Anna and Frances have been keeping me pretty busy. Between playing Hedbandz (a kiddie varient of the parlor game from Inglourious Basterds) and Monopoly, they've gotten a hold of my free time. Irish monopoly is different since the prices are in Euro and the street names are all things like "Wexford Avenue." Also, they have Dublin and Shannon airports instead of the railroads. I'm pretty glad for the company though, and as I'm sure I've mentioned a million times, they're absolutely adorable.
So I finally decided to see what all the international hubbub was about and read something by Japanese literary rock star Haruki Murakami. I gotta say, the fuss is completely deserved. This guy is a capital-n Novelist. If Shusaku Endo is the Japanese Dickens then Murakami is the Japanese Vonnegut. That said, reading a €2 used copy of Sputnik Sweetheart alone in a series of rainy cafes in Dingle made me feel lonely. To quote Klosterman (referring to the music of Billy Joel) "the kind of lonely where someone hugs you and somehow you feel worse." For some reason, reading a Japanese novel set largely in Greece got my intellectual wheels turning about Ireland.
The chief caveat about their country that I have heard from intellectual Irish people is the fear of insularity, a word that literally means "made into an island." This is hardly a new problem. Joyce in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man has Stephen Dedalus describe Ireland as "an old sow that eats her farrow." More recently, Bob Geldof wrote about the "Celtic kulturkampf" mentality that dominated his youth.
This was the culture of cowardice. A cultural inferiority in fact. A fear that what we truly had beyond the basic bollocks, “Yer 40 shades of Green,” are any cunt who could scrape a line from an authentically out-of-tune fiddle wouldn’t add up. They were, of course hopelessly, horribly wrong. But just in case, Ireland was to be kept in its touristic cultural aspic. ‘The sea o the sea, grá gheal ma chroi, Thank God we’re surrounded by water.’ We would bang our bodhráns, blow our penny whistles, and authentically jam our fingers in our ears while we sang, faces screwed in ersatz sincerity, the tuneless maunderings of despair that had, by now, become our national psyche.--Geldof, 2004
The younger generation seems to fear the return of the old provincialism: the weathering of hard times by bending one's neck to the blows and withdrawing one's mind to remembrance of a mythic past. For Joyce and Geldof, this past was that enshrined in the epics and cycles of ancient Ireland. Most today need look no further back than the "Celtic Tiger" years of the late 80's and 90's when Ireland had 0% unemployment and seemed to be moving nowhere but up. When times were hard, and they always were, the Irish in the past could always blame the British. That option is no longer open to them, as Britain is floundering in this economic cesspool as badly as Ireland, but the old defeatism is still there. A fellow I met in An Droichead Beag Saturday night said that the Irish have never really stopped thinking of themselves as an oppressed people. He says the difference between Irish and, say, British or Americans is tangible. These latter two people will fight for what they feel they deserve, the Irish will simply allow themselves to be trodden on. And where do these people turn? Inward, inward, ever inward. Isolate and insulate, perpetuate pain and drown your sorrows in alcohol and Christianity, the two great Irish narcotics. Thank god we're surrounded by water. The result is that people develop a skin thick as a Wellington boot. They are impervious to harm, but also to comfort, to a broadening of the horizons.
Murakami writes about the alienation of modern life, giving a voice to what The Daily Telegraph has ignomiously dubbed "the Eleanor Rigby generation". The characters of Sputnik Sweetheart isolate themselves from emotional intimacy by withdrawing into their passions and treating everyone around them as strangers. Their tragedy is that they live a diminished life, with that spark of themselves that feels passion and growth trapped on the other side of the mirror. Can a nation withdraw into this self-imposed exile of loneliness? To be sure, most of the Irish people I've met don't overtly display this mindset--I certainly don't see it in the O'Connors--but the fear is always there. Just the other day, I heard some cheeky American teabagger on a Galway radio program trying to get the Irish to adopt the American scourge of Beck/Palin style populism. Thankfully, the host and most of the callers seemed to dismiss him as a blowhard, since that sort of populism has historically taken much uglier forms in Ireland than anything currently happening in America.
Will the Irish national psyche ever outrun the curse of it's geography? Does the new generation have the strength to finally break the shell of the Eleanor Rigby nation? There certainly seems to be an unmatched (even in America) tradition of self-loathing, but this critical eye does the Irish people no service when it simply causes the best and brightest to expatriate in disgust. In the modern world, isolation is death. As nations and as individuals, we must always strive to practice humanity to the best of our abilities together. Albert Schweitzer was right; the future of the world depends on it.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Tá an saol go hálainn
True community is found in the midst of solitude.
