Last night after our bookstudy, we were whisked away down the Bova Na Brina (totally the phonetic spelling), the road of hospitality in Irish. It was for a dinner party in honor of our hostess’s (Trish McMahon) old friends after their assembly day. We were privileged to be included, as we are leaving on rather short notice…. No announcement and all. So, our friend’s house is located on the Bova Na Brina, and since she lives (or rather her sister Anne and husband Tony Griffin live there, but are on holiday in Spain currently) in the country, when giving me directions, they were quite simple. No houses there have numbered addresses, just names. The house we were to look for (actually we had been there before when we first arrived, but were driven there by people who knew what they were doing) is called Mount Carmel after the matron of the house, Carmel. We ran across our first piece of good timing in Ireland and hitched a ride with the Whelan’s who happened to also be chauffeuring another sister that direction. We were in time (although drastically late compared to everyone else) for a tasty morsel and a rich desert (chocolate rum mouse…yum) accompanied by a seemingly never empty glass of wine.
I am glad we had a chance to return to that house because their back garden is designed in a way I wanted to remember. Basically, some trees finally growing to their maturity obscured the family’s view of the Wicklow Mountains in the distance. The have no neighbours to the back of the house, and so didn’t need the trees for privacy. Calling in a brother who works with wood, they had him cut down about half of the trees, and create his own brand of garden ornamentation. They have an entryway that echoes Tolkein, a loveseat overlooking a flower entwined trunk lattice, and a swing set for the ten year old daughter. All of which seemed to me like something my brother Justin would love, and could replicate. The long and the short of it being that now I have pictures that explain all of it better than I can ;)
This afternoon, Lisa and Leonard Brennan picked us up and drove us to the town of Eniskerry, to visit the Powerscourt Estate. The Estate was originally a strategically important sight from the Norman times, the Power family erecting a castle here in the 13th century that evolved through repeated attacks into the current impressive Estate, which was built by the Power family in the mid 1700’s, with gardens spreading over 45 acres. Maintained in style, it sadly burned to a husk in 1974, through the accident of a fire rekindling itself in an upstairs fireplace. Over the last few decades they have re-built much of the house, but the only part that now reflects the original glory of an 18th century manner house is the ballroom. We only got to look in from a distance, as a wedding was taking place this afternoon. The grounds are a well-placed mix of Italian, English, Japanese style gardens, complete with terraced slopes, walled gardens, ornamental lakes and ponds, water fountains, and a…. pet cemetery. Yup, there lie good ol’ Kilfane the Irish wolfhound, more loyal than human fidelity, alongside the cow that gave over 100,000 gallons of milk, just above the Shetland pony and his wife, Mrs. Mare. They seemed to have a bad run in involving a lot of chow puppies too… The tale runs that the gardens last designer indulged in the occasional wheelbarrow born (as in, himself being carted around in a wheelbarrow) trek through the grounds whilst nipping and sipping brandy admiring his handy work. Whatever gets you through the day :)
The most spectacular vista presides over the garden, not from the estate side, but from across the valley; the dignified peak of Sugar Loaf Mountain, cloaked in misty greens and velvety shadow. The few times the sun reached up to the mountains heights, the colors were more dazzling than any in the house behind us, although the rose and dahlia gardens gave it close competition. Ireland’s highest water fall also graces the landscape, a mere 5 kilometres from the estate, but we voted against paying the €3.50 each to drive in and see it for ourselves.
Scenes from two movies were filmed here: “The Man in the Iron Mask” (the more recent Di’Caprio version) and this years “The Count of Monte Cristo”. The balcony leading down to the Italian style garden is where the Count lands his hot air balloon in the flick. When we saw the movie, I clearly remember wanting to know where that scrumptious scene played out, and now, I know, and I have seen with my own eyes… I’d have to see the Man in the Iron Mask to recall more of the house than the dresses that flit through it, that we patterned my wedding dress after :)
After a day well spent exploring the Powerscourt grounds, we dinned in Temple Bar, and here we are. Matt is sleepy, and we have only tomorrow ahead of us to spend here. So, we need our sleep.
Here's a funny (more like ironic) piece about Belfast in the odd news today:
"Tourists wanting to take in the hot-spots of Belfast now have a fail-safe way to do so. A pair of entrepreneurs from Northern Ireland's capital, famous worldwide for its sectarian troubles, have bought two half-century-old British military armored cars to drive tourists round. "We found them on the Internet," one of the pair, Art Corbett, told Reuters. "Tourists love it, it's pandemonium!"
There you go lads.
"Tourists wanting to take in the hot-spots of Belfast now have a fail-safe way to do so. A pair of entrepreneurs from Northern Ireland's capital, famous worldwide for its sectarian troubles, have bought two half-century-old British military armored cars to drive tourists round. "We found them on the Internet," one of the pair, Art Corbett, told Reuters. "Tourists love it, it's pandemonium!"
There you go lads.
So, Jazz has just presented us with 147 specially selected remind us of Ireland tunes burned onto a CD he has named The Suntoucher. So very nice.
Our dinner last night was a lovely warming bowl of rice immersed in hearty lamb stew, followed by sweet Irish strawberries whipped into a tasty mouse. The couple hosting us, Karen and Rob Scully entertained us with stories of various trips they have taken, for instance, to Russia. They are very active in helping the Russian group take shape, having watched it grow from one Russian speaking sister, two and a half years ago, to the gathering of 44 that regularly now attend together. Their experience that stuck out to me was of a group of sisters staying in a hotel (one of the nicer ones) that had a rat and mouse infestation. When one of them complained to the front desk upon finding a mouse in her room, she was promptly handed a cat. No fooling…. a cat. Sensibly, she took the cat back to her room to do its job, later peacefully returning to find that it had completed its task. Never in a million bazillion years would that go down in the states, although I think they could use a healthy dose of something similar. There are many things about Ireland that seem positively third world to me, but they are nothing in comparison with that. Its so entertaining while riding the public transportation to have the driver stop to chat for a moment with people he knows, just to shoot the breeze. One time, the driver even got an ice cream cone at a red light (showing that it pays to have strategically placed friends), but that sort of fun happens mostly in the countryside. Oh, and bus drivers always answer their cell phones, driving or not…
I keep going on about how we have one “final” Ireland outing, first the Aran Islands, then Belfast, and then Wednesday we took an afternoon trip to the town of Malahide (“on the brow of the sea”) to visit its castle. It’s a fifteen-minute DART ride to the north of Dublin County from here. Matt and I had purchased dual tickets for any two of Dublin’s main attractions while we visited Bernard Shaw’s Birth place (right across the street from our apartment, and it still took us four months to get there). Buying the tickets ahead of time made it that much more likely that we would actually get to Malahide. It has become very easy for us to take for granted all the things we still haven’t seen, and write them off as un-doable in the short time we have left. And that is SOOO not the case. Judging by how much we fit in on that trip to the north because we were being herded from one place to the next tells me that all we need is better organization and motivation and we could have seen the entire city more or less in a day. We just lack wake up skills lately….
The Castle itself rests in a huge parkland, now set up for tennis, cricket, running, and is equipped with a children’s playground as well as plenty of picnic tables to go round. One of the most remarkable tid-bits about Malahide Castle is the length of time that the reigning family remained in residence, nearly 800 years. Henry II granted the lands and harbor of Malahide to one of the knights who arrived in Ireland in 1174, namely Richard Talbot. The family’s habitation started in 1185 and continued all the way to the 20th century with the last Lord Talbot dying unexpectedly and without an heir, in 1976. His unmarried sister Rose Talbot paying something called “death duties” that I assume are taxes of a sort, and giving the castle into the care of the Township council. Much of the furniture is original to the castle, mostly from the mid 1700’s, but extending into the 1900’s. The Great Hall (added to the castle around 1475) uniquely not only retained its original form but also remained in use as a dining room until 1976.
