Lough Derg

Go eat at the Wooden Spoon, Mary tells me. One of my favorites.

And I listen to her. Why shouldn't I -- she lives here, on the shore of Lough Derg and she seems to care about the foods harvested in the area.

And, too, I have only her good word to help guide me here, in Ballina, Ireland. Or is it Killaloe, Ireland? You know I am in an obscure spot when i can't even propery identify it.

But I am in good spirits. I am about to eat my one and only meal for the day -- fish chowder and a side salad.






Finally. I am hungry and of course hugely tired, but I know, too, that with each hour, things are just getting better and better. And I am about to eat and Mary tells me it will be good.


But let me back up some. My overseas flights were uneventful. Full of work and wakeful hours, but more or less on time. Enough so that I could grab this during the hour long layover n Paris: (I suppose you could call that, too, a meal but it felt puny to me... more like a snack.)






I arrived in Ireland just before noon...





....and I can't say my first hours here were stellar. It's the usual mess with car rentals: the contract that you enter into has hidden charges and you don't find out about them until you're there, ready to pick up the keys and get going. And the car is larger than what they promise. Uff!

Alright, never mind. It will do.

Anything else?

Well, the weather. A few weeks back, when I first looked into coming here, I was prepared for rain. I mean, does it ever not rain in Ireland? But as I tracked the forecast, I was stunned to see a consistent promise of good, dry days. Sunshine even. And so  I packed accordingly. So why are my windshield wipers on as I leave the Dublin airport?

But this changes. 100 kilometers outside of Dublin and I actually do see strips of blue sky. 

One more small snafu:  toward the end of my mini-roadtrip, I get terribly lost in the maze of small country roads. I blame Google Maps. And Ed for not being here to help me out with map reading.





But, eventually I am there. Where exactly is "there?" The village I am in (whichever of the two it is) rests at the southern tip of a large lake in south western Ireland. It seems that I've crossed half the country to get here and I probably have, but the roads are good, and everyone speeds, and there isn't that much traffic anyway and so it took me less than three hours to get here.

I chose this area in part for its scenic beauty: hills swoop down to a rather large body of water, fed by the springs of the Shannon River. Here, I can see the lake driving toward my rooms for the night.





The accommodation is the other reason for picking this particular spot. To keep costs really low, I am using AirBnB.com for all my overnights here. Do you know of it? People who have rooms and flats to share list them through this site. You're basically a guest at someone's place. Of course, the magnificence of your lodgings can vary tremendously. I only looked at rentals that were about 40 Euros (less that $60) per night.

Mary (who is about my age) is my host. She has a small cottage right next to her own home and she's trying out the AirBnB game. So far she likes renting it out. And I hugely like her place. Most of the Irish rentals are a tad old spinsterish. Not hers.










So this is where I am. Just about a mile outside these two villages (Ballina and Killaloe), quite close to the shores of Lough Derg.

Just a few photos for you tonight. The Internet is terribly pokey and erratic and I'm afraid I'll go back to that state of impatience that always hits me if I waste too many hours on sruggling with WiFi during travels.

From my walk to the village:






Okay, I'm there. I believe this is  Ballina:






I stop at the grocery store briefly and watch the steady stream of kids pop in on their way home from school.





...and this one is Killaloe.






If I understand things properly, they're linked by a bridge across the Shanon River. Beautiful views from this old narrow viaduct. In all directions.






The Wooden Spoon eatery is just up the road after the bridge. Tonight it has a nice mixture of diners:  the usual couple out on a date, an older pair looking to eat somewhere other than home and then, too, it has a young mom with her two daughters. My gaze returns to them again and again. I can remember when my girls were that age and we ate out during travels on this side of the ocean. They were about as serious (when we were in public) as these two are tonight.






I tell the mom later that her girls are good souls and I ask each girl if, by any chance, they're either 32 or 28, like my two back home. They assure me that they are only eight and five. Ah, that golden age of childhood when not a whole lot can rock your boat just yet.


And speaking of boats, I am now again crossing the bridge, where men are laying out nets. I ask -- what for?
Eel.
They'll swim right into them?
Ay, and we'll pick them up tomorrow. 6:30 in the morning.





