running with cows

What’s the population of Ireland? Ed asks.

I don’t know... less than that of Poland.

Which is?

Poland is at 38 million.

The Internet tells me Ireland’s at 4.5 million.

Yes, it feels much much less crowded here. Cities are few and far between. Dublin, the largest, is half the size of Warsaw and mind you, at 2 million, Warsaw could be considered rather small. Sort of like six Madisons, side by side.


Breakfast at the Cairbre House. Brian fusses and the results are exceptional: locally smoked salmon on brown bread, scrambled free range eggs with a salad and herbs from the Cairbre garden, fruits, yogurts, a local cheese.





I ask about the weather for the day.
It looks like we'll be getting more stable air.
I'm guessing we’re safe from the big rains, even as an occasional sprinkle may still surprise us (and it does, late in the afternoon, as we scramble for shelter under a bush).

Of course, it is the mild and rainy temperament of this country that allows for such beautiful gardens. Filled with moisture loving roses.





We have several suggestions of trails for hiking. Ireland, like Great Britain, is at home with this sport. Detailed maps show you how to put together a decent trek, with information on elevations, paths, and roads.

But it’s always a challenge to find a trailhead and we drive in circles for a good hour looking for the one we pick for the day.

Where’s the Two Mile bridge? – I ask.
Can’t say that I know. There’s a region called Two Miles – might you mean that?
No, we need the bridge. One of many here, all seemingly nameless.

The lovely thing about this part of Waterford County is that you can pause in your search for one hike and pick up another.

So long as we’re near the coastal village of Ardomore, we may as well do the Cliff Walk. An hour and a half along the coast of this pretty little town.

Ed tells me – take a photo of that house, with the painted windows.
I stop the car and get out.





A local gentleman ambles over and suggests that he take a picture of me by the gate. He’s holding tight to a brown bottle that looks to me well sampled and I have the idea that he’s probably not the best candidate to keep a camera focused.

No, thank you, I just want the house.

It’s for sale now. A republican owns it, you know.
I ponder the meaning of this comment: is the former presence of Great Britain here still on the minds of some? Ireland is a young republic (becoming formally an independent republic after World War II). An older man may still have feelings about the division between the north and south.





The Cliff Walk is on a well-marked path along a rugged coastline. The sign warns of precipitous drops, but I quickly (and blissfully) realize that the dangers are exaggerated. It's a gentle walk among ferns and rock formations. The danger is to those out on the sea.






We pass an older man who looks  like he's done this stroll a good many times – what is that rusted rig that rests by the cliff up ahead? (There is a massive multi-story iron structure that leans against one of the rocky shores.)
Aye, that was washed ashore from the seas twenty years ago. The story goes that a local chap set up camp on it for several months and now claims it’s his.
The story goes...

Do you know what it was used for originally?

No, I’m not from these parts. I’m from Cork. (Note: Cork can't be more than 50 miles from here.) And where are you from?
Oh, such a familiar question for us. We’re always asked and we muster up the same answer -- the United States, hoping it will suffice. It never does.
Lovely! Where in the U.S.?
Wisconsin...(and then, quickly, before the look of puzzlement settles in...) just north of Chicago.

We pass a stone structure shielding a natural spring. Ed reads that it has curative powers. Go ahead, drink it! He says. It’s artesian water.

I’m sure it’s polluted.

With what? You’ll be fine. You’ll be cured of all disease!
He’s laughing at me, but I do dab a finger in it and wet my lips. We were totally negligent in bringing water for the hike and a drop of curative waters is a delicious little decadence.

We are now back at the old tower and cemetery at the edge of the village.

What is it for?

Monks hid their works there, protecting themselves from invaders - Ed reads.
Always that. Where there is a tower, there is a threat.






In the village we pause for a cup of tea and a slice of carrot cake. Ed tells me that we need to try a local bakery before we leave. He's right: much can be learned about a population from its bakeries. Tomorrow.





The tea moment softens me a bit. Not in a hurry now, I walk along the town beach, watching a family take their stroll on the wet sand.





Three sons, one hovering mom, one proud dad. The picture could have been taken decades earlier. You don't even have to change the clothing much.


