They said it was going to be an intensive course. But of course I’ve done intensive before. After all, I trained at one of the top language institutes in the world for the military. So an eight-week course in Classical Greek, no sweat, right? Sooo wrooong. I believe one of my classmates summed it up quite elegantly when, after learning the multiple forms of third person imperative (indicative and middle, mind you), in a daze he looked over his coffee during our break and said, “I feel like a squirrel is humping the back of my skull.” Saying I am in a perpetuate daze of declentions, verb endings, future and past infinitives (why is there more than one form of an infinitive verb!), passive future, indicative aorists, and whatever other monsters that lurk under the Greek language bed, is an understatement. At times I barely am able to surface from the sea of forms long enough to blink up at the sun and mumble, “what day is it?”
They say Greek is good for the soul. I’m pretty sure they mean it robs you of your soul. Semantics, semantics.
Four weeks have flown by with few events outside of a book that it’s almost depressing. I am very fortunate that the Rotary Club requested and funded my previous travel around Ireland or else my memories of this country would have been the well worn path to the university, back, and my kitchen table at the dorms with is covered in flash cards, lose papers, books, and a heap load of tears.
On the bright side, misery loves company and my fellow Greek students wallow alongside me in a hilarious manner that can only be a result of studying eight hours a day (AFTER class, mind you). We link arms and somehow survive the assault of grammar and vocabulary, drowning in glasses of Irish cider or Guinness at every given opportunity.
I did manage to get two other students to slip away for a horse ride in Killarney, a blessed break after SIX days of classes and exams. It was a two hour trek through Killarney National Park, a breathtaking sight amongst the mountains, across long grass fields, and along side the beautiful lakes. At least this time I did get to canter and thankfully (sadly?) this horse wasn’t the massive, quick footed beast I rode in Dingle. After a few moments I got the hang of rolling my hips in the saddle, managing to keep my seat as the Irish Draft gelding cantered down the path. Only three of us were experienced enough to do this, so we held back each time so give us room to run. One of the last stretches of running was through the woods. “Here we go!” Yelled the French instructor and off the horses went at a surprising pace. We raced across the path, thundering through brown water puddles, splashing mud up against my legs and face as I gasped for breath. I laughed, I whooped, dropping in the saddle and pressing my cheek against the horses neck to duck under tree limbs, heart in my throat as rain and water came from every direction. Covered in mud, laughing up at the sky, we finally caught up with the group and I finally got the hang of the fast paced canter. For the rest of the ride, at every chance we lunged ahead at a daring pace. I’m ippomanes ("horse-mad", for all you non-Classical Greek speakers out there).
Aside from Greek, I have had some great opportunities to meet with the Rotary Clubs here in Ireland. My first week of classes, I was able to attend the Monday Rotary Meeting of my club here in Cork, which was actually the best meeting I could have attended as it revolved around summing up what the club had done for the last fiscal year (as the presidents were soon to change). One project that really amazed me was a program that helped individuals with Down’s Syndrome. In Ireland, it seems the government doesn’t give the support to those with Down’s Syndrome in manners such as education, care, and/or employment as one might expect. The Rotary Club here has seen the issue and really stepped up. They fund raise each year and raise thousands of euro, all which goes to programs that give opportunities with those with Down’s Syndrome that might not previously been available. It was really amazing to hear about, especially given that my aunt is mentally disabled. The care, time, and effort the club put into this cause really warmed my heart, and I know first hand how much this sort of care is needed.
The next week I was also able to attend the changing of the gavel ceremony, which was doubly interesting as I was witness to the one at my club the year prior. In one year’s time, I got to see this ceremony take place in two different countries, and I really enjoyed that connection to the clubs. Just like at home in Monroe, it was a fun, relaxed, and filled with good food. The new president here is crowned with a very unique and beautiful gold chain that spreads across his shoulders and hangs down the chest. It was a very interesting sign of responsibility and respect and, as a history person, I found the small ritual motivating.
My hosting club here in Cork is extremely friendly, everyone genuinely willing to help in any way they can. It is so easy to see why the Ambassadorial Scholar program is a hit and I wish that when I had gone to France two years ago, I had been involved in the Rotary. The safety nets the club puts out really puts one at ease while in a foreign country and after studying abroad without the Rotary Club and now with, it’s very easy to realize how beneficial that added emotional support and presence is.
I gave my first presentation on Monday, which was a bit nerve racking but, as I said, the club is very welcoming. While I don't care for public speaking, it’s actually very easy for me to give these speeches. As a former Rotary Club Youth Exchange student, when I speak about the Rotary Club, every word comes from the heart. Back in 1998-1999, the Rotary Club changed my life. Coming from a somewhat financially poor background, studying abroad was an unrealistic fantasy. It simply wasn’t plausible for my family. But the YEP gave me an opportunity that drastically and permanently altered my life. I firmly believe that because of that experience, only through it was I able to realize my passion for languages, my love for traveling and culture, and my self-confidence to join the military. I speak rather passionately about it, often opening my speeches with it even though the YEP (Youth Exchange Program) is not part of the Rotary Foundation. Still, I am a product of Rotary. My accomplishments, though also done by the sweat of my brow, are a result of being placed on a path won to me from my Rotary experience all those years ago. So when I talk about the Ambassadorial Scholarship program, I can firmly and clearly assert that this is a program that changes lives. It is again an opportunity that I previously wouldn’t have had as the funds simply weren’t possible for me.
During my second presentation on Tuesday at another Cork Club (Cork has four clubs), I tried to touch on this point as well and really express my gratitude. The club was both friendly and inquisitive, which also made the presentation fun. They told me they weren’t quite use to university students like me, who had so much life experience under my belt, and I was very glad that they seemed to enjoy the presentation. (I always get a bit wobbly kneed before speaking.)
I’m still searching for where I can do my third presentation, but in the mean time, I spend my hours back over my books with even sleep being saturated my declining nouns and conjugating verbs (even in my dreams I can’t escape!). This weekend some of us are hoping to get away to Galway, as we have a day off on Monday (and thus our first two days off in a row). As much as I enjoy Cork (it’s a very quaint and fun city with its own unique feel), I’m ready to see some more of Ireland.
Now, back to studies. I have a aorist passive and future passive verb endings to memorize, after all.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Home of the Fir Bolg: Phantom and Fairy Folk
I almost passed up my chance to go to the Aran Islands. I tittered back and forth between going or not--simply unfamiliar with the islands in general. As I contemplated, a woman placed a brochure in my hands. In so many words, the paper promised that the Aran Islands are often the center of Irelands folklore and ancient culture, stating: "When you see the ghostly shapes of the islands floating 30 miles out at sea like misty Brigadoon, you instantly understand why the sea battered and wind whipped Aran Islands have been the subject of fable, song, and film for thousands of years."
Really, who can turn that down?