The sun is sinking rapidly, A man in a very large wooden boat drifts by and then, as if satisfied, he points the nose of the boat to shore.





One more mile and I'm home. Mary's home, but mine for the next two days.

first stop: Chicago

I've lived in the deep country of post-war Poland. I've lived in arguably the most concentrated bit of metropolis on this continent, if not beyond (New York). And now, of course, I live in a farmhouse, not too close to anything at all that you would call an urban center. So you would think I can span the spectrum and feel at ease anywhere at all (let's exclude the wilderness; I've never lived in anything that you could even remotely call wilderness).  But it's not so. A person can get used to pretty much anything. And conversely, you can get unused to something equally fast.

I am surprised how unused to the city I am. How impatient I become with stalls, delays, congestion. How pushy I feel I have to be to survive. How terribly hurried I, too, become -- as if there was the need to get there fast. As if I have to pick up my pace to catch the light because -- God forbid -- I may otherwise have to wait for it to change again.

Chicago is a favorite city destination for me. I love it because I associate it with beautiful moments with my daughter and now her fiance. It's always a happy time to pause here, to have a meal, which, too, is terrific. Always.





But getting from the farmhouse to the place where we, the three of us, finally meet up for lunch is a process and every leg takes a bit of patience. If I lost it over the years of a slower pace, I am relearning it now as I hurry to catch the bus, hurry to catch the "L" train, hurry the final blocks until I am there, across the table, seeing their bright and happy faces, picking up on that happiness once more, letting those precious minutes sink in...





Fleeting, maybe that, but heavenly.

And then I rush to the "L" and get clogged in the lines that are a part of the O'Hare airport experience, trying hard not to be pushy, trying hard to hold back until I am through all that congestion, sitting now at the gate, waiting for my flight to Paris and then to Dublin to be called.

You teach yourself to adapt when you leave the safe harbor of home. And that, for me, is a good thing.

a tiny extra post

I don't want to lose any days here. So just to keep Wednesday on the books, let me post these three photos from this day. The first, at the farmette, taken very very early in the morning. Everything was so muted and tame... Lovely to see in those first wakeful hours...





The second -- at breakfast. Much of the discussion at the kitchen table focuses on the porch roof. There's a lot to consider. A whole new learning opportunity on how to live with a glass roof.






And finally - from campus. The day was so fine and the grass still so green that I think they deserve a moment here.





Thursday I head to Chicago. I haven't seen my youngest girl in too long a while. Any break from work must include a quick visit with her. Then? Well, as long as I'm in Chicago, I can fly to wherever a cheap fare will take me. Can't be too far -- I have to be back Monday afternoon.

So where to? Ed tells me just a couple of weeks back -- air watch dog is calling ridiculously low fares to Ireland this month! Ireland? Okay, Ireland.

long day

That's Tuesday for me. Long. And so therefore, the post after it has to be short.

A friend stopped by during breakfast -- a repeat of celebratory pancakes and a repeat of my delight in seeing so much brightness everywhere I look.






How can there be this many ways to view light?





And after breakfast? Well, work. With the occasional mad pace through the garden, as Ed continues to put finishing touches on the roof edging.






Back inside for me. Work! Keep at it -- work! Forget the gorgeous day. Get inside!






To campus then, for a few hours in the classroom and after -- wow, is the sun setting already? As usual, I ride rosie home the quiet way -- by the lesser lake...






By the time I am on the country roads, the sun is almost gone. Just a sliver left -- over the now dry fields of soy.






Home. The joy of returning home. Is it that way for you too? That final stretch of road before you turn into your drive way, does it make your heart swell? I could write a fat tome about the pleasure of being home. And so it is one of the peculiarities of nature, my nature, that I should devote so much energy and spare resources on being away from it! Next time I write (late Thursday), I wont be home at all. As always, stay with me as I reconfigure my posting schedule. Travel disrupts routines. And that, for me, is a good thing.

just can't get enough...

...of that light. Like the waters of the ocean, the counter top picks up the blue of the sky. The floor -- the green of the trees outside.






Different. Life is different when there is light all around you. (This is at breakfast. My guy gets pancakes today. Celebrate!)






Inside and out. (Do you remember how dark the porch space looked from this vantage point?)