In the late afternoon, we at last find the Two Mile bridge. This is our big hike for the day – along the River Brickey and then up to the peak of Kilnafarna Hill (rising to a mere 1000 feet, but still a presence here by the coast).

The meadows at the side of the river are enchanting – fields of buttercups, bordered by stone walls overgrown now with nettle and bramble.

We climb over one gate to find ourselves in a meadow of wild iris.





Gold on gold. It could not be more beautiful





Up the hill now, along a rarely used road. Except in one spot were tractors are digging ditches and putting in pipes.
Why? I ask a local farmer.
We’re draining the field. Too wet.

For building?

Noooo... for pasture. It’ll be planted with grass.

The cows of Ireland. There are so many in this region and they all are happy cows – pasture fed, in fields of buttercups and tall grasses.

The views here are lovely – of the hills and mountains to the north, of the estuary and sea to the south.









And still, my eyes follow the pasturelands and the animals that graze there.

As I approach one fence, I see maybe some thirty cows staring at me. I get closer. They all take a step in my direction. As I near a gate, they trot over, the whole herd of them.





I look at their lovely lashed eyes.





They’re bulls, and they hold my gaze.

I move away. Sorry guys, I’m not your keeper.
She’ll eat you – Ed tells them. He never misses an opportunity to tell a cow I am a fan of a good piece of beef every few months.

I move on. They move on with me. I break out into a trot. So do they.





You got yourself a herd of cows to play with!

I’ve seen sheep act in packs, but I’ve not seen cows do this and especially not in this Simon Says way. I stop. They stop and come over closer. No, I have nothing for you! I’m sorry!

And finally they turn away. Up the hill, to the top, where they take on a leisurely pace in their fields of green and gold.





We walk down the hill, past the ubiquitous shrubs of fuchsia...





...on quiet roads and lanes, where a man will walk his dog...





...and sounds of a tractor and the warble of one bird after another will disturb the quiet around us.

It’s evening. We drive down to the coast one last time, to the village of An Rinn, the smallest Gaeltacht coastal area where children still study the old Irish language and all directions, ads, postings are completely devoid of English. I watch three girls stroll along the coastal road. Tradition for them will have a real daily meaning. I am reminded of the family that rented us a room last year on the Isle of Skye in Scotland. The dad taught at a traditional language school there. I still regard the CD we took home, of traditional Scottish music, as one of my top five favorites to listen to on a Sunday morning. I am a borrower of other people's traditions.





It is late now, though here, in June, it hardly gets dark before 11. We’re back at Dungarvan and Ed suggests we take in a pint at a waterfront pub. He reads the local paper, I people watch.

But I’m hungry and the bag of peanuts we buy is hardly food. We walk over to the nearby Quealy's  – another pub-like eatery, where I order the local hake (cod-like and delicious, it was transplanted to the American waters; but it’s from this region – indeed, Hake Head is a coastal village just east of Cork), with the now available on every roadside stand -- Irish new potatoes.





Brian, our host at the b&b greets us as we toddle in late.
Been a bit worried about you. People go out on long hikes, you never know...
I smile. A protective people. Looking after the strangers who walk their paths and run with their cows.

from Dungarvan, Ireland

That’ll wake the whole lot of them, the flight attendant mumbled as the plane’s wheels touched the runway. It was a ferocious bump. But really well done, as I told the captain on the way out. We had landed in Dublin in complete fog. Sitting by the window, I had not seen the runway until we were speeding toward a stop.

The flight had been completely full with what Ed referred to as “his kind of people.” A jeans and t-shirts crowd. So different than flights to Paris – he tells me.

He’s right. And there are many reasons for it. One may be that Ireland is right now the cheapest European destination in terms of airfares (Barcelona comes in second; predictably, we’ll be leaving Europe from Barcelona).

We’re pausing for a few days here. Ireland has Ed’s kind of summer climate, too: not hot. And it has potentially magnificent walks, if the rains stay away.

We quickly leave Dublin airport and head south to the coastal town (village, if you ask our host) of Dungarvan.