I spent the last weekend in the remote fishing town of Dingle (An Daingean meaning "the fort"). The town lies in the shadow of Mt. Brandon perched on a shallow harbor that opens into Dingle Bay. It is the westernmost town in Europe. Although it's a tourist hotspot, the town has maintained much of its traditional Irish character fueled by a fishing industry that still brings in money and by its good fortune to lie in an official Gaeltacht area. Irish is the language of choice in Dingle, and while everyone spoke English, not all the signs were bilingual. I've managed to absorb enough Irish through osmosis to stumble my way around, for example "Síopa leabhar agus caife" means "bookstore and cafe," "uisce" means "water" and "fir" and "mna" mean "gents" and "ladies" respectively. Don't get those last two mixed up. The language gives the locals something distinctive that allows them to retain a sense of local color that I think many touristy shore towns across the world have lost.
That said, Dingle was expensive and overrun with Americans. While it was good to meet fellow Yanks, I could tell that their presence had driven up prices in the little shops and galleries. I practiced a little restraint and limited my souvenier buying to a Kerry football jersey (super-comfortable, I'm wearing it now) and a couple postcards. Booze took up the lions share of my budget. I made a mission of trying all the whiskeys in town, though not all at once obviously. I had a Paddys on Friday (really smooth and mellow), a Bushmills on Saturday (full-bodied and smokey) and a Powers on Sunday (starts out mellow, but has a spicy after-kick). I also sampled Cork Dry Gin (very citrusy), Smithwicks Ale (good stuff, great flavor), Murphy's stout (roasty espresso flavor) and Harp lager (kindof blah and pissy, not really anything special).
I was a bit worried that I'd get lonely in Dingle, but within fifteen minutes of arriving at the hostel I had made friends with Lianna from Germany and Zach from Michigan. Lianna was taking a deserved break from her four-week cycling tour of the Irish coast. She had started in Dublin and planned to go all the way to Galway! She had an extremely thick German accent and tended to over-emphasize words when she was excited (which was, quite honestly, all the time). She was also pretty generous with her pocketbook and I managed to get lots of free drinks from her. Zach was your typical American beatnik backpacker, hiking around West Cork and Kerry by himself. Zach has a strict philosophy of living life leisurely, enjoying cheap rolling tobacco, maladroitly prepared food that he had foraged from Irish grocery stores and taking five and a half years to finish his double major in philosophy and history. The three of us made pretty good craic in a small town of almost 50 pubs. Friday night there was a mild thunderstorm that managed to knock out power to the whole town. We were at O'Flagherty's Pub enjoying Paddys and Guinness to candlelight. When the lights finally came back on, the owner, Fergus O'Flagherty started playing some trad music. The guy is an absolute renaissance man, plays the button accordian, tin whistle, bouzouki, banjo, guitar, uillean pipes and sings very nicely (sort of like the lead from The Dubliners). We had to stagger back to the hostel in lashing rain, which was no fun.
Saturday, Lianna and I checked out as many of the little shops and galleries as we could. I gave my mom a 10 minute call for 1.50 euro. We also played a couple rounds of bowling. That night, after a dinner of ham and cheese sandwiches (saving money for drinks by doing a little grocery shopping), the three of us hit the pubs. We started the night at John Benny's listening to a traditional singer called Pauline Scanlon, who I might add was super-hot. We eventually wandered over to a place called Dick Mack's, which is a legend with the locals. It's the oldest pub in Dingleand used to be a general store. You really don't get more authentic; I couldv'e been Yeats in that place. There's no food, just booze and the gate bears the inscription "Where's Dick Mack's? It's opposite the church. Where's the church? Opposite Dick Mack's." The place was loud, crowded, and smelled of B.O. and stale Guinness. At about 11:30 a skunk-drunk bachelorette party stumbled in, singing and halfheartedly flirting with the stinky fishermen. After Dick Mack's, we ended up at a place called An Droichead Beag, where a lone guitarrist played soulful covers of rock songs and traditional Irish diddies. If Marc Seely were Irish, he'd be this guy. The crowd loved it, everyone was singing along and dancing their arses off. We got back pretty late that night, getting semi-lost on the way back to the hostel. At least it wasn't raining.
In short, travelling alone affords me fantastic opportunites to meet people that I wouldn't otherwise talk to. I met scads of people, Irish and American, this weekend and we all got along just fine. I think that people travelling alone learn to find or create community wherever we go. True community is found in the midst of solitude.
Wish I could write more, but Anna and Frances are pesking me to play a game. It's good to be home.
I spent the last weekend in the remote fishing town of Dingle (An Daingean meaning "the fort"). The town lies in the shadow of Mt. Brandon perched on a shallow harbor that opens into Dingle Bay. It is the westernmost town in Europe. Although it's a tourist hotspot, the town has maintained much of its traditional Irish character fueled by a fishing industry that still brings in money and by its good fortune to lie in an official Gaeltacht area. Irish is the language of choice in Dingle, and while everyone spoke English, not all the signs were bilingual. I've managed to absorb enough Irish through osmosis to stumble my way around, for example "Síopa leabhar agus caife" means "bookstore and cafe," "uisce" means "water" and "fir" and "mna" mean "gents" and "ladies" respectively. Don't get those last two mixed up. The language gives the locals something distinctive that allows them to retain a sense of local color that I think many touristy shore towns across the world have lost.