So I rode a 2 hour ferry to the legendary home of the Fir Bolg (the mythical first inhabitants of Ireland), and was met, once again, with perfect weather--so much so that I've the worst farmers sun-burn (too red to be called a "tan") that you'll ever see. The Aran Islands are broken down into three major islands: Inis Oirr (Inisheer), Inis Meain (Inishmaan), and Inis Mor (Inishmore). These islands are the last outpost of the Gailic language, the only place left in Ireland who have clung to their original language--making English a second tongue to its inhabitants. There is something so deliciously defiant in that last stance--a grasp to its roots and history that should be wildly applauded.
Inishmore, the largest island, is a bit to big to make it around on foot, so I rented a bike. I thought, "How fun to ride the island coast on bike!" How not fun to realize much of the island is hills. I accidentally ended up near the base of the highest hill in the island, a sign pointing upward to a castle that was said to be at the top of the "hill." And, in tell-tale stubbornness, I set out for it because, well, I was there, it was there, were had but to meet at the top. Needless to say, I ended up walking the bike much of the way, as the incline was far too steep and the rocks far too bumpy--apparently THIS trail was for hikers. Only I would try to take it by bike.
Perhaps because I hit it early in the day, or perhaps because most don't care to scale the rocky incline, I ended up at the top basically alone. It was...at times I find there are far too few words in the English language. Or it may be that my vocabulary is far too limited. But breath-taking has been used, amazing is too trivial, and beautiful too mundane. It simply was. The ground was black stone that suddenly ended, dropping unexpectedly into sheer cliffs. Not a line, not a chain, not even a warning--there was land and then there was none. The waves smashed against the smooth rock face, shaking the foundation on which I stood and filling the air with a distinct crrraaaack, like rumbling thunder. White foam covered craggy stones and the cliffs, so worn in places by the unforgiving sea, domed like a bowl, washed clean by the powerful waves.
They put the Cliffs of Moher to shame. These should be the cliffs everyone should see--of course then they might lose their magic. There is nothing like standing at the very tip of the world, watching the white and blue waves beat the rocks, in pure solitude--the last woman on earth. No, this piece of earth isn't for everyone--it will be our secret--only the most stout and determine may enter.
I followed the crescent shape of the cliffs, climbing over stone walls that are over 4000 years old--originally when I saw all those carefully sectioned off areas, I assumed to early people, the Fir Bolg (if you indulge my imagination), were very concerned with what's mine and yours. But as it turns out, it was a method for tilling the earth--the stones were removed and, at times, used to build up flat land for agriculture. If anything, it also got the rocks out of the way for planting. The earth here is naturally rocky, some having to do with millions of years of volcanic stones smashing together and at times, the smooth black rocks jut upward, looking long like forgotten tombstones.
The going wasn't easy--not all of that rocky surface is firmly attached to the ground and some stones rock and sway when you step on them. But eventually I got close enough to Dun Bubhchathair--possibly the oldest of the Aran ancient forts. Having seen that, I made the treacherous return trip to my bike, not realizing how far I had come and at times having to cross too high walls and daring too far drops.
After having come up so far, the bike ride down was a bit of an adventure too. I decided to just clutch the brakes and HOLD ON as I went wildly bouncing over the rocks. It was fun, but I left the rest of the day trip to the comfortable seat of a horse drawn carriage.
Still more sunburned, I reached the shores of Doolin at around 6pm, just in time for me to start my trek to the Connemara mountains in Leeaune. By this point, I'm rather comfortable on the roads, even with the roundabouts--although near Galway I had my first experience with two lane roundabouts in which I can only hope I followed the proper procedure. Mostly I had to follow the signs because Wilson, (aka gps-man--I felt that after all the expletives I threw his way, we should be on a first name basis), tells you too late to make the turn. Wilson (pop-culture reference on the name!) is good for getting you into a city center--after that, he's rendered useless.
I am constantly amazed by the utter diversity of Ireland. No two counties are alike in any way. Kerry had its rolling hills and coast side, Clare was filled with a beautiful rocky terrain, but Connemara--oh, Connemara--what a sight to behold. I drove through the base of these mountains with the last of the white sunlight filling the valley and painting the mountains shades of green and blue and purple. It was completely different from the other counties, something about the hills on top of hills on top of hills are unique and ravaging. I was instantly in love. It was a jaw dropping beauty and only because the road was so narrow was I unable to take those pictures as I came into the valley. I regret that now--though the image will always be painted in my mind. I, at least, will know, even if I can never prove it.
So in love was I that immediately at the hotel I told them I was staying for two nights instead of one. But as I set out to climb a mountain in the Connemara National Park this morning, I found the beauty illy translates to photo. I am quite disappointed with these sets of photos, only because it seems nothing is captured--nothing sings like the landscape seems to do in person.
Climbing the mountain (or is it hill? Where does the difference lay?) was a rare experience. I set out early so there were only a few others on the trail. There were three different options to experience the hike, though I am my father's daughter, and if I'm going to hike a mountain, I'm going to go to the top--even if its a three hour trek and about 7 km. For the most part, it was simply an upward slope, wooden planks covering the areas where the bogs are too soft for feet. Only towards the top did the path deteriorate into jutting rock. It was a careful climb from there but I was determined and eventually I made it to the top.
Oddly enough, at the very tip was a pyramid of tiny rocks, stacked higher and higher on the highest stone--as if a tower to tribute the top. So I stood by that tip, inhaled the view, saturated myself in the wind and Irish sun, before heading back down. (Hiking is a funny thing, isn't it? You go all the way up only to turn around and come all the way back).
After that, I left to find Kylmore Abby, a once castle built on the edge of a lake. It is known for its reflection--the white stone castle is mirrored in the blue water and its a rather impressive sight. My travel book warned me that the inside was a let down, but I thought the guide perhaps jaded. But then, so perhaps am I because I found the inside hardly worth the time, never mind the 8 euro.
It was still early, but I was tired and I returned to my hotel where I now prepare for my hard day tomorrow--where I hope to conquer too huge historic sites in one day (I am, after all, running out of time. Six days until I return to Cork.)
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=447351&id=794430163&l=9335add885
Really, who can turn that down?
So I rode a 2 hour ferry to the legendary home of the Fir Bolg (the mythical first inhabitants of Ireland), and was met, once again, with perfect weather--so much so that I've the worst farmers sun-burn (too red to be called a "tan") that you'll ever see. The Aran Islands are broken down into three major islands: Inis Oirr (Inisheer), Inis Meain (Inishmaan), and Inis Mor (Inishmore). These islands are the last outpost of the Gailic language, the only place left in Ireland who have clung to their original language--making English a second tongue to its inhabitants. There is something so deliciously defiant in that last stance--a grasp to its roots and history that should be wildly applauded.
Inishmore, the largest island, is a bit to big to make it around on foot, so I rented a bike. I thought, "How fun to ride the island coast on bike!" How not fun to realize much of the island is hills. I accidentally ended up near the base of the highest hill in the island, a sign pointing upward to a castle that was said to be at the top of the "hill." And, in tell-tale stubbornness, I set out for it because, well, I was there, it was there, were had but to meet at the top. Needless to say, I ended up walking the bike much of the way, as the incline was far too steep and the rocks far too bumpy--apparently THIS trail was for hikers. Only I would try to take it by bike.