It’s not quite 150 miles from Dublin, but it takes us nearly four hours to get here. We stray from the main highway and weave through the coastal towns. Ed dozes, I drive. It’s best that way. When the traffic slows to a stop, I take out my camera.





Outside the towns, the country roads remain empty. And pretty. When the fog rolls back enough for us to see the lush green landscape.





We’re by the coast, but hedges and hills block the view of the water. Until suddenly we see them: the sandy beaches along the Irish Sea. We stop an older man walking along the road.  
Is there access to it?
Well now. You could drive up there and park in the lot. You will have to pay. Or you can drive further, leave the car at the side of the road and find the path to the sea. Like I’m doing.
No answer is less than a dozen words long.






The fog is completely gone here. Indeed, for a few minutes, we think we’re going to have an almost sun dappled afternoon.

Afternoon? How did it get to be afternoon? We hadn't eaten anything since a morning banana on the flight into Dublin. I pull up by a strawberry and potato stand. The berries are warm and juicy. Our first introduction to Irish food is magnificent.





In Dungarvan, it takes us a while to find the Cairbre House (where we’re staying for our entire three days in Ireland). It could be that I am not saying the name right. It could be that the flowers and vines hide it from the casual passerby. It could be that I am just that tired.





Brian, our host, greets us with a warm cup of coffee (I could hug him for that alone – my last caffeinated beverage was in Detroit) and a wealth of information about walks, foods and sights of the southern coast (which is lapped by either the Celtic Sea or the Atlantic Ocean, depending on whom you ask).





You think that the weather has finally turned? Maybe. But very quickly it turns again. Looking out the window of the second floor, we can see the heavy, moisture laden clouds coming right back in over the estuary. We’re bound to get a little wet, but if the crane can take it, so can we.





Yes, we're getting a rinsed off well on our walk into the heart of the village.





It's worth it. We eat at the Moorings, in the pub room. Freshly fried fish, with chips and vinegar, and a pint at the side.

musing while waiting in New York for a connecting flight

And maybe there is something to be gained from long hours on buses and planes after all. Maybe these are the times when you can observe people variously responding to the demands of the twenty-first century equivalent to a Greyhound Terminal. The stress of travel.

And I have to say, I’m left upbeat and happy. I see patience (at the bus stop in Janesville, when the bus driver disappears for half an hour, without explanation). I see sympathy (at the New York airport when the plane, delayed already, stops and goes no further). People have a lot more elasticity within them now than they did, say, forty years ago, when I came from Poland on a BOAC flight (a.k.a. British Airways) and passengers expected white gloved stewardesses (a.k.a. flight attendants) to hand out nuggets of gold (or so it seemed to me, traveling, as I had been, from Poland). I'm thinking -- there's a lot of stretch in that elastic these days before it snaps.

And that's a good thing.

I also see the beauty of the world on the horizon. Chicago...





...New York, at dusk...





...and soon, a wet, green landscape of the “old world.”

It's good to go places and take stock of what's out there.

Monday

I’m off.

Now, it ought not take that long to get to where we’re heading. But of course, we are not choosing the easiest way of getting somewhere. We’re choosing the cheapest.

By Saturday we should be at our destination – where the sun shines (they say) 300 days out of the year. But cheap means slow. And that’s a good thing, to an extent. Savoring the journey, so to speak. I see that we have a lot of rain in places leading up to our final sunny spot. Variety is also a good thing.

Except when the entire first day of the journey is spent on buses and at airports, merely so that we can get to New York’s airport for the overnight overseas flight, the image I have is not of savoring but waiting and hoping for successful connections.

The opportunity for missed flights is there, but at least not for lost luggage. I have my little carryon. At least my stuff will stay with me.

Sunday

In my view, there are two types out there – the one who cleans the house just before leaving for vacation and the one who does not (presumably to clean it when she gets home).

I spent the morning cleaning.

Ed tells me – you could write a book in the hours you spend cleaning.
I answer – I wouldn’t be me if I lived in grime and therefore the book would not be my book.

At midday, I say goodbye to my balcony garden.