That said, Dingle was expensive and overrun with Americans. While it was good to meet fellow Yanks, I could tell that their presence had driven up prices in the little shops and galleries. I practiced a little restraint and limited my souvenier buying to a Kerry football jersey (super-comfortable, I'm wearing it now) and a couple postcards. Booze took up the lions share of my budget. I made a mission of trying all the whiskeys in town, though not all at once obviously. I had a Paddys on Friday (really smooth and mellow), a Bushmills on Saturday (full-bodied and smokey) and a Powers on Sunday (starts out mellow, but has a spicy after-kick). I also sampled Cork Dry Gin (very citrusy), Smithwicks Ale (good stuff, great flavor), Murphy's stout (roasty espresso flavor) and Harp lager (kindof blah and pissy, not really anything special).
I was a bit worried that I'd get lonely in Dingle, but within fifteen minutes of arriving at the hostel I had made friends with Lianna from Germany and Zach from Michigan. Lianna was taking a deserved break from her four-week cycling tour of the Irish coast. She had started in Dublin and planned to go all the way to Galway! She had an extremely thick German accent and tended to over-emphasize words when she was excited (which was, quite honestly, all the time). She was also pretty generous with her pocketbook and I managed to get lots of free drinks from her. Zach was your typical American beatnik backpacker, hiking around West Cork and Kerry by himself. Zach has a strict philosophy of living life leisurely, enjoying cheap rolling tobacco, maladroitly prepared food that he had foraged from Irish grocery stores and taking five and a half years to finish his double major in philosophy and history. The three of us made pretty good craic in a small town of almost 50 pubs. Friday night there was a mild thunderstorm that managed to knock out power to the whole town. We were at O'Flagherty's Pub enjoying Paddys and Guinness to candlelight. When the lights finally came back on, the owner, Fergus O'Flagherty started playing some trad music. The guy is an absolute renaissance man, plays the button accordian, tin whistle, bouzouki, banjo, guitar, uillean pipes and sings very nicely (sort of like the lead from The Dubliners). We had to stagger back to the hostel in lashing rain, which was no fun.
Saturday, Lianna and I checked out as many of the little shops and galleries as we could. I gave my mom a 10 minute call for 1.50 euro. We also played a couple rounds of bowling. That night, after a dinner of ham and cheese sandwiches (saving money for drinks by doing a little grocery shopping), the three of us hit the pubs. We started the night at John Benny's listening to a traditional singer called Pauline Scanlon, who I might add was super-hot. We eventually wandered over to a place called Dick Mack's, which is a legend with the locals. It's the oldest pub in Dingleand used to be a general store. You really don't get more authentic; I couldv'e been Yeats in that place. There's no food, just booze and the gate bears the inscription "Where's Dick Mack's? It's opposite the church. Where's the church? Opposite Dick Mack's." The place was loud, crowded, and smelled of B.O. and stale Guinness. At about 11:30 a skunk-drunk bachelorette party stumbled in, singing and halfheartedly flirting with the stinky fishermen. After Dick Mack's, we ended up at a place called An Droichead Beag, where a lone guitarrist played soulful covers of rock songs and traditional Irish diddies. If Marc Seely were Irish, he'd be this guy. The crowd loved it, everyone was singing along and dancing their arses off. We got back pretty late that night, getting semi-lost on the way back to the hostel. At least it wasn't raining.
In short, travelling alone affords me fantastic opportunites to meet people that I wouldn't otherwise talk to. I met scads of people, Irish and American, this weekend and we all got along just fine. I think that people travelling alone learn to find or create community wherever we go. True community is found in the midst of solitude.
Wish I could write more, but Anna and Frances are pesking me to play a game. It's good to be home.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
You never realize quite how high a mountain is til you climb it
So one day I saw the second highest mountain in Ireland, the imposingly epic Mt. Brandon (Cnoc Bhreandáin in Irish), and wonder how it might be to stand at the top.
The walking club seemed to like me so much that they invited me on a Wednesday evening walk up Mt. Brandon. We started up the mountain at about 6:45 pm (keep in mind that Ireland has sunlight until about 10:30 pm this time of year). The first leg of the climb was the hardest. We clambered up a steep grade on soggy pastureland. The sheep seemed much better suited for the terrain than us. Most of the other walkers were huffing and puffing after five minutes. I thanked God for my young lungs. I guess all this farm work has me in pretty good shape. The sun was still shining brilliantly behind the ridge as we struggled through the hummocks of turf and bracken. Most people were too winded to talk, but I managed to find a couple middle-aged ladies who were keeping up a good pace. I struck up a conversation with one of them and she ended up asking me why I picked Ireland for my vacation. I replied that I loved the culture, the food, the landscape, and it helped that I spoke the language. From behind me, I heard someone say something incomprehensible in Irish. I gave her a blank look. "I meant English, I speak English" I said. She laughed.
