very hoe-down style. Classy. Sorry about that. I had to document it all somewhere because I don’t want to forget before the summer and swing next year. I ended up getting it all just fine, even if Barry’s pedagogical appraoch wasn’t so sound. I just found it very amusing that they were calling out the spanish terms with their thick Irish accents. I had a blast. Some of the salsa songs they played I knew (like the “ooh-ah” one or the ones from the cd that Tim got from Kumari), and some of them did not fit at all! The guy played cumbia for two of the circles, and it was ridiculous. That’s why people invented cumbia dancing, so they wouldn’t have to try to salsa to a cumbia beat. Or even worse were the times afterwards during the open floor when he’d play samba beats and everyone would salsa. Oy vey! Or as they’d say here: “Jay-sus!”

That’s the last time I ever do the lead – the “man part” – at a club. I think I intimidated a lot of the men there because I was a better lead and I’m six foot tall in my heels. So, nobody asked me to dance. I finally started asking guys to dance with me. Patrick, a skinny nerdy very stereotypically UK-looking type, kept apologizing for stepping on my feet and accidently spinning me into people. James, a better dancer than Patrick, was unfortunately about 5’4’’. A couple of the others were just as unsure as Patrick, and my feet hurt from getting stepped on. But it was so much fun anyway! And it was worth sticking around because I got to dance with the instructor and show him that I was a much better follower than lead. He was so sweet, calling me a “lovely dancer” and thanking me for being a good example for the other guys in the rueda circle. He, surprisingly, though, wasn’t all that great. I think he might have used up all his really tricky moves on me. I mean he was good and all, but it kind of made sense what Dara (one of the ladies I met) told me when I asked her about the salsa scene in Galway: “You’d best be going to Cuba, the club on the other side of the square. They have a live band on Wednesday nights at ten for free and additionally, more foreigners go there, so the dancing is always better.” If that whole grad school thing doesn’t pan out and I become a professional dancer, I’m moving to Galway because I will open up my own studio and win. It’s quite exciting, not being the most painfully Caucasian person in a room of salsa dancers. It’s just sad that I had to go to Galway, Ireland to be the most ethnic one…

So I plan to check out Cuba on Wednesday, because I like free dancing and I don’t like getting stepped on, but if my feet and hips allow it, I’d like to do one more rueda lesson at Garvey’s to really get it in my head and learn some cool new moves. I missed salsa so much! Oh, and I didn’t run into my bartender buddy there. Too bad. I would have torn up another coaster just for him.

Day 39 - Galway

9 April 2007

Happy belated Easter to you all! I don’t have any pictures yet from Galway, I’ve not ventured outside city limits too much because everything is closed on Easter weekend and I’m still trying to get a taste of Galway city itself. And plus, Easter weekend is a big holiday time here with actual bank holidays on Good Friday and Monday (today) so the city is ripe with backpackers and obvious tourists. I’m starting to realize why I was getting funny stares before.

A portrait of the tourist: Tourists are very loud, talkative folk always staring at things and remarking about them quite obviously without regard for any local people actually going about business as usual. They’re easily excitable, and don’t often appreciate a comfortable silence at a profound location. I feel like I’ve been here long enough to fit in, and sure enough, I’ve been mistaken for a local with some regularity. When I open my mouth, of course, it all goes out the window, but until then, I just look like a regular university student. This is why I don’t want to be whipping out my camera down by Eyre Square. There’s a kind of begrudging tolerance for tourists. They’re spoken down to, and though the Irish people appreciate the money tourists bring to the country and do an amazing job of accomadating them, there’s still this mentality of stupid foreigners invading our country, not knowing our ways and being rude eejits that get in the way. Hence, they’re treated like seven year olds.