In the meantime, the sun shines bright and the blooms are sweet and mellow and nothing, nothing seems too hard or complicated.

But work continues to lay its heavy claw on all hours of the day. From sunrise, to sunset I'm stuck at the table with my books spread in all directions. Living on the farmette is at once so tough in these months of brutal work (I want to be outside!) and so gratifying: I take two minute pauses repeatedly and I don't have to walk far to find the most stunning little vignettes of seasonal beauty.






Ed resumes work on the roof, reattaching the flashing where the glass panels meet the wooden farmhouse frame.

And so we move into a beautiful evening and as promised, we have a dinner out. Mussels and fries and a frisee salad. And a glass of rosé. At the bar counter, where we can watch the flow of traffic at each side.






Perhaps the best part about living in the country is witnessing a day's beginning and a day's end. As we drive the last quarter mile home, the thinnest sliver of the moon and a first bright star (is it Sirius? or a planet?) shine brightly to the west.





We pull into the driveway. Isis is out to greet us. The air is cool, robust. In a week or two, it'll be time to bring in the plants that spend the winter indoors. Orchids, geraniums, a few herbs, maybe a nasturtium -- they've had their six months of the carefree life. Now is the time to think of packing up your roots and heading indoors.

Sunday

Here's a downside of suddenly having terrific light in your kitchen: you can now see every inch of counter top, every bit of the dish rack, every smudge on every surface before you.

And so despite the fact that the farmhouse is one big construction zone right now -- with buckets of tools and strips of wood leaning by the windows -- I start the day with a thorough house cleaning.

But after breakfast...





...we are at it again.

This is the second most nerve racking day for me. (The first day of placing the panels topped the list because we were uncertain then how everything would unfold.)

It is the day when we have to heave up and place the biggest and heaviest of all the glass panels. It is so fat and wide that it can't easily be passed through the window. At 85 pounds, it is so heavy that I'm not sure I can lift it high enough to do the bend at the stairwell. It is so fragile and expensive and important that I really think the day would be a lot pleasanter if we could just fast forward it to the moment when that damn thing is in place and I can sit back and thank my stars that I didn't let go of it or bump it or do any number of terrible things to have it shatter into a million pieces.

At least the weather is good.

Ed starts us off by placing the plywood strategically so that we can approach the gaping hole. It's a balancing act up there. Walking is safe only in the middle of the plywood or on the beams themselves.





I'm nervous enough that I can't work. I pluck weeds around the picnic table outside. Furiously. As if they had to be gone and out of there in the next two minutes.

Okay, we're ready.

Everything moves slowly now. The initial lift, the steady walk to the farmhouse, the first turn, the one into the living room. We rest before we take on the stairs. Ed mumbles that he should have developed a better pulley system outside. The first big challenge is managing the stair turn. Up, it has to go up and I'm the lead person (and no edge can scrape against anything -- we've learned that lesson!).

Are you okay? I ask. He's hesitating below me.
Are you okay?

Sometimes you wonder at the things you're capable of doing. They seem too mighty, too bold, too brazen. To think that the motherload of glass panels can be lifted, carried up, placed with a quarter inch precision on rafters suspended in midair...

But you do it because it needs to be done.

And this is how we get it round the bend in the stairs, and out the window, at a tilt, all ten feet by thirty inches of it, balancing ourselves on the rafters and the plywood, pushing it gently in place.

Well, here we do falter. I can't push it hard enough. Ed goes down to the porch, climbs a ladder and like the mighty Hercules that he sometimes is, he lifts the pane above his head while up there, on the roof, I guide it into position.

And there you have it -- the largest of the panels in place, suddenly throwing light into the western corner of the porch and, more significantly, into the dining area of the farmhouse kitchen.






After this, everything else seems like child's play. A few more panels, more strips of wood to screw in and we're done for the day. Of course, we're not done in any true fashion. We have installed fifteen panels. The sixteenth we'll have to reorder (because of the nick). I wailed loud and hard and finally Ed agreed that the nicked one needs to be discarded. Then, too, he has edging to do and finally, we'll need to paint at least some and possibly all of the boards and beams. We don't mind the funky look, but it's a tad too funky out on the porch right now.