And that's how I met Sórache: mother of three, B&B proprietor, and fluent Gaelophone. I ended up spending most of the walk with her, since we seemed to be going at the same pace. Her name (pronounced SOR-uh-khuh) means "brightness" in Old Irish. She gave me a couple tips on Irish pronunciation. The consonent "mh" is somewhere between a "v" and a "w" so Ireland's Eurovision representative is Niamh (NEEV) Kavanagh. "Bh" as in "Siobhán Magnus" is a harder "v." She gave me this theory that if Ireland had banned Irish when they got their independence, everyone would speak it. Seems to make sense.
After the steep pastureland, the landscape got flatter and rockier as we entered a dark misty valley cradled in one of the arms of the mountain. There are some glacial lakes in the valley, fed by springs that are crystal clear and pristine. Very few sheep made it up this far; the most abundant animal was hordes of black slugs thriving on the dewy grass. Next, we ascended up a steep switchback ladder on the far side of the valley. At this point, we had climbed into a cloud, so we could barely see the lowlands and Tralee Bay beyond it. A few people seemed ready to give up at this point but in the end, we all made it up. After that it was a short walk alond the spine of the mountain to the summit. Regrettably, we couldn't see the south coast from the top due to the cloud cover. It was very windy on the summit and there was swirling mist everywhere. The ancient cross and ruined rectory which marked the summit appeared suddenly out of the mist, as if they had materialized by magic. There were plenty of cheers when we got there. Everyone sat down in the ruined church, ate sandwiches, pissed on the summit (it was foggy, so we had privacy) and generally seemed relieved to no longer struggle against gravity.
I challenge anyone who comes to Ireland to climb that mountain and not be overwhelmed by its stark beauty. The inhumane landscape, the black rock, white mist and green grass will transport you beyond your present, beyond your senses. This is the Emerald Isle at its finest.
Check my facebook for Mt. Brandon photos
Slán for now. Gotta go milk cows again.
The walking club seemed to like me so much that they invited me on a Wednesday evening walk up Mt. Brandon. We started up the mountain at about 6:45 pm (keep in mind that Ireland has sunlight until about 10:30 pm this time of year). The first leg of the climb was the hardest. We clambered up a steep grade on soggy pastureland. The sheep seemed much better suited for the terrain than us. Most of the other walkers were huffing and puffing after five minutes. I thanked God for my young lungs. I guess all this farm work has me in pretty good shape. The sun was still shining brilliantly behind the ridge as we struggled through the hummocks of turf and bracken. Most people were too winded to talk, but I managed to find a couple middle-aged ladies who were keeping up a good pace. I struck up a conversation with one of them and she ended up asking me why I picked Ireland for my vacation. I replied that I loved the culture, the food, the landscape, and it helped that I spoke the language. From behind me, I heard someone say something incomprehensible in Irish. I gave her a blank look. "I meant English, I speak English" I said. She laughed.
And that's how I met Sórache: mother of three, B&B proprietor, and fluent Gaelophone. I ended up spending most of the walk with her, since we seemed to be going at the same pace. Her name (pronounced SOR-uh-khuh) means "brightness" in Old Irish. She gave me a couple tips on Irish pronunciation. The consonent "mh" is somewhere between a "v" and a "w" so Ireland's Eurovision representative is Niamh (NEEV) Kavanagh. "Bh" as in "Siobhán Magnus" is a harder "v." She gave me this theory that if Ireland had banned Irish when they got their independence, everyone would speak it. Seems to make sense.
After the steep pastureland, the landscape got flatter and rockier as we entered a dark misty valley cradled in one of the arms of the mountain. There are some glacial lakes in the valley, fed by springs that are crystal clear and pristine. Very few sheep made it up this far; the most abundant animal was hordes of black slugs thriving on the dewy grass. Next, we ascended up a steep switchback ladder on the far side of the valley. At this point, we had climbed into a cloud, so we could barely see the lowlands and Tralee Bay beyond it. A few people seemed ready to give up at this point but in the end, we all made it up. After that it was a short walk alond the spine of the mountain to the summit. Regrettably, we couldn't see the south coast from the top due to the cloud cover. It was very windy on the summit and there was swirling mist everywhere. The ancient cross and ruined rectory which marked the summit appeared suddenly out of the mist, as if they had materialized by magic. There were plenty of cheers when we got there. Everyone sat down in the ruined church, ate sandwiches, pissed on the summit (it was foggy, so we had privacy) and generally seemed relieved to no longer struggle against gravity.