Tourism and its woes aside… Galway is lovely. On mediocre Saturday, I went for a run (as previously stated in the last update) and then went to the park to do some studying. Later that evening, I planned to stay in, as going out has left me somewhat apprehensive after the festivities of my 21st birthday celebration. But, I ended up teaching an impromptu salsa dance lesson in the lobby of the hotel to Dr. Connolly and his wife, Rebecca, the Dr.’s McDowell, and my friends Fran, Meghan, Mark, and Chris. It was quite fun. I feel flattered because though Connolly is inept at dance (but improving) and was trying my patience with his lack of rythym, he told me that I will be good in front of a classroom, and that really means a lot to me coming from him. We were having a grand time, until she who shall remain nameless intruded about 2/3rd’s through the lesson, seeing that I was teaching and assuming that meant I wanted her help teaching (I did not) and telling people my stories and my dance history (innaccurately at that!). I ended up snapping at her a little and I’m not usually a confrontational person, but I’ve learned that sometimes you have to stand up for yourself. And true, I could have handled it in a more diplomatic manner, pulling her aside at a later time, explaining my reasoning and having a heartfelt discussion about it, but she is the only thing stressing me out right now, and I’m sick of feeling like a fugitive any time Ann or I have to sneak out of the hotel to go do something on our own without her.

My friends and Dr. Mann and I ended up going in search of traditional music and upon not finding it, we decided to strike out on our own. On our way to another pub, though, we passed a lot of interesting street performers: a bagpipe player, a percussion ensemble, and a fire juggler. This being all at about half nine at night! I could see maybe a fiddler or something rather quiet, but no… When we found the pub, Garvey’s, they asked to see my ID, thinking that I didn’t even look 18 and they gave me flack about having an Illinois driver’s license and the bartender was just about to kick me out before the manager told us that we were ok. I was very disappointed, especially because this was the place where I wanted to go salsa dancing on Thursday. The cranky barman served me my drink in a cranky manner, and then proceeded to make cranky comments when I was frustratedly picking at my coaster, so I crankily put all my little frustrated coaster tearings into my empty glass when I was getting ready to leave, which he crankily observed. My friend Mark told me that he thought the bartender liked me and was hitting on me, I told my friend Mark that I thought the bartender was just a great big jerk. I hope he’s not there when I go back for dancing.

Easter morning came though, and I felt profoundly better and less frustrated. My friends and Dr. McDowell and I decided to go to 8:30 mass at a local cathedral, but apparently, it was an 8:15 mass and it was misposted, plus we were 10 minutes late anyway (“Late for church!! No, no, no!” shouted Steph’s brain.) McDowell said it was ok, the church counts it so long as you show up by the gospel reading and you can leave anytime after communion, but that wouldn’t fly in my church tradition, especially given the fishbowl-PK thing. But I guess it really didn’t matter anyway because even though Easter mass is supposed to be “all smells, bells, and yells” according to McDowell, there was no music, no incense, no chanting, and the priest had a squeaky voice. I had no clue what was going on, which didn’t bother me too much, I’m sure I looked very out of place, but it was interesting. I didn’t enjoy how dogmatic it was, though, and I didn’t learn anything. I guess the role of church in the Catholic tradition isn’t so much instructive or educational as keeping-you-in-line. The cathedral, St. Nicholas, was beautiful, though, and I’d like to catch an entire mass here, though, because I am still curious. Plus, I appreciate some of the elements of my own church heritage a lot more now.

I did feel a little sad and cheated by my mass experience (all I wanted to do was sing “Christ the Lord is risen today. A-a-a-a-a-le-e-lu-u-ia!” Is that so much to ask?) so I returned pensively to my hotel room. Luckily, Ann also felt the same way I did. (She’s more religious than I am, but we share a lot of beliefs, I think, and enjoy discussing our differing opinions too.) She is a fan of this preacher/religious scholar from Michigan called Rob Bell of the Mars Hill Bible Church, which is a big nondenominational church, but I trusted her judgement and she played a sermon of his that was posted online, and although it was a Lent sermon, it was amazing! I got so much out of it. It was very scholastic and relevant, but never maudlin or fiery. His logic was clear and his illustrations were superb. He did a lot of textual reference and went back to the original Greek (or Hebrew as the case were) and I was really impressed. If church at school were like this, maybe I’d go. Then, because we were still feeling like we needed an Easter message, I pulled up an episode of my favorite NPR program, Speaking of Faith, a wonderful program that explores the role of religion and spirituality in all forms in the world today. The Easter episode, available now for free download from their award-winning webiste (shameless plug!), was incredible, a look at Eastern Orthodox easter and gardening as a symbol of the resurrection. It really resonated with me, especially because a lot of the material we’re covering in our Celtic Spirituality class is very similar, with listening to nature as scripture and engaging all of our senses in experiencing the world and God. So intruiging!