The chronicle of how the family managed to retain ownership through the ups and downs of Irelands many political upheavals is interesting. When the caustic apparition that materialized into Cromwell appeared on the scene (mid 1600’s) The Talbots preserved possession of Malahide for all but a brief period of eleven years (from 1649 to 1660) when they lost it in a Cromwellian grant to one Miles Corbet. Their lands reverted to the Talbots again when it was found that this Corbet had signed the death warrant of Charles I. After the Restoration, his punishment was to be hung, drawn and quartered. Otherwise the Talbots emerged unscathed, and were privileged to retain the lands they held, as most others were not only confiscated, but also remained redistributed to the English nobility.
As we walked from room to room, cued by a voice emanating from speakers hidden about the Gothic to Baroque and Victorian rooms, we heard the history of the castle and its various Talbot owners. One of the family’s more famous stories centers around (yet again) the 1690 Battle of the Boyne. A huge painting depicting the scene of the encounter presides over the great hall’s dining table, a ghostly reminder of the morning of the battle when fourteen members of the Talbot dynasty, mostly cousins and all followers of James II, gathered here for breakfast never to return.
Hopefully, one day, we will return.
The mansion still radiates a gothic feeling, inside and out, faceted with arches and deep colors, creating cosy corners and turreted rooms, you would imagine nurtured mischievousness in the castles various children, with whole rooms still being panelled by carved dark oak. Give me a live-in maid, and I could live there….
Our dinner last night was a lovely warming bowl of rice immersed in hearty lamb stew, followed by sweet Irish strawberries whipped into a tasty mouse. The couple hosting us, Karen and Rob Scully entertained us with stories of various trips they have taken, for instance, to Russia. They are very active in helping the Russian group take shape, having watched it grow from one Russian speaking sister, two and a half years ago, to the gathering of 44 that regularly now attend together. Their experience that stuck out to me was of a group of sisters staying in a hotel (one of the nicer ones) that had a rat and mouse infestation. When one of them complained to the front desk upon finding a mouse in her room, she was promptly handed a cat. No fooling…. a cat. Sensibly, she took the cat back to her room to do its job, later peacefully returning to find that it had completed its task. Never in a million bazillion years would that go down in the states, although I think they could use a healthy dose of something similar. There are many things about Ireland that seem positively third world to me, but they are nothing in comparison with that. Its so entertaining while riding the public transportation to have the driver stop to chat for a moment with people he knows, just to shoot the breeze. One time, the driver even got an ice cream cone at a red light (showing that it pays to have strategically placed friends), but that sort of fun happens mostly in the countryside. Oh, and bus drivers always answer their cell phones, driving or not…
I keep going on about how we have one “final” Ireland outing, first the Aran Islands, then Belfast, and then Wednesday we took an afternoon trip to the town of Malahide (“on the brow of the sea”) to visit its castle. It’s a fifteen-minute DART ride to the north of Dublin County from here. Matt and I had purchased dual tickets for any two of Dublin’s main attractions while we visited Bernard Shaw’s Birth place (right across the street from our apartment, and it still took us four months to get there). Buying the tickets ahead of time made it that much more likely that we would actually get to Malahide. It has become very easy for us to take for granted all the things we still haven’t seen, and write them off as un-doable in the short time we have left. And that is SOOO not the case. Judging by how much we fit in on that trip to the north because we were being herded from one place to the next tells me that all we need is better organization and motivation and we could have seen the entire city more or less in a day. We just lack wake up skills lately….
The Castle itself rests in a huge parkland, now set up for tennis, cricket, running, and is equipped with a children’s playground as well as plenty of picnic tables to go round. One of the most remarkable tid-bits about Malahide Castle is the length of time that the reigning family remained in residence, nearly 800 years. Henry II granted the lands and harbor of Malahide to one of the knights who arrived in Ireland in 1174, namely Richard Talbot. The family’s habitation started in 1185 and continued all the way to the 20th century with the last Lord Talbot dying unexpectedly and without an heir, in 1976. His unmarried sister Rose Talbot paying something called “death duties” that I assume are taxes of a sort, and giving the castle into the care of the Township council. Much of the furniture is original to the castle, mostly from the mid 1700’s, but extending into the 1900’s. The Great Hall (added to the castle around 1475) uniquely not only retained its original form but also remained in use as a dining room until 1976.
The chronicle of how the family managed to retain ownership through the ups and downs of Irelands many political upheavals is interesting. When the caustic apparition that materialized into Cromwell appeared on the scene (mid 1600’s) The Talbots preserved possession of Malahide for all but a brief period of eleven years (from 1649 to 1660) when they lost it in a Cromwellian grant to one Miles Corbet. Their lands reverted to the Talbots again when it was found that this Corbet had signed the death warrant of Charles I. After the Restoration, his punishment was to be hung, drawn and quartered. Otherwise the Talbots emerged unscathed, and were privileged to retain the lands they held, as most others were not only confiscated, but also remained redistributed to the English nobility.
As we walked from room to room, cued by a voice emanating from speakers hidden about the Gothic to Baroque and Victorian rooms, we heard the history of the castle and its various Talbot owners. One of the family’s more famous stories centers around (yet again) the 1690 Battle of the Boyne. A huge painting depicting the scene of the encounter presides over the great hall’s dining table, a ghostly reminder of the morning of the battle when fourteen members of the Talbot dynasty, mostly cousins and all followers of James II, gathered here for breakfast never to return.
Hopefully, one day, we will return.
The mansion still radiates a gothic feeling, inside and out, faceted with arches and deep colors, creating cosy corners and turreted rooms, you would imagine nurtured mischievousness in the castles various children, with whole rooms still being panelled by carved dark oak. Give me a live-in maid, and I could live there….
Mental bubble breaks through to surface:
We also had a few interesting conversations with the friends in the congregation about Belfast.
I’m immensely interested in how the witnesses fare in that local. I know how it is here, but I can’t imagine it being as easy going there. So, one girl recently transferred to our hall from the Belfast branch says its tough, but you get used to it, and then it’s nice enough. Just don't venture out much of anywhere alone after dark. Another tells us about how, walking down the middle of the street is safest because if you walk down one side of the street (this is in the north part of the city) you are automatically lumped in with whatever side they are on. For instance, one side will be staunch Catholics, the opposite side, staring into their perceived enemies homes, will be hard-line unionist Protestants. You walk down either sidewalk, even as an outsider, and you make yourself a target for the opposition. Crazy to hear, but that’s how they say it works. Then there is another couple living at the Dublin Branch who were living for five years in Belfast who tell me that the people are friendly, no matter. If they know you aren’t part of this squabble (and you most definitely aren’t if you come as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and politically neutral) they talk to you just as politely as anywhere. And they have an even keener need to find answers for the wreckage they see everywhere. My initial sense of Belfast was as a city torn and broken by this seemingly irreparable rift, struggling vainly for a new face. But, is that just the impression the tourism-pushers want me to leave with since it attracts money frittering day-trippers with a kind of “you can’t look away from a car crash” mentality, or is it real? After all, the driver did tell us that many of the murals went up recently so that the buses have more places to stop at, more propaganda to show off. I dunno.
Façade, or Truth? You decide. I ‘m not objective enough.
We also had a few interesting conversations with the friends in the congregation about Belfast.