I challenge anyone who comes to Ireland to climb that mountain and not be overwhelmed by its stark beauty. The inhumane landscape, the black rock, white mist and green grass will transport you beyond your present, beyond your senses. This is the Emerald Isle at its finest.
Check my facebook for Mt. Brandon photos
Slán for now. Gotta go milk cows again.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Dairy farming is for neither the faint of heart nor the weak in stomach
Today I helped Gerard with the milking. I guarantee that I will never look at dairy products in the same way. For those of you unfamiliar with the process, I will describe it here.
The cows come in and line up at the feeding bins. The farmer pulls a lever to dump feed from a hopper to the bins. He wipes off the nipples of the udder with a newspaper and sprays them with iodine to disinfect. The milking machine then goes on. It looks like an aluminum and rubber octopus with four flabby arms that fit over the nipples. It's attached to a vacuum to provide suction. The milk all passes through a filter and into a refrigerated vat. While the cows are being milked, the next lot are lined up on the other side of the parlor. When the udders have run dry, the farmer takes the milking machine off the one set of cows and transfers it to the other. He then re-sterilizes the udders and lets the cows go. This happens twice a day and it typically takes about an hour and a half to get all the cows through. Keep in mind that the cows are peeing and pooing all over the place. Today, I had to watch Gerard treat a cow sick with an udder infection. The milk that came out was about half blood and looked like tomato soup. I felt sorry for the poor thing, but God was she ever cantankerous. She kept kicking as Gerard was trying to help her and she almost shat all over him at one point.
No matter how hard we try to keep the place sterile, I guarantee that some trace amounts of feces must get into the milk. I drink the stuff all the time here, completely unpasteurized, not to mention all the people all over Kerry (and the whole of Ireland for that matter) who drink milk from Gerard and the other small farmers. I guess it can't hurt too much.
I encountered nettles for the first time today. Anna and I were playing at "who can kick the football over the house" and when I finally managed to boot the thing over it rolled into one of the side gardens. As we were searching back there, I rubbed against something that felt like a hundred angry hornets. I jumped back and saw the plant, pretty innocent looking all in all. Anna showed me how to rub a dock-leaf on to help ease the sting, but dear lord, it still smarts after several hours. Apparently, the tips of the plant are edible, though I can't imagine they'd be fun to gather.
In short, what have I gotten myself into?
The cows come in and line up at the feeding bins. The farmer pulls a lever to dump feed from a hopper to the bins. He wipes off the nipples of the udder with a newspaper and sprays them with iodine to disinfect. The milking machine then goes on. It looks like an aluminum and rubber octopus with four flabby arms that fit over the nipples. It's attached to a vacuum to provide suction. The milk all passes through a filter and into a refrigerated vat. While the cows are being milked, the next lot are lined up on the other side of the parlor. When the udders have run dry, the farmer takes the milking machine off the one set of cows and transfers it to the other. He then re-sterilizes the udders and lets the cows go. This happens twice a day and it typically takes about an hour and a half to get all the cows through. Keep in mind that the cows are peeing and pooing all over the place. Today, I had to watch Gerard treat a cow sick with an udder infection. The milk that came out was about half blood and looked like tomato soup. I felt sorry for the poor thing, but God was she ever cantankerous. She kept kicking as Gerard was trying to help her and she almost shat all over him at one point.
No matter how hard we try to keep the place sterile, I guarantee that some trace amounts of feces must get into the milk. I drink the stuff all the time here, completely unpasteurized, not to mention all the people all over Kerry (and the whole of Ireland for that matter) who drink milk from Gerard and the other small farmers. I guess it can't hurt too much.
I encountered nettles for the first time today. Anna and I were playing at "who can kick the football over the house" and when I finally managed to boot the thing over it rolled into one of the side gardens. As we were searching back there, I rubbed against something that felt like a hundred angry hornets. I jumped back and saw the plant, pretty innocent looking all in all. Anna showed me how to rub a dock-leaf on to help ease the sting, but dear lord, it still smarts after several hours. Apparently, the tips of the plant are edible, though I can't imagine they'd be fun to gather.
In short, what have I gotten myself into?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Have I over-romanticized the Life Agrarian?
So I got through my first full day of farm work with my stamina intact. I was feeling energetic enough at the end of it all to take a four mile bike ride to the nearby village of Castlemaine and knock back a pint of Bulmers with an octagenarian Irish gent. He told me that the best cider is in the US. I told him I haven't tried it and he said I should try to find a small local cider mill. I got some nice photos of the Kerry countryside out of the trip as well.