Ed loads up my pots in the pickup, arranging them carefully on a bed of woodchips. (It’s not that he deliberately put the chips there for my pots – his truck carts loads of chips all summer long.) I feel like the parent who says goodbye to her kids going off to camp. Be good! Don’t die on me! (Ed’s cat caregiver will, I hope, water these when the rains slow down this month.)


Late in the day, I bike to my office to finish up mundane tasks there. The path, so bleak during the early months of spring, is a ribbon of green now.





How is it that everything can change so quickly?

One minute you’re paddling along, the next minute you’re in the water...






One minute the sky is cornflower blue, the next minute there’s hale and lightening. Plants, be careful now! I miss you! And I look forward to your return to my balcony!

loose ends

Spending a day attending to a fistful of loose ends can feel as stupefying as watching an endless string of sitcoms on TV. Ten hours later I wonder where the day disappeared. True, the fist has become awfully full because of my preoccupation with post-semester coursework and because it always fills up before departures.

Ed and I are scheduled to take off on Monday.


But there were pleasant moments today as well. Not like sitting on a sling chair on a sunny day pleasant moments, but still, good minutes.

Some were spent at the Westside Community Farmers Market. Separately and together, Ed and I almost always run into friends there and that has become part of the charm. I remember when I rented a place over the garage of a Parisian family some two years back. They showed me where to go for the biweekly market and they said – go at around 11. That’s when you meet your friends. You'll see as many people exchanging greetings as shopping. We’re not quite there yet, but I can imagine that this might become habit forming: catching up on events while buying the last of the season's asparagus or tomatoes.










Another pleasant moment came later, as I stopped by the little shop on the corner. In my ten months of moonlighting there, I had become accustomed to listening to stories from the everyday of my coworkers. A month had passed since I left and that's a lot of everyday that needed sifting and sorting.

I was so hungry for news, that I forgot to dabble in all the creams and potions that are in display testers -- something I routinely did in the days when I worked there. Next time.


Finally, I hate to admit to being happy with acquiring something (practicing non-acquisition is, for the most part, quite satisfying... for the most part), but in truth, I am extremely delighted with purchasing a new carryon bag. Ed and I will be away for more than three weeks but I am determined to fit everything I need in a small carryon and with room to spare. But that requires a better case than the one I have put up with for the past decade. My new one is delightfully commodious, yet within the required dimensions that airlines are increasingly asking us to adhere to. Right now I have it opened and laid out before me and I just want to smile and smile at how, well, useful it is.

Few people have gotten so much pleasure out of one simple suitcase.


Outside, the rain is pouring down on Madison. It's a summer storm and I am reminded again that we are speeding through this warm and lovely season. It's time to turn my back on work and give summer my (almost) full attention.

change of pace

Well, I have two announcements:

First, I bought my espresso at a café that is actually reasonably close to me, even as it is so off the café path, that I never go there. I look around and I think -- wow, it's refreshingly colorful.











...which I appreciate. Barrique’s on Monroe Street, by contrast, is almost, in tones, lost somewhere in pre-World War II Vienna.


Second announcement: I am done with the work for the Spring Semester. True, I have a nice stack of work to attend to for the Summer Semester, but it can be spread evenly over a handful of days. In any case, the rush, for now is over.


I did suggest to Ed that we celebrate. And even my occasional traveling companion hadn't the heart to say "every day is the end of a busiest semester ever day," and so we went to the place which tends to capture most of our (annual?) celebratory meals -- Tutto Pasta.





I was a bit mortified. Ed was in his grungiest of torn work shorts and even his t-shirt managed to develop a huge rip at the side, but I do have to admit that the decision to go out was a sudden one, or I would have coaxed him to dress up into a rip-free garment. He does have some of those, even as they tend to be forever "buried somewhere," or so he tells me.

So, I'm done. And well caffeinated and well fed. And that's a good thing.

focused?

All day long, I work. I am so focused on work that I simply do not pay attention right now to anything that may distract me. I wake up at 3 in the morning and I panic that I should have taken care of a detail of some later August obligation. I do it then, at 3:15 a.m., because if I don’t, I may put it aside again.