I’m immensely interested in how the witnesses fare in that local. I know how it is here, but I can’t imagine it being as easy going there. So, one girl recently transferred to our hall from the Belfast branch says its tough, but you get used to it, and then it’s nice enough. Just don't venture out much of anywhere alone after dark. Another tells us about how, walking down the middle of the street is safest because if you walk down one side of the street (this is in the north part of the city) you are automatically lumped in with whatever side they are on. For instance, one side will be staunch Catholics, the opposite side, staring into their perceived enemies homes, will be hard-line unionist Protestants. You walk down either sidewalk, even as an outsider, and you make yourself a target for the opposition. Crazy to hear, but that’s how they say it works. Then there is another couple living at the Dublin Branch who were living for five years in Belfast who tell me that the people are friendly, no matter. If they know you aren’t part of this squabble (and you most definitely aren’t if you come as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and politically neutral) they talk to you just as politely as anywhere. And they have an even keener need to find answers for the wreckage they see everywhere. My initial sense of Belfast was as a city torn and broken by this seemingly irreparable rift, struggling vainly for a new face. But, is that just the impression the tourism-pushers want me to leave with since it attracts money frittering day-trippers with a kind of “you can’t look away from a car crash” mentality, or is it real? After all, the driver did tell us that many of the murals went up recently so that the buses have more places to stop at, more propaganda to show off. I dunno.
Façade, or Truth? You decide. I ‘m not objective enough.
U2’s “ stuck in the middle” playing in the background, Matt and I walked into the netshop we frequent commenting that we need to make a tape of the music we have lived our lives to here. Saying, since it is Ireland it must include at least one U2 song, and may as well be this one. We knew that one of the employees here had been a D.J. in a previous life (a few years back), since we often have commented on the quality of the music played here and were told that he’s the reason it’s not like most internet shops which are stuck in the rut of either cloying bubble-gum pop, or the same five once good but now overplayed endless mantra-like loop. Jazz (ex-D.J. extraordinaire come net-café owner) overheard us, and has kindly offered to burn us a C.D. of his hand picked playlist, or rather, selections of the 850-some songs he has on file. It’s nice to know the owners and be on their good side of people who have musical taste similar to ours. There’s one song that encapsulates this place to me, by Faithless, kinda Opera morphing to dance-ish mellow grooves. Very nice.
This morning we received our hard copy plane tickets flying Virgin Airlines to New York via London Heathrow from Dublin, our path now cut in stone. Extra helpings of gratitude going to the California based Allen team helping us devise and implement a way to by-pass the whole Americans living in foreign lands not allowed to use e-tickets, or have hardcopies delivered to non-U.S. addresses.
Everyone keeps asking us how we feel about leaving, and the answer hasn’t changed. We are glad to be going home to see our friends and family; old haunts with new stories. But, we are leaving with a dragging sense of unfulfillment, goals left to lie at arms length. When we came to the decision to try this, we knew that there was a (pretty hefty) chance that we might not be able to make it work. That is the turn things took, that is the result we have to swallow, bitter though it may be. All the same, we haven’t given up totally. We still have Oxygen looking for contract work for Matt in the U.K. and the prospect of me being able to work off of his permit under U.K. law. So, we are looking at this retreat to California as just that, a temporary reconnoitring, a planning stage from which we can launch ourselves more successfully in the next go round.
Feels like a huge game of chess, only things here are grey instead of black and white.
During the second song (side note: its still so funny to hear the accents around us coming through in the singing here...the "th" expressed as "t", appre-she-ate becoming apre-sea-ate", its grand), just before the announcement part of the meeting last night, the brother giving them bumped us on the shoulder to ask if this was our last meeting. I said no, since that won’t be until Sunday. Too late did I realize that he was asking so the congregation could give us our farewell-clapping, sort of a resonating group hug, since there aren’t typically announcements on Sundays. We went out afterwards for a pint with the “kids” from our hall, mostly 20 to 30-somethings, and single (a few divorcees thrown in for color…). I think there was one other couple sans children. Matt and I talked for almost the whole time, mainly about our living situation (which keeps getting funnier and funnier), effectively monopolizing the conversation. I think we could do a whole book just about the nuances of being an American couple living in a Chinese-Pakistani household, and the hilarities thereof. It has been educational…Matt and I even made up a song…. I’ll save that for when we see you all in person….:) Thursday night we are going to dinner at the one couple’s house (she’s from Buffalo, he’s English), and one of the upcoming weekend nights, we are to have a last foray at an infamous place called Johnny Fox’s (supposedly located on top of the only hill in Dublin), for dinner and a concluding session of Irish dancing and pub crawl music escorted by a group from the Hall.
This morning we received our hard copy plane tickets flying Virgin Airlines to New York via London Heathrow from Dublin, our path now cut in stone. Extra helpings of gratitude going to the California based Allen team helping us devise and implement a way to by-pass the whole Americans living in foreign lands not allowed to use e-tickets, or have hardcopies delivered to non-U.S. addresses.
Everyone keeps asking us how we feel about leaving, and the answer hasn’t changed. We are glad to be going home to see our friends and family; old haunts with new stories. But, we are leaving with a dragging sense of unfulfillment, goals left to lie at arms length. When we came to the decision to try this, we knew that there was a (pretty hefty) chance that we might not be able to make it work. That is the turn things took, that is the result we have to swallow, bitter though it may be. All the same, we haven’t given up totally. We still have Oxygen looking for contract work for Matt in the U.K. and the prospect of me being able to work off of his permit under U.K. law. So, we are looking at this retreat to California as just that, a temporary reconnoitring, a planning stage from which we can launch ourselves more successfully in the next go round.
Feels like a huge game of chess, only things here are grey instead of black and white.
During the second song (side note: its still so funny to hear the accents around us coming through in the singing here...the "th" expressed as "t", appre-she-ate becoming apre-sea-ate", its grand), just before the announcement part of the meeting last night, the brother giving them bumped us on the shoulder to ask if this was our last meeting. I said no, since that won’t be until Sunday. Too late did I realize that he was asking so the congregation could give us our farewell-clapping, sort of a resonating group hug, since there aren’t typically announcements on Sundays. We went out afterwards for a pint with the “kids” from our hall, mostly 20 to 30-somethings, and single (a few divorcees thrown in for color…). I think there was one other couple sans children. Matt and I talked for almost the whole time, mainly about our living situation (which keeps getting funnier and funnier), effectively monopolizing the conversation. I think we could do a whole book just about the nuances of being an American couple living in a Chinese-Pakistani household, and the hilarities thereof. It has been educational…Matt and I even made up a song…. I’ll save that for when we see you all in person….:) Thursday night we are going to dinner at the one couple’s house (she’s from Buffalo, he’s English), and one of the upcoming weekend nights, we are to have a last foray at an infamous place called Johnny Fox’s (supposedly located on top of the only hill in Dublin), for dinner and a concluding session of Irish dancing and pub crawl music escorted by a group from the Hall.
Belfast, a city newer than any other in Ireland, and a city with a bigger and badder reputation than any other in the land, either side of the border. It only received a city charter in 1888 from Queen Victoria, although English and Scottish settlers inhabited it in the 1600’s, succeeding the long line of Beal Feirste’s (sandbank ford) O’Neill clan. Today it is home to nearly one-quarter of Northern Irelands residents, some 300,000 people. Did I tell you about the time, here in Dublin that Matt and I sat next to three kids from Antrim, the North, and had them jot down Gaelic phrases, correctly and phonetically for the visitors?