The only reason I have energy to blog after a full day of work plus that bike ride is Claire's delicious high-calorie Irish cooking. Supper tonight was two rashers of dry-cured bacon (not as good as ours, more like salty ham), two award-winning local sausages (amazing), Jolly Green Giant sweet corn (hey, it's a comfort food) followed by soda bread with Irish butter, blackcurrant jam and Ardahan cheese (imagine an earthy Brie with an aftertaste like good dark chocolate). And of course, black tea with milk.
The younger O'Connors are finally starting to warm to me. I would point out that sprightly little Vietnamese girls with Irish accents are possibly the most adorable things ever. Anna (8), the oldest, has a generous heart, but much like myself, hides it with razor sarcasm. I can't help but see myself reflected in that girl, especially considering how she schemes and pushes around the younger two. Frances (5) is pure energy, constantly bouncing around and treating every moment as if it were Christmas morning. Lan (1) is a relatively new arrival. She still seems to be carving out a niche here. She walks quite well and seems to want to go and do everything she shouldn't. She loves sweet corn.
Work today started with powerwashing the dairy again. I'm getting better; Gerard said I only missed one spot. I aim to miss none next time. I then spent about three hours pulling weeds. I recognized most of the weeds, since a lot of them travelled to America with the colonists. It is still quite warm here and since all my short-sleeved shirts are dirty, I decided to take my shirt off in the garden. Go figure my back got burned. In Ireland of all places. Weird, just weird.
I'm starting to get this whole accent thing down. Here are a few observations.
-"Zero" is 'naught'
-'Your man' can mean 'that guy' or 'this person I'm talking about.
-The midpoint of an our is 'half-' For example 4:30='half four'
-The trunk of the car is 'the boot'
-A dip in the ocean is 'a piddle'
-Here in the South of Ireland, they pronounce "th" as "t" so 'three' sounds like 'tree' and 'throw' sounds like 'trow'.
Incidentally, I just realized that the radio is playing the news in Irish. What a crazy sounding language. It took me five minutes to realize that it wasn't just a super-thick Kerry accent.
The only reason I have energy to blog after a full day of work plus that bike ride is Claire's delicious high-calorie Irish cooking. Supper tonight was two rashers of dry-cured bacon (not as good as ours, more like salty ham), two award-winning local sausages (amazing), Jolly Green Giant sweet corn (hey, it's a comfort food) followed by soda bread with Irish butter, blackcurrant jam and Ardahan cheese (imagine an earthy Brie with an aftertaste like good dark chocolate). And of course, black tea with milk.
The younger O'Connors are finally starting to warm to me. I would point out that sprightly little Vietnamese girls with Irish accents are possibly the most adorable things ever. Anna (8), the oldest, has a generous heart, but much like myself, hides it with razor sarcasm. I can't help but see myself reflected in that girl, especially considering how she schemes and pushes around the younger two. Frances (5) is pure energy, constantly bouncing around and treating every moment as if it were Christmas morning. Lan (1) is a relatively new arrival. She still seems to be carving out a niche here. She walks quite well and seems to want to go and do everything she shouldn't. She loves sweet corn.
Work today started with powerwashing the dairy again. I'm getting better; Gerard said I only missed one spot. I aim to miss none next time. I then spent about three hours pulling weeds. I recognized most of the weeds, since a lot of them travelled to America with the colonists. It is still quite warm here and since all my short-sleeved shirts are dirty, I decided to take my shirt off in the garden. Go figure my back got burned. In Ireland of all places. Weird, just weird.
I'm starting to get this whole accent thing down. Here are a few observations.
-"Zero" is 'naught'
-'Your man' can mean 'that guy' or 'this person I'm talking about.
-The midpoint of an our is 'half-' For example 4:30='half four'
-The trunk of the car is 'the boot'
-A dip in the ocean is 'a piddle'
-Here in the South of Ireland, they pronounce "th" as "t" so 'three' sounds like 'tree' and 'throw' sounds like 'trow'.
Incidentally, I just realized that the radio is playing the news in Irish. What a crazy sounding language. It took me five minutes to realize that it wasn't just a super-thick Kerry accent.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Back in Ireland
I got in through Cork airport yesterday at 7:30 am. I had zero problem with immigration. The guy in Cork was very nice and said he was sorry about all the bollocks over in Kerry. Go figure. I took a bus into Cork City, which is really a big town, but very charming. I plan on going back there for a couple days when my time at the farm is done rather than spending all my time in Dublin. I took a bus from Cork to Tralee in County Kerry and got picked up by Gerard there.
I spent most of the afternoon doing some transplanting and getting to know the farm. There are six polytunnels and a bunch of raised beds that make up the vegetable part of the farm. Gerard keeps about 20 milk-cows and a number of calves while Claire also manages about a dozen hens and geese. There is also a big shaggy dog called Nero, who refuses to give me a moment's peace. Every time I go to put my boots on, he's there to sniff my face and try to lay his head in my lap. Crazy dog.
