turning the corner?

Are we at the point in Fall where the good weeks are behind us and the bare trees and cold winds begin to drive us nuts?

I don't think so. Though many leaves are down, many more are still vaguely green and clinging to trees. Cosmos flowers are blooming their heads off. Nasturtium as well. And why shouldn't they? We haven't had a hard frost yet. (We haven't had any frost in fact. Unusual for mid October.)






A walk in the garden, then breakfast.






I study the weather maps. I see that this is it: we're consistently going to be hitting the thirties in the nights ahead. And so decisions have to be made. It is the time to bring in plants that cannot survive a frost. This includes all those that stand in pots by the walkway to the farmhouse.





But which ones?

In years past, I let them all fade off with the season. Annuals are called annuals for a reason. I was not their savior -- nature deemed that they should retire after a year of blooms. But last year I saw that it was possible to winter over some of the vulnerable stalks by bringing them indoors.  And though things got a little spindly by season's end, we did have some memorable blooms inside in the dead of winter and moreover, when I put those survivors back outside in spring, they really took off! In gratitude I think. Spindly stems turned to a profusion of color and blooms.

Still, I have only so much eastern and southern exposure and things are already getting kind of crowded, what with geraniums and irises and the old regular indoor stuff. So I point a finger -- that one comes in! And that one!


 


Okay, one more -- that one!






And with the heaviest of hearts I turn my back to the ones who don't seem quite vigorous enough. Let your seeds drift, your life will continue in the next generation, I tell them, as if they needed a prompt! Nature has a way of figuring things out without my assistance.


So if Nature calls the shots, can we at least learn to follow meekly in her tracks?

No we cannot.
I look carefully at the weather forecast and, reassured that the probability of rain is set at 0%, I take Rosie to work again.

(Here's a photo from campus for those who know Madison and our tradition of putting flamingos on campus mall in mid-fall.)





And when I finish teaching, I am dismayed to see a fine drizzle set in.

Why don't they have windshield wipers on helmet visors?

I'm cold and sopping wet. Never mind: each additional week of rosie rides is like a special bonus. One more week behind me and seven to go before the end of the semester. Maybe winter is around the corner, but I'm banking on a few more good weeks ahead. Rain or shine, rosie and I continue to face the winds and forge ahead. Even as it surely looks less promising out there on the ride home. Recall yesterday's view over the lake. Compare it to the one tonight (taken at more or less the same hour).

return

It's funny to wake up at home to what I would regard as quintessentially Irish weather: misty rain, cool breezes - the kind that make those cheeks so rosy.

I had good travel weather yesterday, so surely I ought not complain.

And here's another category of "no complaints" from me -- one that may surprise  you; I have nothing bad to say about the air travel experience.

The flights were more or less on time.

The seats were comfortable.

The food was good.

The champagne flowed freely (meaning it was free).

And another detail -- one you surely would not expect anymore: the airline (AF) informed us that they commissioned a prominent designer to work out a new design pattern for the plastic eating utensils used in economy class. Whereas these days on most flights we're used to being herded into tight seats, with no promise of food -- with the exception of small snacks and you're charged Las Vegas big bucks for those -- here, I see an attempt at real class. Even if it is plastic class.

I did work the whole flight long (and it was a long flight) and I caught no great photos of the descent into Chicago (what can I say -- the city was on the other side), but the whole travel thing was a curiously pleasant experience.

I haven't come into Chicago's O'Hare (International) in a while so I was surprised to see a new system in place for passport control. Self-service stands -- sort of like you have in supermarkets: scan your own! But of course, then some authoritative person has to review your work. This isn't groceries, it's your entry into a country. So after waiting for a self service scanner, you wait again for a real person. It's all very confusing, but I'm sure efficient in some fashion that I don't quite yet understand.

And because I was toward the front of the plane, and because I ran to get to the passport line, and because I said "no" to all the questions asked by the scanner  (I hope that was correct -- I did not read them all that carefully) and because I had no luggage to pick up (actually no luggage, period), I noted that I had all of 8 minutes to make it to another terminal and the bus station, and you know what? I did it! Ran, ran, ran, knocking people down left and right (O'Hare was very crowded), then on to the bus just as the driver was shutting the door and getting ready to pull out.