Well, it was great to hear the language, but the phrase Adrian, our tutor for the evening, liked to have us repeat the most was “Tiocfaidh Ár Lá!” pronounced “chucky are la”. Translation: “our day will come”. Meaning: “one of these days were gonna get Northern Ireland back from British rule, no matter who it hurts, no matter what we have to do, our time is on the horizon, and ain’t no body gonna hold us down.” Or something roughly like that. I think the translation I got from the kid who wrote it out for us had a lot more expletives and a lot more volume. It is hard for me to get a good grasp on exactly what the politics are behind the “Troubles” (beginning in 1969 and continuing to the 1994 short-lived cease fire, which lasted until 1996, and was re-established successfully in 1997), since what I see as an outsider is a lot of people getting along fine (seems like the south and middle north of the city are fairly well integrated, and many schools now strive to have 50-50 integration of religions as well) and a core group (mostly East and West sides, although the highest number of killings occurred in the North of the city) who just won’t let it lie. It dates back to William of Orange and the Battle of the Boyne (1690), bringging arstocratic protestants in to rule the Catholic pesantry, as well as the earlier bloddy conquer by Oliver Cromwell who (in the1640's) could be called the originator of this mess, as the one to first push Protestantism on the Catholic populous, mainly by brute force. Our driver kept saying that most of the killings boil down to tit for tat. Although, now, the city center fairly exudes a palpable forward momentum, a tangible desire to leave the past in the past, willing a new identity for itself.
10:00am Sunday morning, the mini-coach picked us up outside our hotel to sweep us away on the Belfast City Tour. A comparable tour in Dublin would include such sights as the zoo, Phoenix Park, Trinity University, The City Hall, Opera House…etc. In Belfast, the Parks you pass are all Memorial Gardens, the beautiful Grand Opera House has been bombed enough times that the government says if it happens again, they won’t rebuild. Their most famous hotel, the Europa, is famous because it holds the world record for most times bombed: 45. Since 1970, the IRA alone targeted that hotel 11 times. Which brings me to just how many splinter groups there are politically active here. Our tour guide, Rob, couldn’t provide an accurate count because it’s just not possible. After just a few minutes, the emotion of the group was raised to the keen edge of near wailing. It stayed that way the whole tour, and lingered through the day...
Here’s the skeleton sketch of the two sides separated in the hottest areas only by a wall, the peace line, reaching skyward, its height always on the increase to best the petrol bombs children toss over on boring afternoons: mainly it’s just the five (I think…) groups, picked out by their easily distinguishable flags: On one side the Catholic section of town, backed politically by the IRA and Sinn Féin (the oldest political party in Ireland taking its name from the Irish Gaelic expression for ``We Ourselves'') recognizable by houses with the tri-colored Irish flags flying high; the hard-line unionists consist of the Protestant Loyalist Union Jack, the United Freedom Fighters, whose main rival (although presumably on the same side) is the separatist Union Volunteer Force. Then there is the Loyalist flag of a red cross on a field of white. Innumerable versions of the Queen Mother flew high as well. Matt helped my to put it into words: Lets say a group of people are Loyalist, but feel that they aren't being violent enough in their cause. They'll start their OWN group that believes that the Loyalists are on the right side, but separate to take their own actions that the Loyalists don't want to. Hence, we have the U.V.F., the U.F.F., etc. Our driver mentioned a group known as the Shankhill Butchers, but wouldn’t tell us any specifics, since he had “already depressed us enough”. He grew up in the area they ravaged.
The most striking part of the loyalist parts of town is the painted sidewalks. Red, white, and blue dashes along the curbs letting you know exactly where you are. As we slunk through the townships, passing countless murals of peace and of war, Rob told us if there were any children about the mural areas he usually stops at, he would pass on, because these are the worst behaved, usually throwing rocks, and anything at hand at the bus (and tourists if they were outside it, but the bus was his main concern…great sense of humor, these guys). At one mural location, Rob related his own fright story of a day out leading a private tour of American students to this self-same mural, to take pictures. They happened to arrive just in time to watch as a cavalcade of police armoured cars drove into the neighborhood. The teens, acting as though they were merely watching “Cops” mobbed on nosing in closer, all the while snapping away. Suddenly a petrol bomb crashed against one of the armoured vehicles, scattering the teens back to safety, injuring the two policemen inside, but damaging no one but the car seriously. Two students went so hysterical that Rob immediately took them to Saint Anne’s Hospital (standing right on the peace line, inhabiting no-man’s-land as a concrete mediator). The rest, himself included, went for a few pints, as Rob says, a much better cure. At our last stop for mural gawking (many of which went up quite recently for the benefit of tourists like ourselves…funniest one being a Kentucky Fried Chicken’s with a red wall proclaiming the unionist slogan “Simply The Best”), we listened, rapt, to the tale of a recently released Johnny "Mad Dog" Adair, whose “only crime was loyalty” according to the banners, and murals present. As if summoned at the sound of his name, the man himself stepped out onto his porch while we drove away (the bus driver recognized him, and mentioned it as we made our escape). We never heard what exactly his arrest was for, but it was enough to know he was the lead dog in one of these multitudinous groups. Driving out past the dividing peace wall, festooned with police look out towers impenetrable giants gazing over the walls from cover of steal and barbed wire, we moved on into the greener hills and more pleasant thoughts.
Most places we couldn’t go inside of to see for ourselves, as it was a Sunday, and virtually nothing bothers opening on Sunday here. The one place we did get to enter was Belfast Castle, a lovely nook filled bastion nestled under what would be considered the chin below Napoleons Nose, as they affectionately named the bare hill sticking out ostentatiously above. Originally home to the Marquis of Donegal it was constructed in 1865. In 1934 the donated it to the City of Belfast, and it mostly a great spot to rent for weddings, banquets, and also houses a restaurant. Interestingly, the Belfast City Corporation proposed a one time to convert it into a nice hotel, but the people protested, sighting hotels one of the most often targeted (bombed) buildings in terrorist actions. This is because terrorist caused damage is not covered by insurance, so the government has to foot the bill, effectively draining their resources, and hotels being big expensive buildings. Down stairs (of course, being remodelled at the time of our visit) sits the Cave Hill Heritage Centre, keeper of the castle’s history, and the lore of the 8-caved knoll surrounding it. On the drive yesterday, we glimpsed the castle shrouded in its cosy trees just before a Kingdom Hall went speeding past (or rather, we went speeding past). Ensconsed in protective barbed-wire coils, like most other things in the city, one couldn't help but wonder how they manage to get on with the work here. Obviously there is a huge need for comfort to these beaten down people, but there is so much danger there, they must, of necessity, be some of the bravest witnesses on earth.
It was a good, peaceful place to end the tour; to go and meditate on all the things we had just seen and heard about, from a tour guide who had grown up on the north side of the city. Every time he told us another horror in a strongly rehearsed and rehashed voice, I wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, just convey somehow that it would all be a thing of the distant past soon, unable to harm any one further. But you can’t really do that on a tour bus. I settled for thanking him when he dropped us back to our hotel, saying it must be a tough t our to give day after day. He said it’s not so bad since he only does it a few days a week, but that he’s had his fill of it. Sad and sadder still.
We opted to take the earlier train back to Dublin, our previous desire to explore City Center squashed by the overwhelming saddness of this place. Kudos in the struggle to move on.