Perhaps because I hit it early in the day, or perhaps because most don't care to scale the rocky incline, I ended up at the top basically alone. It was...at times I find there are far too few words in the English language. Or it may be that my vocabulary is far too limited. But breath-taking has been used, amazing is too trivial, and beautiful too mundane. It simply was. The ground was black stone that suddenly ended, dropping unexpectedly into sheer cliffs. Not a line, not a chain, not even a warning--there was land and then there was none. The waves smashed against the smooth rock face, shaking the foundation on which I stood and filling the air with a distinct crrraaaack, like rumbling thunder. White foam covered craggy stones and the cliffs, so worn in places by the unforgiving sea, domed like a bowl, washed clean by the powerful waves.
They put the Cliffs of Moher to shame. These should be the cliffs everyone should see--of course then they might lose their magic. There is nothing like standing at the very tip of the world, watching the white and blue waves beat the rocks, in pure solitude--the last woman on earth. No, this piece of earth isn't for everyone--it will be our secret--only the most stout and determine may enter.
I followed the crescent shape of the cliffs, climbing over stone walls that are over 4000 years old--originally when I saw all those carefully sectioned off areas, I assumed to early people, the Fir Bolg (if you indulge my imagination), were very concerned with what's mine and yours. But as it turns out, it was a method for tilling the earth--the stones were removed and, at times, used to build up flat land for agriculture. If anything, it also got the rocks out of the way for planting. The earth here is naturally rocky, some having to do with millions of years of volcanic stones smashing together and at times, the smooth black rocks jut upward, looking long like forgotten tombstones.
The going wasn't easy--not all of that rocky surface is firmly attached to the ground and some stones rock and sway when you step on them. But eventually I got close enough to Dun Bubhchathair--possibly the oldest of the Aran ancient forts. Having seen that, I made the treacherous return trip to my bike, not realizing how far I had come and at times having to cross too high walls and daring too far drops.
After having come up so far, the bike ride down was a bit of an adventure too. I decided to just clutch the brakes and HOLD ON as I went wildly bouncing over the rocks. It was fun, but I left the rest of the day trip to the comfortable seat of a horse drawn carriage.
Still more sunburned, I reached the shores of Doolin at around 6pm, just in time for me to start my trek to the Connemara mountains in Leeaune. By this point, I'm rather comfortable on the roads, even with the roundabouts--although near Galway I had my first experience with two lane roundabouts in which I can only hope I followed the proper procedure. Mostly I had to follow the signs because Wilson, (aka gps-man--I felt that after all the expletives I threw his way, we should be on a first name basis), tells you too late to make the turn. Wilson (pop-culture reference on the name!) is good for getting you into a city center--after that, he's rendered useless.
I am constantly amazed by the utter diversity of Ireland. No two counties are alike in any way. Kerry had its rolling hills and coast side, Clare was filled with a beautiful rocky terrain, but Connemara--oh, Connemara--what a sight to behold. I drove through the base of these mountains with the last of the white sunlight filling the valley and painting the mountains shades of green and blue and purple. It was completely different from the other counties, something about the hills on top of hills on top of hills are unique and ravaging. I was instantly in love. It was a jaw dropping beauty and only because the road was so narrow was I unable to take those pictures as I came into the valley. I regret that now--though the image will always be painted in my mind. I, at least, will know, even if I can never prove it.
So in love was I that immediately at the hotel I told them I was staying for two nights instead of one. But as I set out to climb a mountain in the Connemara National Park this morning, I found the beauty illy translates to photo. I am quite disappointed with these sets of photos, only because it seems nothing is captured--nothing sings like the landscape seems to do in person.
Climbing the mountain (or is it hill? Where does the difference lay?) was a rare experience. I set out early so there were only a few others on the trail. There were three different options to experience the hike, though I am my father's daughter, and if I'm going to hike a mountain, I'm going to go to the top--even if its a three hour trek and about 7 km. For the most part, it was simply an upward slope, wooden planks covering the areas where the bogs are too soft for feet. Only towards the top did the path deteriorate into jutting rock. It was a careful climb from there but I was determined and eventually I made it to the top.
Oddly enough, at the very tip was a pyramid of tiny rocks, stacked higher and higher on the highest stone--as if a tower to tribute the top. So I stood by that tip, inhaled the view, saturated myself in the wind and Irish sun, before heading back down. (Hiking is a funny thing, isn't it? You go all the way up only to turn around and come all the way back).
After that, I left to find Kylmore Abby, a once castle built on the edge of a lake. It is known for its reflection--the white stone castle is mirrored in the blue water and its a rather impressive sight. My travel book warned me that the inside was a let down, but I thought the guide perhaps jaded. But then, so perhaps am I because I found the inside hardly worth the time, never mind the 8 euro.
It was still early, but I was tired and I returned to my hotel where I now prepare for my hard day tomorrow--where I hope to conquer too huge historic sites in one day (I am, after all, running out of time. Six days until I return to Cork.)
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=447351&id=794430163&l=9335add885
Friday, June 18, 2010
Welcome to the Burren
The Burren is aptly named for this region of Clare County. Meaning "The Rock" in Old Irish, no name is more suited for this rock covered area. Yet when you say "rock," one rarely thinks of beauty or even uniqueness. Yet the Burren has this in spades. Gray stones cover the earth, often in odd and curved patterns and yet, as if not to be outdone, flora springs up between the rocks, creating a very captivating mix of green and grey. Instead of rolling hills of green, it is dotted hills of grey, all splashed up against a dramatic coast that boasts some of the tallest cliffs in Europe.
The Cliffs of Moher are said bluffs. Perhaps better knows as the Cliffs of Insanity (for those Princess Bride lovers out there), these ridges look as if one had cleanly sliced them with a knife, leaving them to drop directly into the water in a very riveting way. There is little bad that can be said of these cliffs, aside from the fee of eight euro to park ones car--which I felt was a charge to see the cliffs and how can one be charged money to see something natural and nature made? I do feel that these cliffs, however, are a victim of over hype. While they are amazing, the packed coast of tourists and the ugly tourist center slapped onto the side detract from the beauty. Or perhaps I am just jaded, and prefer my enjoyment in solitude. I still find that the cliffs of Bray Head stand paramount in my mind. This could be for their allure, or perhaps because they were the first dramatic cliffs I saw and thus I have been imprinted. I have no way of knowing.
After the cliffs, I headed to Aillwee Cave, a thousands and thousands of year old cave that dives miles under the surface and with stalagmites and stalactites on the early age of ten thousand years. Bones of European Brown Bears, extinct in Ireland for over 10,000 years, have been found in the caves, along with natural waterfalls and chasms. The fun part was when, deep in the bowls of the cave, the tour guide cuts the light and you're given your first (and most likely only) glimpse (so to speak) of pure darkness. There is no light, not a star or a moon or a flame, and the pitch is absolute. If you've ever heard the phrase "can't see ones hand before ones face," this has all knew meaning for me. There isn't even so much as a shadow of ones hand and all you can hear is the dripping of water as you try to widen your eyes to grasp anything in the blackness. It was quite the experience.