Also interesting… I was talking to a little old man in a little restaurant in Galway on Easter Sunday afternoon after he asked me the time and found out I was from the states and he ended up sitting down with us and he told Ann, my friend Carsen, and I a funny story about getting rolls of mints blessed in the Holy Land and then he gave us each rolls of the blessed mints and then went on his way because he said that his wife sent him out for a carton of milk an hour ago and she was going to wonder where he was. I’m not planning to eat the mints, though, even though he said they were magical and blessed because Mike (the old man) said that the last young woman who ate one of the blessed mints was married and pregnant within the year… Not exactly what I was planning… My question: what is with people and fertility here? I’m not saying that I disagree with the appreciation of fertility and the rich tradition of the fertility worship stretching all the way back to pre-Christian Indo-European times. I think that fertility is intimately linked with being attuned to the earth/the divine and participating in a holy cycle and way of the universe that is not dirty, but reproductive and fruitful, and ought to be approached with respect and wonder at a proper time. Problem being that this is not exactly my proper time to be fertile and life bearing etc. etc… (much to the relief of my parents), but that so many of the men I’ve talked to here assume that’s what I want as a young woman: to marry and have a very large family. I think that maybe that’s because I’ve talked mostly to old Irish men since young men don’t really approach me in conversation or in any way, actually. So part of this notion of mine could be an unfair representation based on a generational gap in thinkning about the roles of women. And maybe it’s like this in the States too, it’s just that I really haven’t been mature or sensitive enough to notice it in a familiar environment. That is my deep thinking for the evening.

Today was spent doing homework and hanging out with Laura and Ann and Sarah. A lovely day!

Day 37 - Galway

Hello all!

This is a much needed catch up journal post, so I apologise for the length. I suggest settling down with a cup of drip brewed coffee (since I have none of that over here) and preparing for a long read (at your own risk), or you could always just break it up. To briefly relate the occurances from Thursday night through today: Thursday night was the celebration of my 21st birthday in the King's Head Pub with many of my good friends here. It was delightful to see everyone enjoying themselves and I enjoyed myself quite a lot too, though my friends were far too enthusiastic about buying me drinks because Friday I did a lot of homework and took many naps and only ventured out once, which was sad because it was a beautiful day, but I had a headache. Later on in the even I did wind up playing bridge and causing mischeif (leaving anonymous notes on friends' and professors' doors with Sarah, Laura, and Ann, though the receiving parties figured out it was me by this morning). Luckily, though, today was just as lovely as yesterday and I was able to go running again, venture to the park to do some more reading and Latin homework, and I also bought a cheap pair of flipflops and have several blisters. Today was most amazing though, because I was able to go out without a coat, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The most fantastic part of my morning run is the causeway out to Mutton Island. I thought I found the causeway the first day out, but it was so foggy that it turns out I was actually running on the shore and I couldn't see the causeway at all. But I did find it today, and it was brilliant. Water on both sides of me, ocean and bay nestled in mountains. At the end of the causeway, I looked back and saw Galway city, and it was beautiful. There are actually a lot of palm trees here and the houses sometimes look pretty tropical. That's all from me today, though. Enjoy the rest of the post, and good luck...

4 April 2007

Cheers from Galway! At long last we have arrived. Yesterday, we travelled here via detours to the Cliffs of Moher (which were pretty, but we as tourists were kept behind many a fence since people have in the past had a habit of falling off the cliffs. Some call those mistakes and accidents easily remedied by a view-obstructing fence, I call it lack of common sense and natural selection.) I wish that I could have gone a little closer. Alas. Such is the tourist business. We also stopped at another 12th Century abbey and saw a really cool chancel arch. Then we wandered around for an hour in the Burren (pronounced “burn”) looking for the largest dolmen (a megalithic stone burial structure that looks like pi)… we finally found it, and while it was quite impressive and large, I had more fun cavorting about the burren, which looks almost like a lunar landscape with great big limestone chunks rising out of the ground having races with my friends to see who could jump around from rock to rock the fastest. We arrived at our hotel, which is located pretty much downtown Galway and settled down to boil some water.

