Ireland IX

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII
Part VIII

Limerick, June 10th, 1999
Well, here we are in Limerick, although no appropriate limerick comes to mind for the occasion.

We only paid a brief visit to Limerick, a stopover on our way to Kilrush, a small town on the way to Galway. It seemed like a quiet place without much to recommend it to travelers. We purchased lunch from a Chinese fast food place, which seemed like an odd thing to do in Ireland but it was the first place we found and I was starving. Unfortunately the food was not very filling so we stopped by a convenience store afterwards and augmented the meal with bananas and candy bars.

Most of the day was spent riding buses, an activity we were thoroughly sick of by the time we arrived in Kilrush. The hostel we stayed at was run by a very nice couple, Mary and Joe. When we purchased food at the store they ran adjacent to the hostel, Joe did not even charge us the full amount. The hostel itself was a two hundred year old building. Mary and Joe had printed up a history of the building and of each individual room, which added a nice touch. The only complaint we had was that the showers were operated by tokens - I was not quick enough and ended up standing in freezing cold water while rinsing conditioner out of my hair. Brrr!

Kilrush, June 10, 1999
We finally got to a pub, and figured out the only reason we'd been so scared of going was because we attach too much importance to ourselves.

The pub was Crotty's, and we each ordered a half-pint of guinness and then retired to a table in a corner, feeling a bit out of place. Guinness is not for the faint of heart, but if you can muscle your way through that first half-pint you might develop a fondness for it. The pub had live "Trad" that night, which is slang for "traditional music." There was a flutist, an accordion player and a couple of men with drums that looked like very large, covered tamborines. Two women provided the vocals, and the group persuaded several people in the pub to sing as well, including one Swedish man. He sang a short song in a deep, powerful voice, which is not what we would have expected from him. They asked Jo and I to contribute a song as well, a request we promptly and repeatedly denied. Even if we'd managed to overcome our shyness, the only songs we could think of were hymns and we were not sure how well that would be received.

It proved to be an unfounded concern. One of the women in the pub sang a hymn, and most of the people joined in on the chorus, which went something like 'A land where we'll never grow old, never grow old...' It was moving to watch the participants, most of whom were elderly, softly singing these lines.

We did not leave Crotty's until nearly midnight and the place was still packed.

Kilrush, June 11, 1999
We went down to the marina and caught the 12 o'clock boat to Scattery Island, which is in the mouth of the Shannon River I believe. It was inhabited up to the 1970's but isn't anymore. It has several ruins, some dating back to the 6-7th centuries. It was an interesting place, not just for the ruins.

Scattery Island was uninhabited by humans but packed full of wildlife. There were vast amounts of rabbits, which had dug tunnels all over the island, even in the stone walls. In places the ground was actually soft from all the tunnels underneath. There were also predators, which we did not catch a glimpse of, but probably foxes and birds of prey, as we found several dead rabbits festooning the beach with their entrails.

We covered more of the island than our fellow visitors. After a walk along the beach, where we found and collected several pretty shells and small stones, we reached the end that had a lighthouse and an old stone fort that had an outer wall and a moat. Sadly, the moat was dry. We could not go into the main building, because the floorboards were decrepit and missing in spots. Jo was upset because we had forgotten to place new film in the small backpack we carried with us while sightseeing.

We were supposed to return to the pick up spot by 2:15PM and we almost missed the boat. We were running part of the time, Jo with her sore ankle, while I wore the daypack, which made me sway from side to side like a camel. We must have looked pretty silly but fortunately only the birds and the rabbits witnessed our undignified rush. The trip to and from the island was my first ride on a 'real' boat (canoes and paddleboats did not count) and I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was an overcast day and the light filtering through the sullen clouds turned the clear water of the Shannon into liquid silver. It would have looked quite dull in a photograph but it was lovely in person.

The Little Waves of Breffny

Since I've been taking an extended ramble through memory lane, I thought I would share a piece of poetry that I actually like - I tend to be more kindly towards Irish poetry than any other, simply because it's Irish.

The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,

And there is traffic in it and many a horse and cart,

But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me,

And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill,

And there is glory in it and terror on the wind,

But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,

And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.