Also, as part of the Aillwee Cave tour, we got to see the Burren Birds of Prey Center--an exhibition for birds of prey. I arrived in time for the flight show, which was amazing. I've never seen birds so large, some absolutely dwarfing the guide. When an eagle owl was brought out, the guide asked if anyone wanted to hold him. My hand was up before I even registered what he had actually said. I don't think anyone else stood a chance.
I came up in front of the crowd (albeit a small crowd), and he put a thick leather glove on my left hand. "Are you squeamish?" He asked, as he reached into his side pocket.
"No," I assured him.
"Good. Because he eats mice." And in his hand was a still white mouse.
"Uh, it is dead, right?" I asked, and the crowd found this very humorous--as if I were part of the act.
"Of course," says the guy as he sets the dead mouse onto my hand.
The owl eyed it, then refused. "He has me trained," laughed the guide and he placed a bit of chicken leg next to the mouse. This seemed to be enough for the "lazy" bird (as the guide called him), and it lunged into the air, massively wide crimson eyes on my hand.
I left my arm out there but squeezed shut my eyes. If its going to claw my eyes out with those sharp, furry talons, I don't want to see it coming, right?
He was surprisingly light for such a large bird, and almost gentle as he ate his dead mouse. "Hello," I cooed, my head still a bit drawn back. I feared for my eyes. When he tried to jump off, his claw got stuck and I dropped to the ground with him, afraid he would be injured. I had to slip off the glove even as the bird snapped and screamed at his snagged claws on my fingers.
After my affair with the birds, I set for Poulnabrone Dolmen--a portal tomb preserved from pre-historic times. Its a massive stone table, possibly dating back to 3000 BC, and once excavated in the 1980s, the remains of 16 people were found. The mystery of this ancient tomb is not only the unique structure, but how the massive boulders moved and lifted in the first place--what with being pre-crane time and all. The capstone alone (top stone placed over two vertical standing stone walls) weighs five tons. It really makes one pause to wonder.
Following Plulnabrone, I went in search for a small and little known abby, called Corcamroe. The beauty in this place is that it is relatively unknown, meaning that I was the only person there. Perhaps I have a bit of the luck of the Irish (what with the wonderful weather and all--9 days and counting of no rain), because the one woman who did show up was a local historian and tour guide. She showed me the unique structure of the walls--the Romanist pillars and archways, the old carvings into the plaster over stone of what once should have been done, but they abby never had the funds to complete. She pointed out a dragon on the outside wall, and a viking ship scratched into one corner. The abby was a rare find. Having a personal tour guide was even better.
Lastly, I headed to Dunguaire Castle, which was closed by the time I got there but I was able to take some nice photos of the outside. I almost got run over by a tour guide bus--those horrific eye sores of the Irish country side (and the name of the game really is staying well ahead of these buses, or well behind, anything not to be in the same place at once). I went in search for one last castle, Gleninaugh Castle, a castle I never found but the route brought me all along the coast--a wonderful chance to see the rocky edges before cerulean blue water--and at times the shadows of mountains over the harbor looked so fantastical, I had to assume they were clouds--until it became obvious otherwise.
I spent the rest of the evening at Fizpatrick Bar, where they play traditional Irish music not just every night in the summer, but all year around. i would find myself learning a little bit of the Irish dance, being taught by a local as myself, some Irish guys, and some girls from France all took a crack at it.
Doolin in a dangerous place only in that one is reluctant to leave. Sadly, I must push on or else spend forever in this quaint, very Irish town--which would not be such a curse at all.
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=446347&id=794430163&l=05e4b09c19
The Cliffs of Moher are said bluffs. Perhaps better knows as the Cliffs of Insanity (for those Princess Bride lovers out there), these ridges look as if one had cleanly sliced them with a knife, leaving them to drop directly into the water in a very riveting way. There is little bad that can be said of these cliffs, aside from the fee of eight euro to park ones car--which I felt was a charge to see the cliffs and how can one be charged money to see something natural and nature made? I do feel that these cliffs, however, are a victim of over hype. While they are amazing, the packed coast of tourists and the ugly tourist center slapped onto the side detract from the beauty. Or perhaps I am just jaded, and prefer my enjoyment in solitude. I still find that the cliffs of Bray Head stand paramount in my mind. This could be for their allure, or perhaps because they were the first dramatic cliffs I saw and thus I have been imprinted. I have no way of knowing.
After the cliffs, I headed to Aillwee Cave, a thousands and thousands of year old cave that dives miles under the surface and with stalagmites and stalactites on the early age of ten thousand years. Bones of European Brown Bears, extinct in Ireland for over 10,000 years, have been found in the caves, along with natural waterfalls and chasms. The fun part was when, deep in the bowls of the cave, the tour guide cuts the light and you're given your first (and most likely only) glimpse (so to speak) of pure darkness. There is no light, not a star or a moon or a flame, and the pitch is absolute. If you've ever heard the phrase "can't see ones hand before ones face," this has all knew meaning for me. There isn't even so much as a shadow of ones hand and all you can hear is the dripping of water as you try to widen your eyes to grasp anything in the blackness. It was quite the experience.
Also, as part of the Aillwee Cave tour, we got to see the Burren Birds of Prey Center--an exhibition for birds of prey. I arrived in time for the flight show, which was amazing. I've never seen birds so large, some absolutely dwarfing the guide. When an eagle owl was brought out, the guide asked if anyone wanted to hold him. My hand was up before I even registered what he had actually said. I don't think anyone else stood a chance.
I came up in front of the crowd (albeit a small crowd), and he put a thick leather glove on my left hand. "Are you squeamish?" He asked, as he reached into his side pocket.
"No," I assured him.
"Good. Because he eats mice." And in his hand was a still white mouse.
"Uh, it is dead, right?" I asked, and the crowd found this very humorous--as if I were part of the act.
"Of course," says the guy as he sets the dead mouse onto my hand.
The owl eyed it, then refused. "He has me trained," laughed the guide and he placed a bit of chicken leg next to the mouse. This seemed to be enough for the "lazy" bird (as the guide called him), and it lunged into the air, massively wide crimson eyes on my hand.
I left my arm out there but squeezed shut my eyes. If its going to claw my eyes out with those sharp, furry talons, I don't want to see it coming, right?
He was surprisingly light for such a large bird, and almost gentle as he ate his dead mouse. "Hello," I cooed, my head still a bit drawn back. I feared for my eyes. When he tried to jump off, his claw got stuck and I dropped to the ground with him, afraid he would be injured. I had to slip off the glove even as the bird snapped and screamed at his snagged claws on my fingers.
After my affair with the birds, I set for Poulnabrone Dolmen--a portal tomb preserved from pre-historic times. Its a massive stone table, possibly dating back to 3000 BC, and once excavated in the 1980s, the remains of 16 people were found. The mystery of this ancient tomb is not only the unique structure, but how the massive boulders moved and lifted in the first place--what with being pre-crane time and all. The capstone alone (top stone placed over two vertical standing stone walls) weighs five tons. It really makes one pause to wonder.