But as the sprinkles return in the evening, we have the satisfaction of knowing that the greatest effort is behind us. In an unusual moment of grateful appreciation for my efforts (as if I did even a quarter as much as he has done!) Ed suggests a Monday night out to celebrate. Yes!

This evening, though, is reserved for my daughter and her husband. They come for Sunday supper late enough that they can't appreciate the sudden burst of light in the kitchen.






But they bring a gust of cheerful energy into the farmhouse and they listen to our stories of roof issues and I'm thinking -- it surely will be so nice for us all to be sitting out on the porch again next summer. Under skies of blue, or dusky gray, watching the bats swoop above us as the warm evening turns into night.

up on the (wet) roof, continued

All day long we played tag with the rain.

Breakfast in the sun room, but there's no sun today. A thick fog lifting just a bit to reveal darkening skies.




The radar shows a band of showers, but they should end in an hour.

(An hour later) We're clear for at least two. Let's go!
We're clamping down the glass panes on the roof with more butyl and screwed in boards. Delicate work. The screws cannot touch the glass.





Time and again the forecast is off. Right as we position ourselves on the wet boards, the rain comes back.
Let's finish this one and take a pause. Be careful! I say this now with even greater urgency. It's slippery out there!

I'm so focused on what we're doing that I barely appreciated how grand a rooftop view can be. We're looking out toward the barn and sheep shed. Same view as from the porch, only from a higher plane.






We do this stop and go work all day long. It rains. I read indoors. It stops. We go out. It starts, we get wet, we pause. And so on. By evening, I will have done my school work load for the day and we will have completed the clamping of all the glass panes thus far, adding two more panels to the lot. So now we have eleven down and five to go (for a total of sixteen; I'll get the number right yet!).

After supper, we run errands. A trip to my daughter's to babysit their cat.





Then a stop at Menard's (building supplies).  One-by-twos and, too, vinyl stripping for the roof edge.

My role in the roof project would have come to an end Sunday -- with the installation of the remaining panels, but we still have the problem of one nicked panel and no meeting of the minds as to what to do with it. At least Sunday promises us some clear skies. Whatever we decide will look more hopeful and bright in the golden light of the sun.

up on the roof, continued

The roof replacement project stalls as both Ed and I have work to do in the morning. Clouds hovered over the forested hills...


 


...and eventually the rain comes down, washing away some of that climbing and lifting energy we had. Back to the books again. These days I take my work to the south facing front room (how else to call a space that long ago used to be a front porch?). It brings the coveted winter sunshine indoors all season long. Soon we'll be eating breakfast there too. Soon? Oh dear, we really are that close to winter.





It rains and it rains some more. The dusty pale colors of the cornfields take on a richer hue. A last burst of green and gold color before it all goes away.





In the afternoon, the skies settle into their humid, occasional drip mode.
Want to carry some glass up?
Yes!





Sure, we have some minor missteps. Like trying to fit in the center trapezoid the wrong way. (My fault.) Or resting the glass in the living room while Isis, confused beyond hope, tries to walk through it. But by the time it was too dark to do anymore, we had hoisted and fit in five more panels. So we have nine up and only six to go.

The routine of carrying up glass is, right now, so set, so predictable, that the temptation is to just keep on truckin' until the whole batch is in place. That would give us a glass ceiling by the end of the weekend. But I tell Ed that we need to switch focus. The glass isn't clamped down yet. I want to see whether he can get the screws in without shattering the panels. And he has to design a different edging at the overhang. Something easy and durable and thin enough so that the rain and snow can just wash right over it.

And I need to put some heavy duty hours of reading under my belt if I'm to take off next Thursday eve or else I'll be traveling with great folders of work. I want so very much to have at least one weekend free of scholarly writings. Let the mind go soft. Let other senses kick in.

-->
In the meantime, I make a batch of broccoli soup to keep us going for a while. October, November -- these are broccoli soup months in my mind. Ed picked up some corn from a road stand, we still are reeling with tomatoes -- this is what good autumn suppers are made of.





The end of the week. A good week. But then, aren't they all, at heart, good weeks?

up on the roof

Ed was not up at dawn -- we were both up at dawn. His energy galvanized the both of us to attack the porch roof project full steam today, despite the predictions of storms and thundershowers.