At home, Isis was so happy to see me that he stayed by my side all evening long. I ate chili prepared by Ed and then soon after I retired. Isis followed. I know I shall complain endlessly in the future about the cat taking up so much of my bed space, but on this night it felt snug and warm.

In the middle of the night, Ed had an insight about the porch roof and so at around 3 a.m. he climbed out there with flashlight and some tape (he's experimenting with a better way to seal off some of the trim; his excuse in doing it at such an odd hour? It was supposed to rain soon). That was interesting to observe for a few minutes;  otherwise, the night passed uneventfully. Meaning, Isis behaved.

In the morning, there is the matter of breakfast. Happy to be eating oatmeal again, in the kitchen today because I just can't get enough of that new light pouring in, even on a rather gloomy and wet (remember, Irish weather!) morning.

I did notice that Ed's hair has grown beyond the reasonable mess that it usually is.





Out come the scissors. Haircut time.






And then it's time to zip over to campus. It's Tuesday and that's a very busy day for me. Though not so busy that I can't produce at least one photo of the current state of the yard, looking toward the barn and sheep shed (for the new reader -- we do not have sheep; just a shed, converted by Ed into workable space of sorts).






And a shot toward the farmhouse -- all flush and pretty with light pouting in through the new glass porch roof.






Late, late in the evening, I point Rosie (the motor scooter)  toward home. It's just barely warm enough to be out on her, but I'm up for it. And as I swing by the lake, I note that the trip does come with rewards...





Most trips, even short ones on Rosie, do come with rewards.

And that's a good thing.

to Ireland

At the AirBnB in Bray, my host, Gary left a book of poetry by my bed. I read it and pick one that is closest to the state of my soul right now. (Scratch the third word in the fourth line and it's perfect.) Here it is:

The Lake of Innisfree, by W.B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.


My last day in Ireland begins at Ballina-Killaloe. Looking out, I see that low lying clouds have settled in over the hills. Rain is possible.

In my slice of heaven -- the airy cottage looking out over the hills of County Clare -- I sit down to a leisurely breakfast. Today, with market berries added to the mix.






I walk to town then, along the usual road, a bit of a tight squeeze in parts, but lovely nonetheless. (And when I pause to let a car pass, I get the question -- are you out walking, or do you want a lift? Walking, I say, and loving the views!)






In Killaloe I have a meet-up. An Ocean reader whom I do not know -- an American expat, living here with her husband, contacted me to say they were passing through this area. Sure, I'd love a coffee! -- I responded. It's wonderful to hear the perspective of someone who is from my home state, but lives here now.

I take my newly discovered friends to Ponte Vecchio. A crowded space this morning, though we find a corner table (as do others...)






...and settle in for a wonderful, long talk as the kind waitperson brings us our coffees and teas.






I tell these young guys (they're in their very early thirties) they're living my dream from long ago (it's buried now and replaced by a different dream -- one that orbits around the farmhouse). They're just in the process of moving from the Dublin area out to the beautiful countryside of southern Ireland. To grow their foods and raise their chickens and buy the paper each morning at the village news agent. (And maybe let out a room through AirBnB -- you never know.) After a couple of years here, they're ready to put down roots.

I think back to my own transition from being just a student and visitor in the States to being a permanent resident. Some people know from the get go where they want to live. Others (them, me) take a while to figure it out.

Warmed by their description of the Irish life, I return to my AirBnB (to be accurate, they give me a lift back -- I enjoyed myself so much that I lost track of time), say good bye to Mary and zip out, determined to speed all the way to Bray. No stopping! No photos! Just get there already!

But I stop anyway. It's sort of irresistible: the highway has a billboard noting a village as being of special interest -- Moneygall, where it appears Obama -- or O'Bama, as he is affecionately called here -- has ancestral ties. (The man in the tractor gave me a high thumbs up as he passed in front of the two flags on village houses.)






When Obama stopped here in 2011, they say he shook virtually every villager's hand. I think they're still reeling from the memory of it. In this next photo, you'll see a young family taking in the main village focal point. It's a funny mixture of Irish, American and Polish, as they are in fact from Poland.