The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,

Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal,

But the Little Waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,

And the Little Waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.

-Eva Gore-Booth

On a related note

I've been coming to the conclusion that waiting for inspiration is not the best way to go about writing. Muses are far less reliable than death or taxes. It would seem that - as with most aspects of my life - I simply need to apply some self discipline and act rather than contemplate. I went for over a week without posting because I just 'wasn't feeling it' but when I finally sat down and worked on another installment, not only did I manage to produce one but I enjoyed writing it as well.

Ireland VIII

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI
Part VII

Kenmare, June 9, 1999
We took the earliest bus to Kenmare (10 AM) and rattled our way back across the mountains. (Kenmare is between Glengarriff and Killarney.) The bus ride was making Jo sick, but the scenery was awesome of course. I couldn't look at the road while the bus was moving, it was scarier than watching the steep drop-offs.

The most memorable feature of the hostel in Kenmare was its hideous 70's decor. It was clean though. The lady that ran the hostel seemed unfriendly at first, but later she warmed up a little. She still needed to finish cleaning the kitchen so we took our lunch to a park. Afterward, we climbed a mountain.

It was not a very high mountain, probably not even as high as the one we had started climbing in Glengarriff, but it still qualified as an actual mountain and even had a name, though I forgot to note the name in my journal. The summit was reached via a portion of the Kerry Way, one of Ireland's many long, rough walks. The view from the top was lovely and Jo and I spent a little while sitting there discussing life, the universe and everything. On our way down, we saw a young fox. I had never seen a real fox before and was very excited. It skittered away to a clump of bushes and then paused to watch us leave.

Kenmare did not have any major spots for tourists to visit but they made the most of what they had. We saw a little tower named Hutchin's Folly and Cromwell's Bridge, which he never set foot on because he had not come that far south. We also paid a visit to the local holy well, which had been a Celtic holy spot until the conversion to Catholicism. Now it played host to a tacky shrine dedicated to Mary. The crowning glory of Kenmare's tourist industry, however, was a 'druid's circle' that we had visited earlier in the day before climbing the mountain.

The druid's circle was one large stone set in the middle of several large stones, campfire-style. It was supposedly 3,000 years old, but frankly it looked like something the locals had assembled in order to milk gullible tourists for the one pound price of admission, paid into a lockbox on the honor system, as there was no one in attendance at the actual site.

At this time in our lives, Jo and I were afflicted with almost terminal shyness, so we had not managed to work up the courage to visit a pub since our first attempt in Belfast. Jo had noticed a place that advertised live music, so we decided we would check it out. Well, when we walked in the door of the establishment we noticed a few things: it was really more like an American bar & grill than an Irish pub, it was packed full and there appeared to be no one under 40 years of age. They ALL turned to stare at us, like vampires sensing fresh blood. Our spirits quailed and we fled the premises.

Ack, just a little over the two week mark and I've already used like two-thirds of this journal. I shall probably have to get a new one before we're finished here.

Ireland VII

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI

Killarney, June 7, 1999
It has been a shitty day, literally and figuratively. It started out as a normal, pleasant morning, until I had a nervous breakdown brought on by stepping in a massive pile of dog doo.

The previous day had been golden. After doing our best imitation of mountain goats, we'd retreated from the mountainside and spent the rest of the afternoon wandering paths that led to a small river, where we skipped stones and dozed on the gravelly bank, followed by ice cream cones when we returned to town.

The next morning we decided we would get a closer view of the bay since we had time before our bus to Killarney would be leaving. While wandering through the wooded area between the town and the bay, I managed to step in an enormous pile of dog crap. Being afflicted with the 'overweening dignity' of youth this seemed like a personal insult delivered by the hand of a malicious universe. I nursed my wounded pride while sitting on a large stone in a clearing liberally dotted with piles of fly-covered shit, dismally attempting to clean my only pair of shoes.

Jo thought the incident was hilarious. Had our positions been reversed, I would have thought the same, but at the time being laughed at only made my mood that much darker. I behaved like a bitch, snapped at her and walked off in a huff. It was not until we were on the bus to Killarney later that day that my mood started to lighten.