That’s right. Galway is under a boil order, and has been for the past six weeks. That’s quite the boil order. McDowell is worried about us because we can’t use the water for drinking or tooth brushing, but the hotel is providing us with bottled water, and we have nifty little electronic tea kettles in the room (which previously annoyed me because the lack of coffee pot means only instant coffee… ew… ps: I’ve been taking my coffee black as of late. I knew it was only a matter of time. Coffee is not Ireland’s specialty. No wonder they invented Irish Coffee.) but the tea kettle is admittedly AWESOME because you fill it with water and poof! It boils within five minutes and you can have your cup o’ tea (the Irish tea is much better than their coffee. Quite strong.) I love the little tea kettles. The one in my room looks as though it will be my close friend throughout the duration of my stay here in Galway. The boil order is due to the cryptosporidium parasite in the water system from human feces. Lovely, no? Galway is the most rapidly growing city in Ireland and it has grown so rapidly that the infastructure and waste treatment system has not been able to keep up with the influx of sewage in the area. So, the water itself looks ok, but there’s that pesky parasite swimming around. I just count myself fortunate that I can bathe in the water here and that I can wash in it and there aren’t more dangerous bugs swimming around. Especially considering the conditions that my friends on India term are in. Boiling water is just fine by me. Not much of an inconvienence at all.

5 April 2007

Back again! Sorry, I had a tour of Galway to embark upon yesterday, so I wasn’t able to finish the entry. So…. More about Galway: Galway is a great city. Very bohemian and young and artsy. Quite to my taste. There are three universities in the area, so there are a lot of people “my size” (is how McDowell put it to us when we were walking through Eyre Square, a big green square in the center of town. He said “This is a college town par excellence and this is where a lot of younger people hang out, so you’ll be able to meet people more your size.” Oh, McDowell.) People really do gather quite a bit on Eyre Square. In the afternoons, it is swarming.

I went running this morning and found a really great little path along the docks and then out on a causeway to Mutton Island. It feels so good to run again, and maybe now I won’t get so fat from all the delicious Irish butter I’ve been eating. The fog was very thick this morning, though, so I couldn’t see across the causeway. I’ve never actually seen fog so thick. It was clinging to my hair and beading up on my eyelashes. People don’t actually run very much here, so I got some funny looks from folks, but after I nodded and said good morning, people smiled and humored me.

I think that I should play a little Killarney catch up. The smart thing to have done would have been to keep updating without publishing while I was without internet capabilities, but I was really busy and too tired to write much. Why so tired you may ask? Well, Killarney is a little tourist town in the western county of Kerry and during off-season time, it is filled with little old Irish people, many speaking Gaelic around the tourists to confuse us all. My favorite part of Killarney is its proximity to the Killarney National Park, a glorious, gigantic national park containing mountains and castles and reknowned for its lovely lakes.

The first day out, after class in the hotel pub (no drinking, just learning) we walked out to the national park to Ross Castle (see picture), a castle on the lake that over looks the biggest lake in the mountains and we took a tour with a tour guide who had a very slow drawling Irish accent. The castle itself was pretty interesting, but the best part was the lovely walk through the woods and the cherry trees in bloom at the feet of the McGillicuddy Reeks. The next day we went on a day trip to ring forts and the Beara Penninsula and had class on site. Thursday brought a trip out to the Dingle Penninsula and the beehive huts and oratories and monasteries. The mountains are lovely and they are my favorite element of Ireland thus far.

The weekend in Killarney was absolutely amazing. On Friday, Sarah, Laura, Ann, and I rowed out to Inishfallen Island out in the lake past Ross Castle to an old Abbey on the island. The island was beautiful with old oaks and the abbey ruins were amazing. I climbed up to the top of one wall and sat on it, and you could see out over the whole island. About a third of the island was wooded and moss-covered and it looked like a fairy refuge. While on the island, I saw a deer, and rowing back to shore, I spotted an otter!