Okay. That was a ten minute detour. Back on the road, listening to a long discussion on the radio about a golfer who disclosed his yips. I'd never heard of yips before and every time they use the word, I think of dogs barking. In this way I race along the highways of Ireland for the meet up with Gary, my AirBnB host in Bray.

The space that I'm renting from him is a little different in concept. It's more like "a room in the home of  ----" (fill in the blank here). I'm not 100% clear on the logistics, but I think Gary lives here when he is with his girlfriend, Alessandra, who is from Sicily. Or maybe it's the opposite -- maybe she lives here with him when they are not in her home? I really can't fully explain it. But I'm definitely sharing their small flat.

Gary is an incredibly kind and patient host. You have no idea how many emails we exchanged to clarify my arrival details. And once I do arrive, he is there, playing his music and offering me everything and anything -- from coffee, doughnuts, wine, even a Thai dinner cooked by him if I want it (Mary, back in Ballina, also offered to feed me.)

But I decline it all -- I do want to see some of Bray and especially the coastal part. Gary prints out maps and gives directions and food recommendations and I want to tell him (he's a fairly recent AirBnB host) -- you cannot devote this much energy to every guest -- you'll burn out. (Sort of like teaching with too much passion -- surely a guarantor of early retirement.)

I'm quite close to the coast and so I walk there, to the beginning of a long boardwalk that extends from one end of town to the other. It's windy and not a little nippy and still, because it's Sunday and because the skies are in their partly cloudy mode, there are families and couples and groups of friends, enjoying a brisk promenade along the edge of the Irish Sea.





















...and in the case of children, enjoying ice cream. (Though some opt for chips.)






I had intended to walk all the way past town, along the cliffs, into the next town in fact, but when I came across a sign telling me I was still many miles away, I called it quits and turned back. I'd had my beautiful walk, paying homage to the waters that splash at Ireland from all directions.






Now it's time to eat. Gary had recommended three places and I chose the most modest of the lot, though I have to admit -- I ordered immodestly: Irish lobster. The waiter told me there are only three places that produce good lobsters -- Maine, Canada and Ireland -- and though I doubt that's entirely accurate (Brittany would surely protest the exclusion), still, I was convinced enough to try it. (It helped that I paid for no breakfasts and had no lunches during the entire trip. And in fact, this was a very reasonable pricing of a very huge lobster dinner: 32 Euros - about $42 - for the whole thing, service and taxes included.)






The meal has an Italian flair to it (and two Italian waiters -- neither of whom speak English well) and so my lobster virtually swims in a very delicate tomato sauce. It is a wonderful ending to my visit. Funny how I began my Ireland writing with a reference to an Italian song and here I am praising an Italian meal in Ireland. I'll say this -- I had nothing but seafood during this trip -- all from the Irish waters and it was all incredibly delicious.





It's a slow evening at the restaurant and both waiters are chatty. The younger one tells me that his most favorite trip ever was to the States, two years ago. He took the bus from Chicago to Nashville and then to Texas and back.
That's a lot of bus hours! I'm impressed how much he loved the experience.
Yes, you meet such wonderful people!
I think about my three hour bus trips down to Chicago and how I always hide my nose in my papers during it. No one talks. We are admonished if we do so.

I ask the older, head waiter what brought him to Ireland and I get the predictable response of ambition and curiosity. And the reason for staying? -- the wife. But he tells me how much her really loves Bray: it's so much smaller than Dublin. People know me, I know them. And the sea! Ah yes, the sea...






He asks which parts of Italy I had visited and after I list the various regions and towns, he looks rather shocked that I neglected to include the place where he came from -- the east-central coast of the Italian boot. Next time, I tell him. Next time.

At the AirBnB, my host and a friend (that's just a guess) are settling down to a home cooked meal and after, Gary explains that there is a terrific if rather violent Irish show on the telly that we could all watch. I would have retreated to my room, but I rather like sitting on the couch, looking over my photos, surfing the, for once, speedy Internet in their company, so I stay.