Following Plulnabrone, I went in search for a small and little known abby, called Corcamroe. The beauty in this place is that it is relatively unknown, meaning that I was the only person there. Perhaps I have a bit of the luck of the Irish (what with the wonderful weather and all--9 days and counting of no rain), because the one woman who did show up was a local historian and tour guide. She showed me the unique structure of the walls--the Romanist pillars and archways, the old carvings into the plaster over stone of what once should have been done, but they abby never had the funds to complete. She pointed out a dragon on the outside wall, and a viking ship scratched into one corner. The abby was a rare find. Having a personal tour guide was even better.
Lastly, I headed to Dunguaire Castle, which was closed by the time I got there but I was able to take some nice photos of the outside. I almost got run over by a tour guide bus--those horrific eye sores of the Irish country side (and the name of the game really is staying well ahead of these buses, or well behind, anything not to be in the same place at once). I went in search for one last castle, Gleninaugh Castle, a castle I never found but the route brought me all along the coast--a wonderful chance to see the rocky edges before cerulean blue water--and at times the shadows of mountains over the harbor looked so fantastical, I had to assume they were clouds--until it became obvious otherwise.
I spent the rest of the evening at Fizpatrick Bar, where they play traditional Irish music not just every night in the summer, but all year around. i would find myself learning a little bit of the Irish dance, being taught by a local as myself, some Irish guys, and some girls from France all took a crack at it.
Doolin in a dangerous place only in that one is reluctant to leave. Sadly, I must push on or else spend forever in this quaint, very Irish town--which would not be such a curse at all.
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=446347&id=794430163&l=05e4b09c19
From Dingle to Clare
I think the greatest sound in the world has to be the creak of the leather as you put your foot into the stirrup and swing your right let over the saddle. I adore that sound, and the shifting feel of the horse underneath as it shuffles its hooves. There's few better feelings that stretching in the saddle, staring out at the world from a different height on top a massive animal. Monty, my horse for the mountain ride in Dingle, was 17 hands to the withers--which roughly equates to HUGE. He was a gorgeous chestnut red--a healthy and spirited Irish Draft/Thoroughbred mix. "He's fast," the guide warned me, but I didn't know what fast was until he took off at a trot at the top of our mountain climb.
I've been riding on and off for years and always thought I was pretty good in the saddle, but I've never ridden anything like Monty. A powerful animal, he glided from a trot to a canter and with amazing ease broke into a full tilt gallop--something I wasn't prepared for. Sadly, its been far too long since I've been in the saddle and I wasn't prepared for such a ride. I squeezed with my thighs, did the English style post trot, tried to keep my center of balance, but five years out of the saddle deteriorates ones skill and I was all over the place. Only at the tail end of our trot did I get the up/down of posting again, and by that time it was too late.
"I don't think I can take you on the beach gallop," the guide informed me, much to my humiliation. So I only was able to take part in the mountain ride (which was amazing in every way), and had to return with the beginners as the more advanced moved on to gallop along the Dingle beach. I tried to tell myself that it was for the better, that my knees weren't what they use to be and I wasn't suited for another hour in the saddle, but to say I wasn't desperately disappointed would be an understatement. Rejected, grossly embarrassed, I returned to the stable where I paid and was quick to shuffle back to my car. Still, it was a beautiful ride and just being around horses again was a delight.
Trying to fight my depression, I did the next best thing--I went to a Celtic Museum. It lifted my spirits, as history always does, and I continued on to the Slea Head Drive-a highway along the Dingle coast riddled with historical sites. Dingle is a bit of a smaller alternative to the Ring of Kerry, but no less charming. It was another perfect day (I'm beginning to think the stories of rainy Ireland are nothing but a myth to keep the tourists away) as I made it from one site to another--seeing ring forts and beehive cells well over two thousand years old.
For more modern history (although modern may be a relative term), I stopped at the Famine Cottages--cottages that stood during the potato famine of 1845 to 1850. There I met a charming Connemara pony who was the quintessential image of a lost unicorn. Pure white with a soft pink nose, a ragged long mane and bushy bangs, this curious and inquisitive stallion posed with ears perked forward for every photo. When he thought I had nothing left to offer and would return to grazing, I had but to hum a tune or sing a song for him to raise his head and stare intently all over again. That little pony made my day--or at least repaired the effects of my damaged pride.
I went into the Famine Cottages, all pleased and warm from my pony experience, just to stop dead at the door. The cottages were old, though not ancient. That isn't to say, thought, that they didn't have that OLD feeling to them. The floor was dirt, the walls dark, and it was dank and oppressive inside the first room. My skin crawled and I dallied at the door, hesitant to enter. It felt...haunted, for lack of a better word. These were the actual cottages during the famine, and the original owners...well, there's no record of what happened to the original owners. Its safe to assume they died, however, mostly likely starved in that very room, as millions did in Ireland during that five year famine. The walls were decorated with information about the famine, some so horrific that I crept out of the room, wide-eyed and disturbed.
They never taught us THAT in high school history.
I was glad to be back in the sunlight and on my way, where I took my time touring the coast, even stopping at a little house for tea as I sat outside, watching heavy mist overtake the hilly coast. I thought my ride to Doolin in Clare County would be two hours at the most. Not quite. While gps-man called for three hours, it took over four, mostly due to getting lost in every darn town/city we came through. Four hours in the car in Ireland is hardly a chore, however, as there is no tedium of an open highway. The roads widen and narrow, often the home of magnificent scenery and sharply twisting roads. Four hours went quickly, even if I wanted to kill gps-man along the way.
I made it to Doolin--what I thought would be a tiny, sleepy town on the coast just outside the Cliffs of Moher. Doolin is small, alright, but sleepy would never be an apt word for this hopping little place. The home of traditional Irish music, and boasting the title of the Traditional Irish Music Capital of the World, the moment I stepped out of the hotel where I signed in I could hear the live music filtering out from the pub. Despite being exhausted, I had to hear just a bit--which turned into just a lot as the locals welcomed me in true Irish fashion.
The music raged, the floor filled with people doing the honest-to-goddess Irish jig, and I laughed and clapped, utterly delighted. I've come to love this little town, enough so that tonight will be my third night here. "Be careful," warned a local. "I came here for a holiday four years ago, from a city about three hours away, just to check it out. I haven't left since."
I can certainly see the danger and possibility in that.
PHOTOS: Found in the end of the Ring of Kerry album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=442428&id=794430163&l=6841b6633d
I've been riding on and off for years and always thought I was pretty good in the saddle, but I've never ridden anything like Monty. A powerful animal, he glided from a trot to a canter and with amazing ease broke into a full tilt gallop--something I wasn't prepared for. Sadly, its been far too long since I've been in the saddle and I wasn't prepared for such a ride. I squeezed with my thighs, did the English style post trot, tried to keep my center of balance, but five years out of the saddle deteriorates ones skill and I was all over the place. Only at the tail end of our trot did I get the up/down of posting again, and by that time it was too late.