Well, it was great to hear the language, but the phrase Adrian, our tutor for the evening, liked to have us repeat the most was “Tiocfaidh Ár Lá!” pronounced “chucky are la”. Translation: “our day will come”. Meaning: “one of these days were gonna get Northern Ireland back from British rule, no matter who it hurts, no matter what we have to do, our time is on the horizon, and ain’t no body gonna hold us down.” Or something roughly like that. I think the translation I got from the kid who wrote it out for us had a lot more expletives and a lot more volume. It is hard for me to get a good grasp on exactly what the politics are behind the “Troubles” (beginning in 1969 and continuing to the 1994 short-lived cease fire, which lasted until 1996, and was re-established successfully in 1997), since what I see as an outsider is a lot of people getting along fine (seems like the south and middle north of the city are fairly well integrated, and many schools now strive to have 50-50 integration of religions as well) and a core group (mostly East and West sides, although the highest number of killings occurred in the North of the city) who just won’t let it lie. It dates back to William of Orange and the Battle of the Boyne (1690), bringging arstocratic protestants in to rule the Catholic pesantry, as well as the earlier bloddy conquer by Oliver Cromwell who (in the1640's) could be called the originator of this mess, as the one to first push Protestantism on the Catholic populous, mainly by brute force. Our driver kept saying that most of the killings boil down to tit for tat. Although, now, the city center fairly exudes a palpable forward momentum, a tangible desire to leave the past in the past, willing a new identity for itself.
10:00am Sunday morning, the mini-coach picked us up outside our hotel to sweep us away on the Belfast City Tour. A comparable tour in Dublin would include such sights as the zoo, Phoenix Park, Trinity University, The City Hall, Opera House…etc. In Belfast, the Parks you pass are all Memorial Gardens, the beautiful Grand Opera House has been bombed enough times that the government says if it happens again, they won’t rebuild. Their most famous hotel, the Europa, is famous because it holds the world record for most times bombed: 45. Since 1970, the IRA alone targeted that hotel 11 times. Which brings me to just how many splinter groups there are politically active here. Our tour guide, Rob, couldn’t provide an accurate count because it’s just not possible. After just a few minutes, the emotion of the group was raised to the keen edge of near wailing. It stayed that way the whole tour, and lingered through the day...
Here’s the skeleton sketch of the two sides separated in the hottest areas only by a wall, the peace line, reaching skyward, its height always on the increase to best the petrol bombs children toss over on boring afternoons: mainly it’s just the five (I think…) groups, picked out by their easily distinguishable flags: On one side the Catholic section of town, backed politically by the IRA and Sinn Féin (the oldest political party in Ireland taking its name from the Irish Gaelic expression for ``We Ourselves'') recognizable by houses with the tri-colored Irish flags flying high; the hard-line unionists consist of the Protestant Loyalist Union Jack, the United Freedom Fighters, whose main rival (although presumably on the same side) is the separatist Union Volunteer Force. Then there is the Loyalist flag of a red cross on a field of white. Innumerable versions of the Queen Mother flew high as well. Matt helped my to put it into words: Lets say a group of people are Loyalist, but feel that they aren't being violent enough in their cause. They'll start their OWN group that believes that the Loyalists are on the right side, but separate to take their own actions that the Loyalists don't want to. Hence, we have the U.V.F., the U.F.F., etc. Our driver mentioned a group known as the Shankhill Butchers, but wouldn’t tell us any specifics, since he had “already depressed us enough”. He grew up in the area they ravaged.
The most striking part of the loyalist parts of town is the painted sidewalks. Red, white, and blue dashes along the curbs letting you know exactly where you are. As we slunk through the townships, passing countless murals of peace and of war, Rob told us if there were any children about the mural areas he usually stops at, he would pass on, because these are the worst behaved, usually throwing rocks, and anything at hand at the bus (and tourists if they were outside it, but the bus was his main concern…great sense of humor, these guys). At one mural location, Rob related his own fright story of a day out leading a private tour of American students to this self-same mural, to take pictures. They happened to arrive just in time to watch as a cavalcade of police armoured cars drove into the neighborhood. The teens, acting as though they were merely watching “Cops” mobbed on nosing in closer, all the while snapping away. Suddenly a petrol bomb crashed against one of the armoured vehicles, scattering the teens back to safety, injuring the two policemen inside, but damaging no one but the car seriously. Two students went so hysterical that Rob immediately took them to Saint Anne’s Hospital (standing right on the peace line, inhabiting no-man’s-land as a concrete mediator). The rest, himself included, went for a few pints, as Rob says, a much better cure. At our last stop for mural gawking (many of which went up quite recently for the benefit of tourists like ourselves…funniest one being a Kentucky Fried Chicken’s with a red wall proclaiming the unionist slogan “Simply The Best”), we listened, rapt, to the tale of a recently released Johnny "Mad Dog" Adair, whose “only crime was loyalty” according to the banners, and murals present. As if summoned at the sound of his name, the man himself stepped out onto his porch while we drove away (the bus driver recognized him, and mentioned it as we made our escape). We never heard what exactly his arrest was for, but it was enough to know he was the lead dog in one of these multitudinous groups. Driving out past the dividing peace wall, festooned with police look out towers impenetrable giants gazing over the walls from cover of steal and barbed wire, we moved on into the greener hills and more pleasant thoughts.
Most places we couldn’t go inside of to see for ourselves, as it was a Sunday, and virtually nothing bothers opening on Sunday here. The one place we did get to enter was Belfast Castle, a lovely nook filled bastion nestled under what would be considered the chin below Napoleons Nose, as they affectionately named the bare hill sticking out ostentatiously above. Originally home to the Marquis of Donegal it was constructed in 1865. In 1934 the donated it to the City of Belfast, and it mostly a great spot to rent for weddings, banquets, and also houses a restaurant. Interestingly, the Belfast City Corporation proposed a one time to convert it into a nice hotel, but the people protested, sighting hotels one of the most often targeted (bombed) buildings in terrorist actions. This is because terrorist caused damage is not covered by insurance, so the government has to foot the bill, effectively draining their resources, and hotels being big expensive buildings. Down stairs (of course, being remodelled at the time of our visit) sits the Cave Hill Heritage Centre, keeper of the castle’s history, and the lore of the 8-caved knoll surrounding it. On the drive yesterday, we glimpsed the castle shrouded in its cosy trees just before a Kingdom Hall went speeding past (or rather, we went speeding past). Ensconsed in protective barbed-wire coils, like most other things in the city, one couldn't help but wonder how they manage to get on with the work here. Obviously there is a huge need for comfort to these beaten down people, but there is so much danger there, they must, of necessity, be some of the bravest witnesses on earth.
It was a good, peaceful place to end the tour; to go and meditate on all the things we had just seen and heard about, from a tour guide who had grown up on the north side of the city. Every time he told us another horror in a strongly rehearsed and rehashed voice, I wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, just convey somehow that it would all be a thing of the distant past soon, unable to harm any one further. But you can’t really do that on a tour bus. I settled for thanking him when he dropped us back to our hotel, saying it must be a tough t our to give day after day. He said it’s not so bad since he only does it a few days a week, but that he’s had his fill of it. Sad and sadder still.
We opted to take the earlier train back to Dublin, our previous desire to explore City Center squashed by the overwhelming saddness of this place. Kudos in the struggle to move on.
Since Matt and I have decided that we must go home again home again, we have turned nomadic. Second to the Aran Islands the one other thing Matt and I were gonna kick ourselves if we didn’t see was, as mentioned before, the Giant’s Causeway.