When the show is done, Alessandra comes out of some hidden room, terribly tired and not looking all that well (rumor has it that a birthday bash the previous day did her in). She chats for a while then retreats to wherever she came from, promising to knock on my door at 6 a.m., as she herself has to be up and out by then.

Gary plays the guitar for a while, singing some recent U2 hit that is lovely and it is with some reluctance that I finally say goodnight and goodbye too, as I will be leaving rather early and will not see them again.

And I do leave early. Before Alessandra comes around. Before any semblance of light, before many cars are out on the highway. And in less than an hour, I am at the Dublin airport.

P.S. Ocean readers, I landed in Chicago, clicked on my phone and found your most beautiful emails and messages. How I love the fact that I am not alone in this enterprise of looking for the beauty in the common tasks we all take on, the world over! Thank you so very much.
With love,
Nina

transition

I'm traveling again and so my posting is disrupted. I'll just put up three photos from today:

From the morning:





From the afternoon:






And from the evening:






The story, linking the three, is both heart warming and it gives me hope for the future of the human race. But you'll have to pick it up tomorrow, when I return to Madison.

Just one P.S. and it is really a comment to this idea that comes up every now and then -- one that was posted on Ann's blog just yesterday: the idea is that I sugarcoat reality. That I leave out the gritty.

I feel the need to comment on this. You, Ocean readers, you know that I avoid taking photos of scummy side of life. It's not that I don't notice it, but I don't really highlight it. And that's deliberate. What I truly believe is that people are proud of their homes, their villages, their surroundings. You, the outsider, walk in, all high and mighty, with your camera and you think you've discovered the underbelly. But you haven't. They, the people who live there, know their underbelly. Your perception of what's wrong with their picture is only your own take on that world. So isn't it better to try and see what it is that works so well for the people who live elsewhere? Isn't it better to try to understand what it is that they're proud of? And to deliberately look for it, rather than to highlight what we find odd, or off-putting?

It could be that I am wrong to write in the way that I do. But actually, I find it very honest and real.

Until tomorrow then!

there once was...

 The Sky of Ireland

Fiorella Mannoia, my favorite Italian pop recording artist, sings this beautiful song -- Il Cielo d'Irlandia (the sky of Ireland) and though it's odd to quote Italian music when I am eating a breakfast of Irish salmon and brown bread...






... outside the tiny town of Ballina by the Lough Derg, I can't help it. I stepped outside this morning, looked over the hills toward County Clare (I myself am in County Tipperary) and immediately thought of it (a good version of it can be heard here).






It's a mighty fine breakfast, no? You cannot actually expect a breakfast when you rent a room or a flat from AirBnB, but Mary, my stupendously wonderful host, stocks the little fridge for you. Organic Irish smoked salmon, eggs, cheese, jams. Coffee. Organic milk. And did I mention that when you first enter your unit, there is a pervasive smell of baking bread? She bakes a loaf of Irish brown for you. Welcome to Ireland indeed!

I am extremely lucky on many counts, not the least of which is the weather. Whatever may be happening in Dublin, here, a short step away from the North Atlantic, the weather is dry! Partly cloudy and a brisk mid fifties. Ireland, I love you!

I made plans to go with Mary on her weekly (Saturday) morning run to Limerick for the market so let me go straight there with you. And Mary. (Here she is, meeting up with her brother -- one of many! -- at the market.)






The market is under a covered dome and that's a good thing for days when the rains come down (all too often here). And it is sizable. I follow Mary a little at the beginning (at this stall she and the vendor tell me that this is the true Irish potato: starchy! not waxy, like in America!)...






...but then I let Mary take off on her own. This is her social time. Occasionally she'll sit over a coffee and a sandwich and talk to one person or another. Though her shopping is important too. Seafood. Especially that.  And of course, the potato.

Me, I wander off, loving the music players...






Such good melodies! So... Irish!






...and I take note of the usual markers of local tastes and growing seasons...
























And I sidestep a bit into Limerick proper. It's not really talked of as a tourist destination, but it does give off the vibe of whatever it is that we think of as the Irish.