"I don't think I can take you on the beach gallop," the guide informed me, much to my humiliation. So I only was able to take part in the mountain ride (which was amazing in every way), and had to return with the beginners as the more advanced moved on to gallop along the Dingle beach. I tried to tell myself that it was for the better, that my knees weren't what they use to be and I wasn't suited for another hour in the saddle, but to say I wasn't desperately disappointed would be an understatement. Rejected, grossly embarrassed, I returned to the stable where I paid and was quick to shuffle back to my car. Still, it was a beautiful ride and just being around horses again was a delight.
Trying to fight my depression, I did the next best thing--I went to a Celtic Museum. It lifted my spirits, as history always does, and I continued on to the Slea Head Drive-a highway along the Dingle coast riddled with historical sites. Dingle is a bit of a smaller alternative to the Ring of Kerry, but no less charming. It was another perfect day (I'm beginning to think the stories of rainy Ireland are nothing but a myth to keep the tourists away) as I made it from one site to another--seeing ring forts and beehive cells well over two thousand years old.
For more modern history (although modern may be a relative term), I stopped at the Famine Cottages--cottages that stood during the potato famine of 1845 to 1850. There I met a charming Connemara pony who was the quintessential image of a lost unicorn. Pure white with a soft pink nose, a ragged long mane and bushy bangs, this curious and inquisitive stallion posed with ears perked forward for every photo. When he thought I had nothing left to offer and would return to grazing, I had but to hum a tune or sing a song for him to raise his head and stare intently all over again. That little pony made my day--or at least repaired the effects of my damaged pride.
I went into the Famine Cottages, all pleased and warm from my pony experience, just to stop dead at the door. The cottages were old, though not ancient. That isn't to say, thought, that they didn't have that OLD feeling to them. The floor was dirt, the walls dark, and it was dank and oppressive inside the first room. My skin crawled and I dallied at the door, hesitant to enter. It felt...haunted, for lack of a better word. These were the actual cottages during the famine, and the original owners...well, there's no record of what happened to the original owners. Its safe to assume they died, however, mostly likely starved in that very room, as millions did in Ireland during that five year famine. The walls were decorated with information about the famine, some so horrific that I crept out of the room, wide-eyed and disturbed.
They never taught us THAT in high school history.
I was glad to be back in the sunlight and on my way, where I took my time touring the coast, even stopping at a little house for tea as I sat outside, watching heavy mist overtake the hilly coast. I thought my ride to Doolin in Clare County would be two hours at the most. Not quite. While gps-man called for three hours, it took over four, mostly due to getting lost in every darn town/city we came through. Four hours in the car in Ireland is hardly a chore, however, as there is no tedium of an open highway. The roads widen and narrow, often the home of magnificent scenery and sharply twisting roads. Four hours went quickly, even if I wanted to kill gps-man along the way.
I made it to Doolin--what I thought would be a tiny, sleepy town on the coast just outside the Cliffs of Moher. Doolin is small, alright, but sleepy would never be an apt word for this hopping little place. The home of traditional Irish music, and boasting the title of the Traditional Irish Music Capital of the World, the moment I stepped out of the hotel where I signed in I could hear the live music filtering out from the pub. Despite being exhausted, I had to hear just a bit--which turned into just a lot as the locals welcomed me in true Irish fashion.
The music raged, the floor filled with people doing the honest-to-goddess Irish jig, and I laughed and clapped, utterly delighted. I've come to love this little town, enough so that tonight will be my third night here. "Be careful," warned a local. "I came here for a holiday four years ago, from a city about three hours away, just to check it out. I haven't left since."
I can certainly see the danger and possibility in that.
PHOTOS: Found in the end of the Ring of Kerry album: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=442428&id=794430163&l=6841b6633d
Skellig Michael and the Puffin Experience
They say that for those few who manage to make it to the shores of Skellig Michael, it will become the gem of their Irish travel experience. I can easily see how this is true. Skellig Michael is so rare of an experience mostly because it is heavily reliant on weather. My first day in Portmagee, my trip to Michael got cancelled due to "poor weather." This made no sense to me because the weather ended up being gorgeous. Cancelled trips, however, are a part of the Skellig Michael trip and only those very determined (like me and some others who waited an extra day), or those very lucky (who hit it on the first try), ever get to go.
And once we were out of the water, its easy to see why trips get cancelled so easily. The little boat we boarded swayed and dropped with the swelling waves--some so large I thought they would overtake the vessel. Skellig Michael is eight miles off the coast, and filled with treturous waters even on the best of days. I promptly got sea-sick from the rise and drop of the boat. Luckily, I didn't actually throw up, but it did not do well for my stomach and I had to concentrate on relaxing my knees and flowing with the motion. But if anyone thinks a little sea sickness would keep me from the railing taking picture after picture, they don't know me very well.
The sky was azure blue, the caps of the water brilliant white, and the wind was cool but not freezing--I laughed nearly the entire way, awed by the sheer cliffs of the coast and the shadow of the two mountain-islands up ahead. Who actually gets to do this, I remember thinking in stunned reverence, watching sea birds cleave through the air in such tight formations that they would put jet fighter pilots to shame.
We first circled Little Skellig, a rocky island with jutting peaks covered in white. Now what could be that white? I didn't even pause for a moment to think it was anything other than snow since that made the most sense to me--which is ridiculous to assume since the island is neither tall enough for snowy peaks, nor is the weather cool enough to support snow. Upon closer inspection, I noticed all that white was actually BIRDS. Thousands and thousands of Gannets breed at this island and the rocks are covered with them. Them and "all the rest of the bird," a Swiss tourist informed me, commenting that some of the white comes from the other end of the bird.
Gannets are not only beautiful--with their pure white feathers, bright yellow necks and black tipped wings, but rather large. Their wing span opens to one meter wide, no joke for a sea bird. The sky was filled with them and they gave off the most interesting calls that drowned out the sound of the waves.
While I was gazing at the birds, someone else cried, "Seal! Seal!" and nearly everyone on the boat oohed and ahhed over this elusive seal. "I'm the only one who doesn't see it," I said while they all tried to point it out to me. Then, rather suddenly, I caught a glimpse of its glossy head in the water. It swiveled its head and stared out at me with large, black eyes. "Ah!" I yelled, and the boat laughed because clearly I spotted it.
Once we landed, it was an immediate hike upward. At the tip of Michael, there is a very well-preserved 6th Century monastic complex. Known for their desire for isolation, it doesn't get more isolated than this--the beehive cells are more than 600 steps up to the top of the mountain. But even being eight miles off the coast and at the top of a mountain didn't stop the Vikings from raiding and killing many of the monks--one tactic being starvation--an easy thing to do considering the rough and unforgiving terrain. But Skellig Michael survived the attacks, and it was inhabited by a variety of monks until the mid-twelfth century, then later lighthouse workers would live in the monastery to tend after the lighthouse.
When they told us the steps up were narrow, uneven, and dangerous, they weren't kidding. I tried to keep a good pace, mostly because I didn't want to seem like the fat American, but at some places the black slate stairs were tiny and broken, and the air was thinner. At one point, in a near blind panic, I realized I couldn't catch my breath. I had to calm down and take it slower, pausing to take photos when I needed some extra air. The climb was extremely steep, the stairs winding up the cliff side and it was one of the few times that I realized if I fall, my first concern was no longer my camera. Sure, my camera would break, but so too would I. I decided falling was not on the agenda for the day.