My very favorite thing in Killarney, though, was the mountain climbing. On Saturday, Ann, Sarah, Chris and I decided to climb up Mangerton Mt (839 meters tall) to see the Devil’s Punchbowl, a spring-fed lake about 2/3rd’s up the mountain. We travelled about 14 miles that day, mostly uphill, since we had to walk five miles out of town, after stopping at a tourist shop to grab a map and an outdoor store to pick up a compass. The tourist shop actually didn’t open until 9:15 (random) so we had to wait outside. Luckily, the weather was fairly mild and not raining, so there were no complaints on our part. We made it out of town and started on our ascent. We passed some sheep that complained quite loudly as we walked by, but they were on the other side of a fence and we were safe.

We then turned into the park (the directions to the devil’s punchbowl from the book at the tourist centre were funny. They were something like this: “1)Walk out along Muckross road 1.2 miles to the posted left hand turn across from the Muckross Park Hotel. Turn left. Keep walking up that street until you reach a street the appears after a bad bend in the road, turn right at that street.” my favorite direction being: “Keep heading up the mountain across the boggy heath. The path will disappear and reappear several times.”) where we met a nice woman named Mirina who was taking her baby, Lily, and her two dogs out for a walk. Mirina chatted with us for a while and offered to give us a lift back to town or give us some water if we needed it after climbing because she lived right around the corner. She and I also exchanged phone numbers in case we needed “rescuing”. When we got to the base of the mountain and the car park (term used loosely. The car park was actually a wide spot in the one lane road. Not one way, mind you, just one lane for both ways.) we took a picture of the sign that I have included here for comic effect. Needless to say, after the shocked look the Killarney tourist centre desk assistant and Mirina gave us, we were feeling a bit daunted. But we set off anyway, into the misty moutains.

The hike was pretty tricky. The path really did disappear quite a bit, and when it was present, it was really just a dry streambed that was a lot of large loose rocks and a very steep climb. When it wasn’t present, it was bog that liked to suck the shoes off your feet. As we trekked upwards, we decided that we needed to sing the Lord of the Rings theme because it seemed particularly fitted to the sweeping and dramatic landscape. We then decided that we were the fellowship of the ring of kerry. (the ring of kerry being the road/region that we travelled the past few days for class). We passed several other hikers on our way up, all of whom were local. One man congratulated us and wished us luck because the Devil’s Punchbowl is beautiful, but only about 10% of Irish people ever get to see it because of the strenuous hike. Despite the beauty of the mountainside and our adventurous mentalities, we did start to get tired, and collectively decided to take a break to chat about whether or not to go any further, given that we had been looking for the lake for a good hour and a half and we felt we might be heading in the wrong direction. Dejectedly, I plopped down on a rock and popped open my can of pringles. Around the corner, though, came a friendly looking woman, so I asked her how far away from the summit we were. She said we were about forty-five minutes away, but that we should go just around the bend because there were a lot of big rocks and a lovely lake. The perfect place to picnic… We were about to quit literally 25 feet from our destination!

When we rounded the corner, I knew it was totally worth the sore legs I’d have the next day. Worth it and then some. The lake was the clearest I’ve ever seen, and the wind was buffered by the boulders and mountain top. A group of lads came down from the summit (only about a quarter of the way away from us) and started drinking from the lake, and we asked them if it was good water. They said it was the tastiest they’d ever had and cleaner than the water in Galway right now, so we drank too, and it was the tastiest water ever. Crisp, clear, and cold. Just the right thing to energize us for our hike down the mountain, which as the sign at the access informed us, was the most dangerous part of the journey when most people are injured. I escaped injury with the exception of an uncomfortable incident while using a gorsebush as makeshift portapotty. Gorse is prickly and while it inexplicably smells of coconut and it tall enough and thick enough to hide a full size person, that does not make it a suitable loo. (Just for reference, gorse is that yellow flowering bush in the picture above the one of me by the devil's punchbowl).

Gorse aside, we made it down the moutain without incident and took a few long moments to sit and admire the beauty of the mountains and hillside region before heading home. I think a little William Wordsworth time would do everyone some good. The trip home was long and exhausting, and I went to sleep very early that night, but I will cherish that climb in my heart for as long as I can. I feel so empowered and so accomplished, and not least, awed by the beauty that surrounds me here. I am profoundly grateful that I have been able to have these experiences and share them with such good people.