Back at the market, I muse how the photos that I take invariably bring out what I think of as local and therefore interesting. You're not likely to find me taking a picture of the Polish guy who was standing on the street with hand extended asking for a few coins. Or of the stores along the main drag -- they have a ubiquitous face to them that could appear anywhere at all: places of cheap clothing, a few tattoo parlors, many barbers and butchers too. I like walking up one, peering into another, but my camera waits.

 ...until I am in a tea shop/bakery. A place with very very sweet looking cakes. I need to warm up and they appear to have good teas. The clouds have taken hold and there is a definite chill in the air. A warm cup of chamomile tea would do the trick.

The particular coffee shop is favored by an older crowd. Lots of people coming in, going out, exchanging the longer story, where the telling of it is as important as the content.






And then I'm back at the market and this time I pick up something too. Herring from the Irish waters. So I guess that makes it Irish herring, no? Beautifully prepared by this woman.






Mary approves when I show her my purchase. She's got the pickling brine down right. Just excellent! 

Time to turn back. Mary gives her brother a lift home and they exchange comments about how there are too many cars on the road with single drivers, using excessive fuels. Ha! They should take a look at our clogged roadways! I remember driving in Connecticut and California where highway lanes were set aside for cars with at least two passengers. The bulk of the traffic was in the other lanes.

We're home. Mary hurries off to do her weekly work at the local community gardens. We want to grow our own food, but too few people show up to do the hard work. We're building raised beds now for spring.

I want to help, but I also want my lake walk and so I go off on my own. (After a lunch of herring and brown bread. And tea.)






I Should Have Listened to Mary

I had asked  -- where can I walk around here? A nice, long scenic hike -- what do you suggest?
Oh, take the trail up in Ballycuggaran. Other side of the river, about two miles past Killaloe. The trail starts there.
Maybe I can walk to it?
Mary looks doubtful. You've got a mile from here to town, another through the village and a couple more up to the trail. Both ways.
I like walking -- I say. With determination.

Mary has only been hosting AirBnB guests for a few months, but she has HR experience. She knows when to leave kooks alone.

So I set out. Under now unquestionably gray skies.

At first the walk is quite nice. Over the bridge...


 



(...passing two girls who are holding... what? I asked a local young person later. Be patient.)






On the other side of the river, I walk along the Killaloe Canal, once heavily used, but in recent times preempted by the raising of the Shanon River's water level (through dams and such).






(I note that fuschia blooms everywhere. Despite the fact that they claim to have had frost last week. We have had no frost yet back home and still we could not possibly support wild fuschia. Life in the wild is basically unfair.)






But after a mile or so, the pleasant little path along the canal ends and I am on the road, sharing it with cars. Not highway level traffic, but frequent enough to make me regret this chunk of the hike. I should have listened to Mary.


Some hours later I finally come upon the trailhead. But now time, measured in daylight hours, is slipping away. I dare not walk up far. There's that whole return journey to look forward to.

And it's a shame, because it really is a beautiful walk.











Really beautiful, with stunning views to the hills and the lake and river below.












Eventually I force myself to turn back.

I encounter several hikers now, including this guy with his dogs.






This little pup is forcing himself to keep up with the two big guys.






I continue down. Gorgeous walk. Really heavenly.






Okay. I'm on the gravel road now, heading toward the main road. What's this? The guy with the pooches is coming down by car. I waved them over to the side.
By any chance, are you going in the direction of Killaloe? (btw, why do so many Irish names have the letters "kill" in them?)
I am.
Could I flag a ride? 

I would never hitch a ride in the States. Ever. Especially from a hunky single guy. And that is so strange, because I spin my life according to probabilities and the chance of getting into a bad place is so small and yet, I wont do it. The very idea ignites fear in me.

But here, I am just grateful for the ride which spares me an hour-plus of road walking.

In the end, I find out that my driver is not Irish. I could tell after the first few words. Eastern European accent. I ask him, but carefully, where he is from ('carefully' because I really think it's poor form to insult people by highlighting their off-sounding speech; I say this as one who has been on the other side of things, when words like "where are you from?" sounded more like insults than curiosity). 