I was lucky that our ship got us there early, making us one of the first at the top. I got to experience it without the mad flow of people, and walked (crawled, in some places) in to the beehive cells, touch the ancient stone crosses or stare out the view over the cliff sides. A historian waits at the top and gives a 45 minute lecture, which was delightful and extremely interesting. I think he must be in great shape to make that climb every day.
I left the top a little ahead of everyone, I wanted to take my time coming down and take more photos. A few others had the same idea and as we were going down, I lamented that I hadn't seen a puffin yet. Skellig Michael is the breeding grounds for Puffins and while a rare bird, one can often see one on the island. An American group (the same ones I warned about the mean cow the day before), stated that they had seen several already. I opened my mouth to wonder why I couldn't find one then right next to my foot, a Puffin left its tunnel home to poke its head out and look around. My hands literally shook as I set the settings on my camera and ripped off the lens cover. The little bird was something of a ham, posing for photo after photo, stretching its wings and even starting straight at me. Then he flew away, making a very graceless flight that sounded like "flub, flub, flub." They're almost humorous when they fly. Such pretty birds on the ground, they don't seem to do well in the air.
Tired, sunburned, but thoroughly satisfied and delighted, I returned to the boat which brought us back to shore. I had a delicious lunch of duck (why is it I see lambs, I eat lamb. I see birds, I eat duck?), and set out for the hour and a half trek for Dingle.
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=444959&id=794430163&l=64e11faf63
And once we were out of the water, its easy to see why trips get cancelled so easily. The little boat we boarded swayed and dropped with the swelling waves--some so large I thought they would overtake the vessel. Skellig Michael is eight miles off the coast, and filled with treturous waters even on the best of days. I promptly got sea-sick from the rise and drop of the boat. Luckily, I didn't actually throw up, but it did not do well for my stomach and I had to concentrate on relaxing my knees and flowing with the motion. But if anyone thinks a little sea sickness would keep me from the railing taking picture after picture, they don't know me very well.
The sky was azure blue, the caps of the water brilliant white, and the wind was cool but not freezing--I laughed nearly the entire way, awed by the sheer cliffs of the coast and the shadow of the two mountain-islands up ahead. Who actually gets to do this, I remember thinking in stunned reverence, watching sea birds cleave through the air in such tight formations that they would put jet fighter pilots to shame.
We first circled Little Skellig, a rocky island with jutting peaks covered in white. Now what could be that white? I didn't even pause for a moment to think it was anything other than snow since that made the most sense to me--which is ridiculous to assume since the island is neither tall enough for snowy peaks, nor is the weather cool enough to support snow. Upon closer inspection, I noticed all that white was actually BIRDS. Thousands and thousands of Gannets breed at this island and the rocks are covered with them. Them and "all the rest of the bird," a Swiss tourist informed me, commenting that some of the white comes from the other end of the bird.
Gannets are not only beautiful--with their pure white feathers, bright yellow necks and black tipped wings, but rather large. Their wing span opens to one meter wide, no joke for a sea bird. The sky was filled with them and they gave off the most interesting calls that drowned out the sound of the waves.
While I was gazing at the birds, someone else cried, "Seal! Seal!" and nearly everyone on the boat oohed and ahhed over this elusive seal. "I'm the only one who doesn't see it," I said while they all tried to point it out to me. Then, rather suddenly, I caught a glimpse of its glossy head in the water. It swiveled its head and stared out at me with large, black eyes. "Ah!" I yelled, and the boat laughed because clearly I spotted it.
Once we landed, it was an immediate hike upward. At the tip of Michael, there is a very well-preserved 6th Century monastic complex. Known for their desire for isolation, it doesn't get more isolated than this--the beehive cells are more than 600 steps up to the top of the mountain. But even being eight miles off the coast and at the top of a mountain didn't stop the Vikings from raiding and killing many of the monks--one tactic being starvation--an easy thing to do considering the rough and unforgiving terrain. But Skellig Michael survived the attacks, and it was inhabited by a variety of monks until the mid-twelfth century, then later lighthouse workers would live in the monastery to tend after the lighthouse.
When they told us the steps up were narrow, uneven, and dangerous, they weren't kidding. I tried to keep a good pace, mostly because I didn't want to seem like the fat American, but at some places the black slate stairs were tiny and broken, and the air was thinner. At one point, in a near blind panic, I realized I couldn't catch my breath. I had to calm down and take it slower, pausing to take photos when I needed some extra air. The climb was extremely steep, the stairs winding up the cliff side and it was one of the few times that I realized if I fall, my first concern was no longer my camera. Sure, my camera would break, but so too would I. I decided falling was not on the agenda for the day.
I was lucky that our ship got us there early, making us one of the first at the top. I got to experience it without the mad flow of people, and walked (crawled, in some places) in to the beehive cells, touch the ancient stone crosses or stare out the view over the cliff sides. A historian waits at the top and gives a 45 minute lecture, which was delightful and extremely interesting. I think he must be in great shape to make that climb every day.
I left the top a little ahead of everyone, I wanted to take my time coming down and take more photos. A few others had the same idea and as we were going down, I lamented that I hadn't seen a puffin yet. Skellig Michael is the breeding grounds for Puffins and while a rare bird, one can often see one on the island. An American group (the same ones I warned about the mean cow the day before), stated that they had seen several already. I opened my mouth to wonder why I couldn't find one then right next to my foot, a Puffin left its tunnel home to poke its head out and look around. My hands literally shook as I set the settings on my camera and ripped off the lens cover. The little bird was something of a ham, posing for photo after photo, stretching its wings and even starting straight at me. Then he flew away, making a very graceless flight that sounded like "flub, flub, flub." They're almost humorous when they fly. Such pretty birds on the ground, they don't seem to do well in the air.
Tired, sunburned, but thoroughly satisfied and delighted, I returned to the boat which brought us back to shore. I had a delicious lunch of duck (why is it I see lambs, I eat lamb. I see birds, I eat duck?), and set out for the hour and a half trek for Dingle.
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=444959&id=794430163&l=64e11faf63
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Cow Posse
What was deemed “poor weather” put off my trip to Skellig Michael—although the weather seemed perfectly gorgeous to me. This morning it rained just a bit, a few heavy tears and then the clouds parted and the sun ruled supreme.
Since I could not longer go to Skellig Michael (the boats can only land on the island in ideal weather), I decided to spend one more night in Portmagee and try again tomorrow. That left today to the traversing of the Valentia Islands—a surprising gem of a find in my trip so far.
I started out crossing the bridge onto the island, and, simply by choice, bared left. This placed me with Foilhommerum Bay to my left, and Bray Head directly in front. It was clear that a worn trail led up the side of the hill, and when I parked my car for pictures of the breathtaking Foilhommerum Bay, I decided to go up the hill (or a more apt name might be mountain). It seemed I could drive, possibly, though that seemed very…American and I certainly needed to work off my full traditional Irish breakfast. The heavy rain of the morning had turned to a light mist, and although I knew the heavens could open at any minute, it seemed like a good idea to walk.