Matt managed to find us a tour that would get us there and back in one day, and then he extended it to a night’s stay in Belfast, so we could have one last fancy-shmancy hotel outing. I know what your thinking, Belfast = The Troubles = someplace we shouldn’t venture. But, com'on! We are in Ireland, it is a big part of the country, and I don't think anyones has been shot since 1993.... We aren’t that thick, so we made sure we were on a guided tour the whole entire time. Except for the sleeping part. We came home to the East from the far-flung West on Wednesday night, and left for the North on Saturday morning, at 6:45am. Train left at 7:20 with us, and a group of about 10 others aboard, as well as a mother hen to shelter us from the train crossing to the coach connection. Once we had met up with our bus driver/tour guide, a melodically accented Northener Michael, we set off for one of the most renowned costal locations in Europe (so they tell us), the Glens of Antrim, and the Causeway coast. The Glen Mountain itself sits like a chilly giant with a blanket of patchwork fields, a thousand shades of green, pulled tight around its knees, both neat and unruly hedges making up the stitches. We drove through perfect glades and herd covered pastures, two hours to our first destination on the seaside, a spot called Carrick-a-Rede (alternatively meaning "rock in the road" or "passage of salmon" depending on who's talking). A mile down a foot path with stone steps at intervals leading ever downward, lies its main attraction; curled in the crook of impossibly blue depths, seaweed covered coves and cliffs, and a ledge overflowing with the happy racket of thousands of birds, is a slim rope bridge hoisted 80 feet high over a chasm (where salmon run like mad in season, although we didn’t see any) between the mainland and an isolated punch of rock 60 feet away. Local fisherman errect the rope/cable bridge every year (during salmon season) to make bringing in the haul of fish easier, removing it come winter. I have a feeling our crossing was somewhat less sure comparitively, even coming at one point to all of us pep-talking a member of the tour across (she agreed that it was worth it once she got to the other side). Stunning, pristine and almost unimaginably Mediterranean feeling here in Ireland, this oasis also presents a never-never-land view of Scotland lying a few miles off in the distance.
By the end of this trek, I was ready to sit on a rock overlooking the water, and call it a day. But, the tour guide said no. Instead, he hauled us all to the quaint nearby town of Ballintoy for a reviving pub lunch. Next stop on the expedition: the Giants Causeway. Here’s a brilliant description of it from Fodor’s 2001 Ireland Guide book:
“…strange natural phenomenon consisting of 37,000 mostly hexagonal pillars of volcanic basalt, clustered like a giant honeycomb extending hundreds of yards into the sea. Legend has it that the causeway was created 60 million years ago when boiling lava, erupting from an underground fissure that stretched from Northern Ireland to the Scottish coast, crystallized as it burst into the sea, and formed according to the same natural principles that structures a honeycomb. As all Ulster folk know, though, the scientific truth is that the columns were created as stepping-stones by the giant Finn McCool in a bid to reach a giantess he’d fallen in love with on the Scottish island of Staffa (where the causeway resurfaces). Unfortunately, the giantess’s boyfriend found out, and in the ensuing battle Finn pulled out a huge chunk of earth and flung it toward Scotland. The resulting hole became the Lough Neagh, and the sod landed to create the Isle of Man. Boiling lava, indeed.”
Great stuff, huh?
Matt and I both could have spent hours here sitting amongst the natural (and quite comfy) couches, examining and admiring the beautiful algae, seaweed, and various shell-life thriving there. I can only hope my mass of pictures portrays some of the vibrant textures and colors of this microcosm. But, no the time crunch is on, back to the bus (we hiked the paved mile down to the beach, but hitched a ride back up the ascent in the tourist friendly transportation provided) we go.
Along the drive from the Giant’s Causeway, we stopped for a photo-opp at the local ruins. Dunluce Castle, a gorgeous hull on a cliff edge, looks like the surrounding earth was sheared away, cut to fit. Seems like everything here has a quirkier than usual story to go along with it, and this was no exception. It's a 13th century Norman fortress turned 16th century family seat of the local MacDonnell clan chiefs, eventually called the Lords Antrim. So, Lady Antrim (1639) was a big one for entertaining. They had recently extended the castle so as to have more enjoyable grounds for the guests and owners alike. Unfortunately, the castle designers of the day were a bit too cutting…ugh…edge, and their faulty construction led to the kitchen (complete with cooks and 8 staffers) plummeting into the sea one stormy night. Lady Antrim couldn’t hang, and they vacated the premises toot-sweet, not even waiting for morning (as the story goes). You can tour the inside of the castle’s remaining shell, but we all we had time for was a quick snapshot, and then…..
Can we fit more into this day? Why, yes, I think we can.
Next port of call: The Old Bushmills Distillery.
Thus called because it is officially the oldest licensed distillery of whiskey in the world. In 1608, King James I granted the original license (although historically whiskey has been distilled here since 1276 by those wily monks) to distil uisce beatha, aka acqua vitae, aka water of life. The original pronunciation of the Gaelic word “uisce” was too tough for outsiders who drank it, so, eventually they anglicised it to whiskey, a horrible transmutation over the years. But, the taste is the age-old same :) The part that stuck with me most from the description of how they create their thrice distilled sweet scented ambrosia, is that when it ages (no less than 5 years) in its oak barrels, the small (2% or so) portion that naturally evaporates off from the whole is called "the angel's share". The Irish never lack for imaginative language.
After our tour of the silent (cleaning month, so non-producing) plant, we all received complimentary glasses of the brew. Matt chose 12-year-old malt, while I went with the girly hot –toddy mixture of hot water, whiskey, sugar, and cloves. Kindly, the weather stayed dry until we were safely inside the plant.
All in all it was a fact-packed exquisitely beautiful fun day, and we fell asleep from exhaustion once we got chauffeured to our Hilton hotel.
I don’t have the mood shift capabilities to describe to you the next day’s (today’s) guided, hand-held exploration through the city of Belfast, peace walls, murals and war.
In fact, today just after we left, there was an Orangeman March through the notorious area of Drumcree (Protestants wanting to march through Catholic territory), and as excepted, violence ensued. The authorities anticipated this typical reaction from the rival sides, and so were prepared to an extent. Nothing fatal occurred, just a few injuries by plastic police bullets fired on protesters, but enough to turn the stomach. If you'd like more details, you can read about it at:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/uk/northern_ireland/newsid_2110000/2110173.stm
Until tomorrow, bona sera.
Matt managed to find us a tour that would get us there and back in one day, and then he extended it to a night’s stay in Belfast, so we could have one last fancy-shmancy hotel outing. I know what your thinking, Belfast = The Troubles = someplace we shouldn’t venture. But, com'on! We are in Ireland, it is a big part of the country, and I don't think anyones has been shot since 1993.... We aren’t that thick, so we made sure we were on a guided tour the whole entire time. Except for the sleeping part. We came home to the East from the far-flung West on Wednesday night, and left for the North on Saturday morning, at 6:45am. Train left at 7:20 with us, and a group of about 10 others aboard, as well as a mother hen to shelter us from the train crossing to the coach connection. Once we had met up with our bus driver/tour guide, a melodically accented Northener Michael, we set off for one of the most renowned costal locations in Europe (so they tell us), the Glens of Antrim, and the Causeway coast. The Glen Mountain itself sits like a chilly giant with a blanket of patchwork fields, a thousand shades of green, pulled tight around its knees, both neat and unruly hedges making up the stitches. We drove through perfect glades and herd covered pastures, two hours to our first destination on the seaside, a spot called Carrick-a-Rede (alternatively meaning "rock in the road" or "passage of salmon" depending on who's talking). A mile down a foot path with stone steps at intervals leading ever downward, lies its main attraction; curled in the crook of impossibly blue depths, seaweed covered coves and cliffs, and a ledge overflowing with the happy racket of thousands of birds, is a slim rope bridge hoisted 80 feet high over a chasm (where salmon run like mad in season, although we didn’t see any) between the mainland and an isolated punch of rock 60 feet away. Local fisherman errect the rope/cable bridge every year (during salmon season) to make bringing in the haul of fish easier, removing it come winter. I have a feeling our crossing was somewhat less sure comparitively, even coming at one point to all of us pep-talking a member of the tour across (she agreed that it was worth it once she got to the other side). Stunning, pristine and almost unimaginably Mediterranean feeling here in Ireland, this oasis also presents a never-never-land view of Scotland lying a few miles off in the distance.