He tells me he lives here now, but he hails from The Czech Republic.
You are here for work?
Yeah...I came in 2007. He sounds resigned.
Having a hard time of it?
Not in the summer. Plenty to do then. But now it's dead. Ghost town. His English is quite good. I listen as his little pup climbs all over my lap and settles in to purr. Like a cat. My pants are muddy from the pooch's paws, but then, they already have their share of dirt from Mary's dogs. I rub the pup's ears and turn back to the driver -- it's better here than back home?
Oh, I can get work there, but the pay's lousy.

He asks where I'm from and what I'm doing here. I tell him I am originally from Poland and I hope it all sounds positive and hopeful. I'm of the era where there were still good immigrant stories to pass around. I hope I convey the hope for a good ending. Luck helps. I wish him luck.


He drops me off just where I want to be right now - on Mary's recommendation (I'm listening now, Mary!) -- at the Ponte Vecchio, (Mary does not mince words and she has quite the spicy expressions that she uses freely for emphasis. Surely if she lived in Madison, she'd be my good friend.) She rolled her eyes at the name of this cafe-bar. I call it Andy's place. He should call it Andy's place! ...but you should look for the proper name: Ponte Vecchio.

There are nooks and books and pieces of art and I love it! If I lived here, I'd pop in constantly. I settle in to people watch and write in my red notebook.





After a while, the dad (above) and his lads (his choice of word) leave and an older gentleman comes in with a girl that I correctly assume to be his gradndaughter. She's maybe 14.

The gentleman is supremely polite. And chatty. He offers me a coffee, but I tell him it's too late for that. Were I to caffinate myself after 5, I'd be up far too late.
Another glass of wine then?
I protest, but somehow the wine appears and the three of us are immersed in a conversation that leaps and jumps every which way. And yet it is so revealing and touching. No, I can't write much about it. Here's where respect for people's lives has to supersede blog-worthiness. But I'll say this much -- the gentleman was beyond delightful and entertaining and the granddaughter -- hats off for putting up with all of it. Surely she would like to have been texting or facebooking instead -- well, maybe not the latter: I asked her if she does that much and she shook her head with total disinterest. I don't even have an account (this despite the fact that she and her family have lived abroad, including in the States, where surely she would have been exposed to thumbs flying wildly over a little screen).





(She's the one I ask about the wooden boards held by the girls on the bridge. They're for hurling -- the one truly Irish sport, though in the female rendition it's called camogie.)

We all part ways with promises of staying in close contact. You know how that goes. Maybe Ed and I will head out one day and help restore the gentleman's castle over near Galway. You never can tell.


Dinner at Goosers

This was to be the night of pub food and Guinness on tap. Mary suggested Goosers, for the food and for the pub atmosphere.


 


But after two glasses of Pinot Griogio at Ponte Vecchio, I couldn't do it.  The waiter tries: beef and Guinness stew? No... Traditional lamb stew maybe?  Not that either... What's with me -- have I become soft? Rabbitt pie? -- a no again.

I settle for the daily special: Atlantic seafood over pasta with a side salad.





And it's good. Very very good. I'll have to muster up the courage for real pub food tomorrow.

I look around me: a tired couple lost in their own thoughts. Then, a father daughter pair. Very quiet as well. Neither says a word during the entire meal. And to the side -- two older women. Sisters? They look like sisters. They're reading newspapers in each others company. It takes a great deal of intimacy to reach that point where you go out to dinner and read papers together.





Eventually the two women get up and they pause by my table to wish me a good evening.
Sorry for appearing impolite, but did I hear you say you're from Bray?
No, I'm from Dublin -- one of them answers.
Oh, my apologies. I misheard. It's just that I'm heading toward Bray myself tomorrow and I was looking for eating suggestions when there.
Why would you stay in Bray?
Well, it's outside Dublin -- I thought it might be a good option. I have an early flight the next day.
Next time stay in Dublin. She smiles and they both leave.

Is tomorrow's post going to run the caption -- "I should have listened to the gray-haired woman from the Goosers?"

I walk home along the almost dark road. It never rained today -- not even a drop, but I am mighty glad I have a sweater, a jacket and a scarf on.