By late afternoon, I have to stop. I have to keep a long ago scheduled dental appointment. I bike there so rapidly that for the first time in a long time I work up a real biker’s sweat. As I plump down on the dentist’s chair, the assistant tells me – hey, it's cool the way you look. I know you probably think you’re, well, kind of disheveled and unkempt, but it’s cool.

Thanks. I guess.

I bike back home on Old Sauk Road and I think – I am so distracted. I haven’t taken a photo the entire day.

I turn off toward a bike path I used to love when I lived not far from this neighborhood. It wiggles west of the street and for several seconds, it makes you feel like you’ve left the city behind.

I look around me. Wow. It’s even more rustic than I remember.





And then it strikes me – I am not on the bike path. I am on some affluent person’s private driveway.

Ooops.

I cut across to the bike path and continue, still thinking kind thoughts toward a summer-like day in green Madison, only without the rugged unkempt look of a dirt path.





At home, I put aside thoughts of a good meal. It’ll be frozen dinners tonight. No matter. I’m almost finished with Spring Semester work. Almost.

racing

I’m racing to finish grading this week. It’s a self imposed deadline, but still, I’d like to be done so that I can indulge in a few weeks of complete downtime before I start teaching again (July).

But, life interferes. I spent time in my office today, and I also took pleasurable time off to visit with a few neglected friends. Over food, of course.










After, I really raced: to beat the storms.





I biked into the garage just as the first big drops of rain hit my handlebars.

That’s luck for you. When I was a kid, biking long distances on the sandy roads around my grandparents’ village home in Poland, I was terrified of not making it back before the storm. I hated the threat of lightening and I could never figure out if I should lay low in the ditch until it all passed.

Now, years later, I’m biking through a town with a million safe rest stops and still, I remember the feeling of urgency. I need to make it home before the storm. I need to make it home...





(P.S.: I have several commenters who continue to post comments without attaching a name to their words. I delete these. Sorry, you need to sign with a name. It’s the way it is on Ocean.)

a child's day

One holiday from my childhood that I have great nostalgia for is June 1st. In postwar Poland this was the Day of the Child.

Oh sure, it was a time for gifts – typically a chocolate bar or some sweet indulgence, but it was also an acknowledgment that kids need a break from the usual parental patter and discipline. On this day you could assert yourself. Go to the park, eat ice cream, wear your favorite blouse or ribbon in your hair. (Braids with ribbon pleated throughout were common among school-aged girls).

I suppose one could argue that kids these days don’t need even more attention – that they boss us around plenty and they wear whatever they darn please especially once they pass the age of two. Ever try to put a pair of jeans on a preschooler who is hellbent on wearing dresses every single day of her life?

Still, June 1st was such a happy time! Children’s Day, followed soon by summer vacation (during which no child I knew did anything productive ever, as summer jobs and summer school were unknown entities in Poland), with nights that never quite turned dark and days that never had enough hours for play...

Yeah, June 1st. Initiating the season of child’s play.


Today, I had an early morning appointment downtown, providing an excuse to stop after at the coffee shop by this lake...





...where, of course, it being June 1st, I paid attention to the little ones...







After? Oh, you know. Grading at the farmette.

With a break and a country walk. Where not children, but the deer play.

this day

I ask Ed if Memorial Day in America is a day of remembering all who have died or only those who have died in battle. And then I think – what does it matter? If you miss your loved one, you can choose this day to especially think of her or him.

Here’s my photo for this day. Different perhaps from what you might expect – no flags, monuments, or commemorative stones. My remembrance is of this kind – with peonies around a place to leave letters.





If you’re in Madison, then you know that the day began on the cool side. I wore a sweater and on the motorbike, I wondered if yet again I had underestimated my capacity to feel chilled.


On the farmhouse porch, my routine is now pleasingly familiar. I surround myself with exams, I grade a few, I stretch, consider the rest of the world, then grade some more.

And by late afternoon, I see that umbrellas are in full use.





Meaning, the clouds have dispersed and the sky is a cornflower blue. Our neighboring truck farmers are always very mindful of the sun.





For me, these days of steady work and calm outdoor hours are as valuable as the vacation days that are still ahead.

Ahhh, but all good things must end, or at least must be reconfigured. At dusk, I see my first mosquito. I'm hoping he's a stray.