Saturday night I went out with Gerard and his friend Kevin to see Robin Hood. The film wasn't the utter hatchet job I expected, but Russel Crowe's accent was all over the place. Afterwards we went out for a couple pints at one of the Tralee pubs to celebrate the birthday of one of the women in Gerard's walking (hiking) club. I met a women named Katrina who invited me to come along with them on a walk on the Blasket Islands. For 20 Euro, I could hardly say no.
The Blaskets are the westernmost point in Europe. They have been uninhabited for 50 some years, although they are well visited by walkers and home to a number of sheep who keep the grass short. Apparently, several notable Irish writers made their name writing about the Blaskets and their former inhabitants. The literary snob in me just made a notch in his belt.
I should note at this point that the weather since I've been in Ireland and England has been uncharacteristically nice. It's been about 70 F and sunny, which is very odd for Ireland. The Irish all refer to this as a "heat wave."
The Blaskill walk was incredible. Check my facebook for a few photos. Several of the people on the tour had a very good grasp on local history and told me all about these starkly beautiful chunks of land. Apparently, the Spanish Armada, on their retreat from being whooped by the British tried to pass by the Islands and were wrecked in a severe storm. Several places that looked to me like nondescript rockpiles were actually ancient Celtic forts. I ate my lunch on the remains of an old hill-fort without even knowing it. There were no trees on the island, due to the wind and the frequent grazing. There was grass, heather, cliffbrake, moss, and very little else. The most obvious animals are sheep, though I also saw hares, rabbits and seals. There are quite a few seabirds such as gannets and puffins.
All the walkers from Tralee and Dingle were very friendly and eager to talk as long as I had wind. One chap called John talked my ear off for an hour about crooked Irish politicians using language which I will not repeat here. Politics seems to be a favorite subject here, since almost everyone I've run into seems to know a lot about American politics. People have pretty diverse opinions, althought they're all scared of Sarah Palin and they're all sick of the Irish Taoiseach Brian Cowen. The Irish in general seem to like Americans, although John warned me that not all of Europe would be this friendly. The lack of a language barrier really helps. I mean, yes their accents can get rather thick and a very small minority speak Irish (so far, I've met three, even though everyone takes classes in school), but otherwise I feel pretty at ease here.
We stopped in Dingle on the way back. I'm definately going to visit that town again. It's a cute little shore town with great food and drink and lots of traditional music. Plus it's Gaeltacht, so you can hear Irish spoken on the street. I got a seafood chowder and a Bulmer's cider. The cider is quite good here and a very popular drink for both men and women. Certainly a far cry from Woodchuck back home which is sweet, but a bit pissy. And yes, I can officially confirm that the Guinness is better over here. Gerard tells me that I need to try Murphy's, which is a Cork stout that he claims is much smoother.
Tomorrow will be my first full day of work. I'm a little apprehensive all in all, but I think I'll have a good time.
By the way, does anyone know of an easy way to upload large numbers of pictures? Facebook albums are okay for now, but for some reason it's only letting me upload one at a time. Ideally, I'd like to use my google accound so I can link through this blog rather than having to get a Flickr or something like that.
Slan for now.
I spent most of the afternoon doing some transplanting and getting to know the farm. There are six polytunnels and a bunch of raised beds that make up the vegetable part of the farm. Gerard keeps about 20 milk-cows and a number of calves while Claire also manages about a dozen hens and geese. There is also a big shaggy dog called Nero, who refuses to give me a moment's peace. Every time I go to put my boots on, he's there to sniff my face and try to lay his head in my lap. Crazy dog.
Saturday night I went out with Gerard and his friend Kevin to see Robin Hood. The film wasn't the utter hatchet job I expected, but Russel Crowe's accent was all over the place. Afterwards we went out for a couple pints at one of the Tralee pubs to celebrate the birthday of one of the women in Gerard's walking (hiking) club. I met a women named Katrina who invited me to come along with them on a walk on the Blasket Islands. For 20 Euro, I could hardly say no.
The Blaskets are the westernmost point in Europe. They have been uninhabited for 50 some years, although they are well visited by walkers and home to a number of sheep who keep the grass short. Apparently, several notable Irish writers made their name writing about the Blaskets and their former inhabitants. The literary snob in me just made a notch in his belt.
I should note at this point that the weather since I've been in Ireland and England has been uncharacteristically nice. It's been about 70 F and sunny, which is very odd for Ireland. The Irish all refer to this as a "heat wave."