It would have been difficult to stay angry during that amazing bus ride. The narrow little road wound up into the mountains ringing Bantry Bay, where it hovered near the top of the peaks for quite some time with a very steep, high drop-off on one side. The view was spectacular and highly intimidating when seen from inside a large, swaying bus. Any time traffic approached going the other direction, both vehicles would have to slow down and squeeze over as far as possible in order to manuever past. At one point, I snapped a picture of the drop off and realized just as I clicked the button that the odd-looking specks at the bottom were in fact the wreckage of a vehicle.

Killarney was nice little town, whose main claim to fame was its proximity to the Killarney National Forest, a place of mountains, huge lakes and even a castle. We spent some time exploring the area of the park closest to the town, then returned to the hostel, where we watched Batman in the common room with a crowd of other back-packing youth.

They have a coed bathroom here. Not one of those genderless, one toilet bathrooms that any man, woman or child can use. This is a full-fledged coed bathroom with toilet stalls, a shower for boys and one for girls. I walked in there, feeling a bit weird, and a guy walks in behind me. I turn, we look at each other for a second and then go into our respective stalls. It took me a while to let loose, but it took him even longer!

The next day we spent more time in KNF. The park was huge, and the day before we'd considered renting bikes in order to see more of it, but ended up changing our minds. Instead we rented a rowboat and spent time clumsily paddling around one of the lakes while singing whatever songs came to mind. We were both pretty homesick at this point and it definitely put a damper on our time in Killarney, but we managed to have fun even so.

I'll resume posting in the next day or two. Right now I have the plague and intend to curl up on the couch and watch LadyHawke.

<>

If the way I feel now is any indication, my body did a pretty good job of fighting off this bug while I tossed and turned and sweated last night. I'm not 100% better, but certainly in better shape than I was last night when I watched LadyHawke. Took me forever to find it and I thought I might be forced to watch something else instead, which is like having to settle for a chocolate-frosted doughnut when what I really wanted was a Bavarian cream-filled. It would not be the same. Fortunately, it turned up stashed inside what I had thought was an empty box sitting near my desk.

LadyHawke has been one of my favorite movies ever since I first saw it as a girl. I have a long-standing platonic crush on Rutger Hauer's Etienne Navarre. I've never really been a big fan of Michelle Pfeiffer but she was radiant as Isabeau. Matthew Broderick's Philippe the Mouse was entertaining and provided light-hearted levity which nicely offset Hauer's grim knight. The sets and cinematography were beautiful as well. I've heard people complain about the music, but I have to confess, I like it and I like the contrast of modern music with a medieval setting.

Despite the fact that I am often about as romantic as a porcupine, I really like the love story in LadyHawke. Navarre and Isabeau are deeply, faithfully devoted to each other. Their love is portrayed with a level of purity and depth seldom seen onscreen these days.

Ireland VI

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V

Glengarriff, June 6, 1999

The higher we climbed the more awesome the scenery became. The mountain itself was covered in a sea of grass, and the way it shone and rippled it really did look almost liquid... Occasionally out in the meadows between the ridges the stream would make small pools, which were brown when the sun shone directly on them and the loveliest blue when it didn't. It was amazing up there, so big and free and wild.

You could almost feel magic up there, not like the little fairies and leprechauns of recent years, cute and harmless, but the pookas, the kelpies, the banshees. Once again it was a very Narnian landscape. The Western Waste perhaps. Or Archland. You almost expected Bree to walk up. It was also a very Tolkienesque landscape. You could just see Gandalf and Bilbo and all the rest wandering through the mountains.

I'm not in any way trying to take away the glory of God's creation with this talk of magic. You are very much aware of Him up there. And I had the most incredibly secure feeling up there, even on the edge of steep drop-offs that should have made me fearful, with my dislike of heights. It wasn't really a physical security, it was a spiritual one. Just knowing that no matter what happened, if you fell and got smashed to bits or if you went down back into the world with all its suffering, everything was going to be all right.

There is such a sense of rightness on a mountainside. Such a secure peace. I just can't describe it properly. A little of it is still with me right now.

We took peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with us for lunch. They were ambrosial, the best PB&J sandwiches I have ever eaten.