So, after a quick and rough breakfast...





...we rehearsed the game plan. The pulley system, whereby we heave the glass panel up a ladder-like incline and then in some miraculous fashion Ed takes it off the pulley and lays it down flat was, in the end a no-go. I had the ultimate veto power and I expressed it.
I'm too terrified with that one! If it slips or I let go, the whole thing will come crashing and it will be my fault!
If you let go of it under any system the whole thing will come crashing.
Yes, but I especially see the crash coming if we hoist it up outside.

The alternative is to walk all panels (we're down to only fifteen: Ed reminded me that we conjoined the end ones, which were too skinny to manufacture on their own, with their neighbors) into the farmhouse, around three corners downstairs, then up the stairs, mastering a mega-tight turn on the stairs themselves, then finally guiding them out the bathroom window.

We practice with a ten foot board. Tricky, but doable.

It's all in the attitude -- I tell myself. Cautious, but positive. Evincing strength. Yeah. I can do this! (Besides, there is no third alternative.)

Most of the panels weigh only about forty-five pounds. But two -- the end ones -- are more than eighty and unfortunately, we have to begin with such an end one.

Isis watches.

I feel a rain drop. Another. We ignore it all. We have such an intense focus on succeeding with that first panel that I swear it would have to flash and thunder for me to suggest postponing the installation.

We've attached glass carrying handles. Suction cups. Bright red, to keep things cheerful. They help.

Up we go, barely managing the stair turn and then -- out the window, first Ed then me.

You'd think we were home free now. You'd be wrong. Remember, there is no roof over the porch at the moment. It's been ripped off. What remain are loosely placed boards of plywood. If you step on an edge of one, between the rafters, the thing would flip up and throw you down to the porch below.

"Be careful" are my words of choice. About a million times. Be careful, watch it, be careful, you're on the edge! Careful!






And, too, there is this tricky part, where we have to position the glass at the edge of two rafters. This is no rough approximation: it has to cover exactly a one-half inch surface of each rafter. No more, no less.

There's sticky stuff placed on the rafter. Butyl tape. Ed sprays it with water so that the stickiness doesn't catch the glass too early, before we're ready to let it go.





Careful! You're on the edge! Careful!
Can you lift your edge of the pane?
No, not anymore. It's stuck.
Switch places with me.
Careful!

A few more rounds of this and we're done. (The celebratory photo. On the roof.)





At least we're done with the laying of the first of the fifteen panels. Ed will be clamping them down further with wood strips. With the feverish hope that any screw wont touch the pane. Because if it does - boom! -- the entire panel will shatter. Edges of tempered glass are that vulnerable. (Once they're covered with wood trim, we can rest easy.)


The rain continues to tease us. A sprinkle, then quiet. It's muggy and humid, but we want to continue. With the second panel.

As we pick it up to carry it in, I say to Ed -- let's not get cavalier now. Just because we did one of the heavier panels...
That's right. Accidents happen when you're distracted.
And that's when the panel touches, just touches the metal hinge of the farmhouse door.
There is a small nick. Just like that. Ed looks at it. A quarter of an inch of vulnerability.
I don't think we can use this panel anymore, he says.

A quick consult with glass experts. There's no consensus. One says -- file it down and you're fine, the other says -- get rid of it: fifty-fifty chance it will shatter within a year.

Can you tell where in that dispute I stand?

So now we are down one panel.

But we have learned a lot. The edges of a tempered sheet of glass cannot be scraped by metal.


The day progresses in this ways for us:  He installs butyl and positions the plywood boards while I work on my readings, then we carry and fit a panel. And another. And another. Be careful! Be careful!

Four are in place, eleven still to go.

We look up to see it's almost evening.

But the first part of the roof looks fabulous! I'm staring at it from the corner of the kitchen:





We need to do a run to Farm and Fleet. Ed will cut tubing to run the screws through, so that they do not touch the tempered glass edges as he clamps down wood strips to hold everything in place. We're learning!

The next days promise more rain. A shame -- we're pumped to keep going. But a good thing, too. I've got work to do!

And the season moves closer and closer toward the colors of fall. And the beauty of that doesn't escape us. Up on the roof, down below. It's all grand.