The Blaskill walk was incredible. Check my facebook for a few photos. Several of the people on the tour had a very good grasp on local history and told me all about these starkly beautiful chunks of land. Apparently, the Spanish Armada, on their retreat from being whooped by the British tried to pass by the Islands and were wrecked in a severe storm. Several places that looked to me like nondescript rockpiles were actually ancient Celtic forts. I ate my lunch on the remains of an old hill-fort without even knowing it. There were no trees on the island, due to the wind and the frequent grazing. There was grass, heather, cliffbrake, moss, and very little else. The most obvious animals are sheep, though I also saw hares, rabbits and seals. There are quite a few seabirds such as gannets and puffins.
All the walkers from Tralee and Dingle were very friendly and eager to talk as long as I had wind. One chap called John talked my ear off for an hour about crooked Irish politicians using language which I will not repeat here. Politics seems to be a favorite subject here, since almost everyone I've run into seems to know a lot about American politics. People have pretty diverse opinions, althought they're all scared of Sarah Palin and they're all sick of the Irish Taoiseach Brian Cowen. The Irish in general seem to like Americans, although John warned me that not all of Europe would be this friendly. The lack of a language barrier really helps. I mean, yes their accents can get rather thick and a very small minority speak Irish (so far, I've met three, even though everyone takes classes in school), but otherwise I feel pretty at ease here.
We stopped in Dingle on the way back. I'm definately going to visit that town again. It's a cute little shore town with great food and drink and lots of traditional music. Plus it's Gaeltacht, so you can hear Irish spoken on the street. I got a seafood chowder and a Bulmer's cider. The cider is quite good here and a very popular drink for both men and women. Certainly a far cry from Woodchuck back home which is sweet, but a bit pissy. And yes, I can officially confirm that the Guinness is better over here. Gerard tells me that I need to try Murphy's, which is a Cork stout that he claims is much smoother.
Tomorrow will be my first full day of work. I'm a little apprehensive all in all, but I think I'll have a good time.
By the way, does anyone know of an easy way to upload large numbers of pictures? Facebook albums are okay for now, but for some reason it's only letting me upload one at a time. Ideally, I'd like to use my google accound so I can link through this blog rather than having to get a Flickr or something like that.
Slan for now.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Bureaucracy is hardly a friend of volunteerism
So, in a great historical irony, an American, namely me, has been deported from the Republic of Ireland. It appears that to enter Ireland as a WWOOFer, one needs proof of medical insurance, proof of WWOOF membership and a printed return ticket all in hard copy. I didn't have any of those although it took me all of five minutes to print them off. To be fair, the WWOOF website said I needed a return ticket, although I couldn't print mine since Ryanair doesn't let you do that more than three weeks in advance. I didn't need to show anything to enter the UK, just the address where I was staying. So I screwed up a tiny bit, but all these requirements caught me completely off-guard.
The problem appears to be the customs officer at Kerry airport, who doesn't seem to care much for WWOOFers. He gave me a whole spiel about Ireland's financial problems and how he couldn't let me in to do farm work which should go to Irish people. I pointed out the WWOOFing isn't work; it's volunteering, but he didn't seem convinced. Gerard and Claire said that the same officer had given them trouble before.
I got to stay and work on the farm for a day, although I plan to be back tomorrow. Now that I have all my documentation in order, there's no law preventing me from re-entering Ireland. All this amounts to is inconvenience and $500 down the drain.
The farm, for those of you who are wondering, is fantastic. Gerard and Claire are very nice and their daughters, all adopted Vietnamese, are too cute for description. I'll have some pics up within the next few days. The work has been fairly tough, as I expected. Gerard had me powerwash the dairy and help him give liver fluke medicine to the cows. Cows are pretty gross animals all in all. You get over your fear of shit pretty quickly, although cow manure is pretty inoffensive as feces goes and has the virtue of only smelling when fresh. The dried stuff really has no odor.
I'll keep you posted when I get back to the farm. Thanks for all your prayers and concern.
The problem appears to be the customs officer at Kerry airport, who doesn't seem to care much for WWOOFers. He gave me a whole spiel about Ireland's financial problems and how he couldn't let me in to do farm work which should go to Irish people. I pointed out the WWOOFing isn't work; it's volunteering, but he didn't seem convinced. Gerard and Claire said that the same officer had given them trouble before.
I got to stay and work on the farm for a day, although I plan to be back tomorrow. Now that I have all my documentation in order, there's no law preventing me from re-entering Ireland. All this amounts to is inconvenience and $500 down the drain.
The farm, for those of you who are wondering, is fantastic. Gerard and Claire are very nice and their daughters, all adopted Vietnamese, are too cute for description. I'll have some pics up within the next few days. The work has been fairly tough, as I expected. Gerard had me powerwash the dairy and help him give liver fluke medicine to the cows. Cows are pretty gross animals all in all. You get over your fear of shit pretty quickly, although cow manure is pretty inoffensive as feces goes and has the virtue of only smelling when fresh. The dried stuff really has no odor.
I'll keep you posted when I get back to the farm. Thanks for all your prayers and concern.
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