Day 32 - Limerick

2 April 2007

Wow… It has been an incredible week in Killarney! Where to start? I think that I’ll actually start with today and work back. Today has been an interesting day. We traveled from Killarney to Limerick via Lough (Loch) Gur, which is a huge lake with two hills surrounding it and a whole boatload of megalithic and Bronze Age sites. My two favorite sites were the biggest megalithic stone circle in the world and the cave to Tir Na Nog. The stone circle (see first picture) was very big and very much tied to fertility religions and pre-Christian traditions, but it is still venerated today as a holy site by Christians and neo-Pagans alike. I was convinced by Dr. Connolly to walk around it three times in a sunwise manner, stand in the center of the circle and leave a little offering at a makeshift shrine for good luck this birthday year in hopes of finding inner peace and cosmic allignment. I’m not so sure that I feel any more cosmically aligned, but the walk was nice and gave me a good chance to thoughtfully admire the stone circle. I also tied a little strip of fabric (called something pronounced “cluty”) to one of the thorn [hawthorne] trees in a prayer tradition that goes back centuries. The trees look like they’re decorated with the cluties that people have tied to the branches in prayer. I tied a little strip of fabric to a thorne tree with a prayer for peace.

Even more exciting was the cave to Tir Na Nog that we found up on the hill Knockadoon. Tir Na Nog is the land of eternal youth in the old Celtic mythologies ruled over by the god of the sea, Manannan and inhabited by the sidhe (faeries). I, alas, did not find the land of eternal youth, but I did find a really cool cave that I explored with my spelunking skills and the aid of my friend Erin’s camcorder spotlight. I really enjoy spelunking back home (I’ve gone every since since being at Augie) and I was really excited to do some crawling about. To top it all off, I even got out without getting any mud on my silk shirt. Niiiice! It was great fun. Definitely one of the perks to being a rather flexible, rather small framed person, getting to fit into tiny cave spaces. The picture was captured by Crystal while I was lowering myself into the very snug passage way that I explored for the sake of adventure and to satiate my curiosity (and the curiosity of my classmates and professors too large or inflexible to explore it themselves).

Limerick, unlike Killarney, is a large and highly industrialized town with a lot of rough spots and actually a perpetual gang war as of a few years ago… So, we are actually staying on the outskirts of Limerick instead of Limerick town center. Which is fine by me. I have no desire to get shot in a gang war. Alas, that means that there has been very little celebration of the typical 21st birthday sort. I figure that this is ok, given that I am a) in Ireland so every day feels like it’s my birthday anyway, b)the drinking age here is 18 so 21 is rather anti-climatic, c)we traveled all today and we are travelling all day tomorrow so I haven’t the time to play around., d)it seems kind of selfish to celebrate a day dedicated to yourself and your birth because you’re that special, just like everyone else.

Ok, so maybe I’m a little sad that I didn’t get to celebrate. But Dr. Mann and I sang happy birthday to each other after dinner (it is his birthday today too!) and Ann gave me chocolate coffee truffles and my friends Sarah and Laura gave me a card that had goldfish and bad fishy birthday puns on it. Plus, I talked to Mom yesterday and both Dad and Jack called today. So, while we were in this shopping centre to grab lunch (which I didn’t grab because I brought my own food on the bus) I bought myself a much needed new pair of headphones (the old ones were breaking and falling apart most unfortunately) as a birthday present to myself. My friends and I were hoping to go out to the restaurant’s pub that sits next door, and McDowell said that Cork’s hurling team was supposed to be eating there (strapping sporty Irish lads!), but in fact, the whole place was sadly deserted and not a lot of my friends even knew when they were supposed to meet over there because we were trying not to tell the one girl who clings to me and tells my stories and is rude and obnoxious and fun-killing. Sort of like a social black hole. So, upon arriving in the empty darkish pub with nobody but Ann with me, I decided that I’d just take a raincheck on the whole celebration thing. Birthdays are overrated anyway.

And come to think of it., I’m pretty darn tired after all my adventuring today, so I think that I’m just going to hit the sack. I will catch up on Killarney tomorrow or later this week. Highlights include rowing out to Inishfallen Island, the Dingle Peninsula, and climbing up to a mountain lake!