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.

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.