By the end of this trek, I was ready to sit on a rock overlooking the water, and call it a day. But, the tour guide said no. Instead, he hauled us all to the quaint nearby town of Ballintoy for a reviving pub lunch. Next stop on the expedition: the Giants Causeway. Here’s a brilliant description of it from Fodor’s 2001 Ireland Guide book:
“…strange natural phenomenon consisting of 37,000 mostly hexagonal pillars of volcanic basalt, clustered like a giant honeycomb extending hundreds of yards into the sea. Legend has it that the causeway was created 60 million years ago when boiling lava, erupting from an underground fissure that stretched from Northern Ireland to the Scottish coast, crystallized as it burst into the sea, and formed according to the same natural principles that structures a honeycomb. As all Ulster folk know, though, the scientific truth is that the columns were created as stepping-stones by the giant Finn McCool in a bid to reach a giantess he’d fallen in love with on the Scottish island of Staffa (where the causeway resurfaces). Unfortunately, the giantess’s boyfriend found out, and in the ensuing battle Finn pulled out a huge chunk of earth and flung it toward Scotland. The resulting hole became the Lough Neagh, and the sod landed to create the Isle of Man. Boiling lava, indeed.”
Great stuff, huh?
Matt and I both could have spent hours here sitting amongst the natural (and quite comfy) couches, examining and admiring the beautiful algae, seaweed, and various shell-life thriving there. I can only hope my mass of pictures portrays some of the vibrant textures and colors of this microcosm. But, no the time crunch is on, back to the bus (we hiked the paved mile down to the beach, but hitched a ride back up the ascent in the tourist friendly transportation provided) we go.
Along the drive from the Giant’s Causeway, we stopped for a photo-opp at the local ruins. Dunluce Castle, a gorgeous hull on a cliff edge, looks like the surrounding earth was sheared away, cut to fit. Seems like everything here has a quirkier than usual story to go along with it, and this was no exception. It's a 13th century Norman fortress turned 16th century family seat of the local MacDonnell clan chiefs, eventually called the Lords Antrim. So, Lady Antrim (1639) was a big one for entertaining. They had recently extended the castle so as to have more enjoyable grounds for the guests and owners alike. Unfortunately, the castle designers of the day were a bit too cutting…ugh…edge, and their faulty construction led to the kitchen (complete with cooks and 8 staffers) plummeting into the sea one stormy night. Lady Antrim couldn’t hang, and they vacated the premises toot-sweet, not even waiting for morning (as the story goes). You can tour the inside of the castle’s remaining shell, but we all we had time for was a quick snapshot, and then…..
Can we fit more into this day? Why, yes, I think we can.
Next port of call: The Old Bushmills Distillery.
Thus called because it is officially the oldest licensed distillery of whiskey in the world. In 1608, King James I granted the original license (although historically whiskey has been distilled here since 1276 by those wily monks) to distil uisce beatha, aka acqua vitae, aka water of life. The original pronunciation of the Gaelic word “uisce” was too tough for outsiders who drank it, so, eventually they anglicised it to whiskey, a horrible transmutation over the years. But, the taste is the age-old same :) The part that stuck with me most from the description of how they create their thrice distilled sweet scented ambrosia, is that when it ages (no less than 5 years) in its oak barrels, the small (2% or so) portion that naturally evaporates off from the whole is called "the angel's share". The Irish never lack for imaginative language.
After our tour of the silent (cleaning month, so non-producing) plant, we all received complimentary glasses of the brew. Matt chose 12-year-old malt, while I went with the girly hot –toddy mixture of hot water, whiskey, sugar, and cloves. Kindly, the weather stayed dry until we were safely inside the plant.
All in all it was a fact-packed exquisitely beautiful fun day, and we fell asleep from exhaustion once we got chauffeured to our Hilton hotel.
I don’t have the mood shift capabilities to describe to you the next day’s (today’s) guided, hand-held exploration through the city of Belfast, peace walls, murals and war.
In fact, today just after we left, there was an Orangeman March through the notorious area of Drumcree (Protestants wanting to march through Catholic territory), and as excepted, violence ensued. The authorities anticipated this typical reaction from the rival sides, and so were prepared to an extent. Nothing fatal occurred, just a few injuries by plastic police bullets fired on protesters, but enough to turn the stomach. If you'd like more details, you can read about it at:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/uk/northern_ireland/newsid_2110000/2110173.stm
Until tomorrow, bona sera.
So, after much hemming and hawing, on Friday, Matt purchased our tickets back to the States. Apparently buying tickets through an American company as an American, you can't us electronic ticketing, nor can you have hard copy tickets sent to an address outside the States. Matt managed to get around that, but, Buh.
We should be returning to the Sunnyvale area somewhere around the 15th of July. We are sad to leave unfulfilled as far as the job bit goes, but regardless, we are glad to be returning to see family and friends. I am a little afraid about what leaving Dublin and entering California in July is gonna do no our nervous systems though. I’ll have heat stroke, and we’ll have to stay indoors for a week with the air conditioning cranked up high.
Se la vi
We should be returning to the Sunnyvale area somewhere around the 15th of July. We are sad to leave unfulfilled as far as the job bit goes, but regardless, we are glad to be returning to see family and friends. I am a little afraid about what leaving Dublin and entering California in July is gonna do no our nervous systems though. I’ll have heat stroke, and we’ll have to stay indoors for a week with the air conditioning cranked up high.
Se la vi
I meant to post this on Friday, but the blogger wouldn't let me in...maybe it thinks I've grown dull...
So, pretend it says "posted 7/5/02". Thanks.
Tuesday morning, aided by the singsong of water enfolding us into a peaceful nights sleep, we awoke with a tourist’s appetite to see the world laid out before us.
We were granted the perfect weather we needed to do the bicycle thing, which allowed us to go at our own pace, and travel in relative seclusion through a place engorged with other holidaymakers. We chose a trail that would wind up (oh the up on a bicycle, ugh) one side of the ridge cresting the island and return us (less painfully) via the lower coast road. Along the way, the first relic we visited Dun Echola (Dun Oghill), an almost perfect stone ring fort, circa 500BC, that hovers beside a Napoleonic signal tower (1815, and interestingly covered with shiny shingles to minimize the destructive effects of the island weather, most of which were stolen by the inhabitants to cover their own huts) and lighthouse (1818) (funny part about it being that it was built on the wrong island…there is another island of the coast of Donegal called Aranmore that was supposed to receive the pre-emptive defence measure, but no one seemed to care enough to mention it) a prehistoric wedge tomb, a beehive hut (uniquely being oval outside and rectangular inside), uncountable ruins of churches and famine houses (thus called because they were abandoned en mass during the potato famine), and last but not least Dun Angus, the, and I quote, “most gob smacking” stone age fort in all of Europe.
Our number one priority was to see Dun Angus (Dun Aonghasa), originating from approximately 1500BC. Recently a team of archaeologists excavated the location and found that it had been inhabited from 1500BC thru to 1000AD, or about 2500 years all tolled. It is a semi-circular three-ringed enclosure propped right up against the tallest precipice on the island, about 300 feet down to the sea. It seems to have been a ritual, economic, and political center for the people who created it. The full use of the place is still up to debate, ranging from protective and strategicly placed (having a clear view of the whole island and surrounding sea, so no chance of surprise visitors) fort, to sacred ground to merely a gathering place. There is evidence of the more important, aka: richer, people of their society dwelling inside the inner ring, while the other folk inhabited the middle ring. The third, outer ring was mainly for animals, and food, not being as well protected. But, what is causes of much of this debate is a natural rock platform smack in the middle of the inner ring, right up against the cliff edge. Archaeologists found a handful of bronze rings deliberately buried next to this dais, as though placed for sacrificial offering to some god. Some researchers even seem to think the location was theatrical in nature. All is speculative. Another singular sight is the “chevaux de fries” that surrounds the middle enclosure; it stands gaurd as a thick band of close-set pointy pillars, and miscellaneous rocks stuck like crooked teeth aimed to trip any intruders. This long down the time line it still does its job and is difficult to traverse.
Matt and I sat on the raised rock stage in the center of Dun Angus, ten feet from the edge of the world, watching a storm cross the Atlantic at a dizzying pace. Eventually the anthill of tourists had their fill of grandeur, and we were left entirely to ourselves. I haven’t felt such absolute solitude in a long time. Crouched at the outskirts of forever, alone except for the relentless crash of wave against rock, everything else is insubstantial, small.
It was a warm fuzzy feeling riding our bikes into peoples back gardens, having them wave us on; happy to share the historical monument their cows and horses graze around with the rest of humanity. We ended our expedition at the heritage center, not because we thought there might be more we hadn't uncovered, but because upstairs, in the most unreachable of unreachables, they had an internet connection. At €6.50 an hour, we quickly found the train timetable and the last train to Dublin from Galway, since we were hopping to stay a little into the afternoon the following day. After a shower, and some rest, we had dinner at the same restaurant again since the only other one in the village was in our hotel. Later that night, a friendly old gent, the image of the Gordon’s Fisherman, offered to bring us over in his curach to the neighboring island to look at Synge’s Chair (“its EXACTLY where the man sat to write his books, the exact spot!”) from the water below the cliff. We would have loved to ride along, had we not witnessed pint after pint disappear in front of him. Still, it was a lovely offer, regardless. He did manage to walk us out front of the “American bar” to point squinting in the distance at the speck on the horizon that he would have boated us to.
The next morning we dutifully filled our bags at the tourist traps, waved to our guide from day one, and meandered the waterfront to the noon ferry back to Galway. The sunny half hour crossing left us with tan lines, and salty skin. On the boat, Matt texted (the mobile phone is still the best thing we’ve invested in here) Gabriella to see if she could free herself to meet us for coffee since we had a few hours to kill before the train left. After confirming our train departure time at the actual train station in Galway, we met Gabriella in Eyre Square (a big green park with statues and art strewn about it) with beau Simon, and friend Phillip in tow. After a tasty panini, a bracing cup of coffee, and pleasant conversation, we parted company, and boarded our train, leaving the old world ways of Aran behind, its "True Irishness" to slowly degenerate in peace.
So, pretend it says "posted 7/5/02". Thanks.
Tuesday morning, aided by the singsong of water enfolding us into a peaceful nights sleep, we awoke with a tourist’s appetite to see the world laid out before us.
We were granted the perfect weather we needed to do the bicycle thing, which allowed us to go at our own pace, and travel in relative seclusion through a place engorged with other holidaymakers. We chose a trail that would wind up (oh the up on a bicycle, ugh) one side of the ridge cresting the island and return us (less painfully) via the lower coast road. Along the way, the first relic we visited Dun Echola (Dun Oghill), an almost perfect stone ring fort, circa 500BC, that hovers beside a Napoleonic signal tower (1815, and interestingly covered with shiny shingles to minimize the destructive effects of the island weather, most of which were stolen by the inhabitants to cover their own huts) and lighthouse (1818) (funny part about it being that it was built on the wrong island…there is another island of the coast of Donegal called Aranmore that was supposed to receive the pre-emptive defence measure, but no one seemed to care enough to mention it) a prehistoric wedge tomb, a beehive hut (uniquely being oval outside and rectangular inside), uncountable ruins of churches and famine houses (thus called because they were abandoned en mass during the potato famine), and last but not least Dun Angus, the, and I quote, “most gob smacking” stone age fort in all of Europe.
Our number one priority was to see Dun Angus (Dun Aonghasa), originating from approximately 1500BC. Recently a team of archaeologists excavated the location and found that it had been inhabited from 1500BC thru to 1000AD, or about 2500 years all tolled. It is a semi-circular three-ringed enclosure propped right up against the tallest precipice on the island, about 300 feet down to the sea. It seems to have been a ritual, economic, and political center for the people who created it. The full use of the place is still up to debate, ranging from protective and strategicly placed (having a clear view of the whole island and surrounding sea, so no chance of surprise visitors) fort, to sacred ground to merely a gathering place. There is evidence of the more important, aka: richer, people of their society dwelling inside the inner ring, while the other folk inhabited the middle ring. The third, outer ring was mainly for animals, and food, not being as well protected. But, what is causes of much of this debate is a natural rock platform smack in the middle of the inner ring, right up against the cliff edge. Archaeologists found a handful of bronze rings deliberately buried next to this dais, as though placed for sacrificial offering to some god. Some researchers even seem to think the location was theatrical in nature. All is speculative. Another singular sight is the “chevaux de fries” that surrounds the middle enclosure; it stands gaurd as a thick band of close-set pointy pillars, and miscellaneous rocks stuck like crooked teeth aimed to trip any intruders. This long down the time line it still does its job and is difficult to traverse.
Matt and I sat on the raised rock stage in the center of Dun Angus, ten feet from the edge of the world, watching a storm cross the Atlantic at a dizzying pace. Eventually the anthill of tourists had their fill of grandeur, and we were left entirely to ourselves. I haven’t felt such absolute solitude in a long time. Crouched at the outskirts of forever, alone except for the relentless crash of wave against rock, everything else is insubstantial, small.
It was a warm fuzzy feeling riding our bikes into peoples back gardens, having them wave us on; happy to share the historical monument their cows and horses graze around with the rest of humanity. We ended our expedition at the heritage center, not because we thought there might be more we hadn't uncovered, but because upstairs, in the most unreachable of unreachables, they had an internet connection. At €6.50 an hour, we quickly found the train timetable and the last train to Dublin from Galway, since we were hopping to stay a little into the afternoon the following day. After a shower, and some rest, we had dinner at the same restaurant again since the only other one in the village was in our hotel. Later that night, a friendly old gent, the image of the Gordon’s Fisherman, offered to bring us over in his curach to the neighboring island to look at Synge’s Chair (“its EXACTLY where the man sat to write his books, the exact spot!”) from the water below the cliff. We would have loved to ride along, had we not witnessed pint after pint disappear in front of him. Still, it was a lovely offer, regardless. He did manage to walk us out front of the “American bar” to point squinting in the distance at the speck on the horizon that he would have boated us to.
The next morning we dutifully filled our bags at the tourist traps, waved to our guide from day one, and meandered the waterfront to the noon ferry back to Galway. The sunny half hour crossing left us with tan lines, and salty skin. On the boat, Matt texted (the mobile phone is still the best thing we’ve invested in here) Gabriella to see if she could free herself to meet us for coffee since we had a few hours to kill before the train left. After confirming our train departure time at the actual train station in Galway, we met Gabriella in Eyre Square (a big green park with statues and art strewn about it) with beau Simon, and friend Phillip in tow. After a tasty panini, a bracing cup of coffee, and pleasant conversation, we parted company, and boarded our train, leaving the old world ways of Aran behind, its "True Irishness" to slowly degenerate in peace.
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