Of course what I thought was a hill turned into something of a mountain.
Guarded by mean cows.
I had been walking up the path at a decent pace when several cows up ahead ambled onto the road. It seemed all good and well, after all, who’s scared of cows? But when I proceeded towards them, a pure black one stood directing in my path, head down, and staring rather menacingly. It stomped towards me, ears pinned back.
My mind began to race as I contemplated the situation. Are there such things as mean cows? If so, wouldn’t there be a sign somewhere, warning would be walkers “beware of vicious livestock”? It seemed such a silly worry that I tried to laugh it off and continue on.
The cow would have none of it. Swinging its head and followed by a string of other cows (its cattle posse?), it became fairly obvious it wasn’t going to let me pass.
“I eat your kind,” I warned.
It was unimpressed. Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t start these sorts of diplomatic discussions with threats. In the end, the cow won and I skirted off the path, into the thick grass, up the hill, over some rocks, and through thorns—all the while the black beast glared, actually turning its head to watch my awkward gait in what can only be described as cinematic humor.
Stupid cow.
When I retold the story later at a small pub in Knightstown, one of the men, with a thick Irish accent exclaimed, “Fer fucks sake!” (Forgive the language, but somehow the exclamation lacks its potency when censored). “Don’t you know the difference between a cow and a bull?”
It would seem not.
But back to Bray Head, I left the blood-thirsty cows behind me and continued on. The wind picked up and the bay only glistened and improved as the sun grew stronger. I encounter a small group of American tourists coming down the mountain, and after sufficiently warning them against the mean cows, they told me I could not only see the remnants of a tower at the top, but also climb even higher to the highest peak.
So on I went. I reached the tower, which was old and battered, though my real interest was the dropping cliffs, thundering waves against the rocks, and emerald green grass over jutting black stones. It was, in a word, breathtaking. At moments, mist would gather up, either from the waves or the clouds, and twist and twirl like a zealot ballerina before plummeting back down the side of the cliffs. I stood, transfixed, awed, dumb, but certainly not blind.
Behind me was the highest cliff, the very tip, a grassy top over sheer stones of black and grey. To climb it would be reckless, stupid, and possibly a bit dangerous.
Of course I did it. Heart pounding, I slowly walked up the steep incline, tackling it not just because it was a challenge, but because I had the distinct feeling I would regret it later if I didn’t do it. Of course I might also have regretted it if I had gotten blown clear off the mountain—which the wind certainly tried to do.
But through sheer determination (I’m convinced this is my only real skill—down right stubbornness), I made it to the top. To say it was spiritual would be an understatement.
If I might digress for a moment in order to prove a point—some years ago a psychic once looked at me and said, “my, what an Old Soul you are.” I never put much stock in reincarnation, but it was a fun statement to hear, even if one always wants to believe something outrageous about themselves. So I laughed, and told my friends I would only believe in reincarnation if someone told me I was a warrior in every one of my lives—something that felt like it should ring true. Many years after that, while I sat in an office at work, a man walked into my work and sat down. Apparently renowned as a local shaman of sorts, he offers to “read me” while he waits for his car to be fixed. I found the thought amusing, (and after all, it was free) and so I agreed.
He didn’t so much as look at my hand but at me, then said, “Did you know you were a warrior in all your past lives?” It was as eerie as it was off putting. I say this only to point out what could be validity in his following statement: “And did you know, you have a very strong tie to Ireland?”
I never quite believed him until I stood on the tip of that mountain, all-alone with nothing but the ocean, the earth, and the sky for companions. Maybe there are no past lives, or warrior stories, but I did feel that tie, that connection—I felt at home. In a moment of pure clarity, I knew that this is right where I’m supposed to be.
I wept, because that’s what I do when I’m overwhelmed. Then I laughed, because that’s also what I do. And I sat in the sun, (also to keep the wind from pulling me off the hill), and I soaked it all in. Some people find their divine in churches or synagogues or mosques—that is all good and well. But here is where I find my god, my goddess, my gods, and my goddesses. As if pleased by my impromptu worship, the heavy mists off the coast parted, revealing the purple outlines of the Skellig Islands, haunting the coast for a few moments until the clouds returned, swallowing the islands up in obscurity as if they had never been there. (But of course I have pictures to prove it).
As I made my way back down the mountain/hill (is 1000 feet a hill or a mountain? Its certainly a lot to climb, I can tell you that), I found a certain joy in my solitude. There was no one for miles—I would have seen them if they were coming. So I sang out loud to the Irish music in my iPod. I danced on the path because no one was there to see me act like a fool. I laughed and I loved and it was an unforgettable moment.
I could tell you about the rest of the island, the quaint towns, beautiful coasts, the lighthouse or hitting a massive pothole on a road that suddenly “no longer was a road” (as I verbally observed to no one), or hitting that hole again in reverse when there was no where to turn around on the no-road-road, but for me, those moments of Bray Head were definitive. That was the moment I knew I was finally here—I’m in Ireland.
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=444959&id=794430163&l=64e11faf63
Since I could not longer go to Skellig Michael (the boats can only land on the island in ideal weather), I decided to spend one more night in Portmagee and try again tomorrow. That left today to the traversing of the Valentia Islands—a surprising gem of a find in my trip so far.
I started out crossing the bridge onto the island, and, simply by choice, bared left. This placed me with Foilhommerum Bay to my left, and Bray Head directly in front. It was clear that a worn trail led up the side of the hill, and when I parked my car for pictures of the breathtaking Foilhommerum Bay, I decided to go up the hill (or a more apt name might be mountain). It seemed I could drive, possibly, though that seemed very…American and I certainly needed to work off my full traditional Irish breakfast. The heavy rain of the morning had turned to a light mist, and although I knew the heavens could open at any minute, it seemed like a good idea to walk.
Of course what I thought was a hill turned into something of a mountain.
Guarded by mean cows.
I had been walking up the path at a decent pace when several cows up ahead ambled onto the road. It seemed all good and well, after all, who’s scared of cows? But when I proceeded towards them, a pure black one stood directing in my path, head down, and staring rather menacingly. It stomped towards me, ears pinned back.
My mind began to race as I contemplated the situation. Are there such things as mean cows? If so, wouldn’t there be a sign somewhere, warning would be walkers “beware of vicious livestock”? It seemed such a silly worry that I tried to laugh it off and continue on.
The cow would have none of it. Swinging its head and followed by a string of other cows (its cattle posse?), it became fairly obvious it wasn’t going to let me pass.
“I eat your kind,” I warned.
It was unimpressed. Perhaps it would be best if I didn’t start these sorts of diplomatic discussions with threats. In the end, the cow won and I skirted off the path, into the thick grass, up the hill, over some rocks, and through thorns—all the while the black beast glared, actually turning its head to watch my awkward gait in what can only be described as cinematic humor.
Stupid cow.
When I retold the story later at a small pub in Knightstown, one of the men, with a thick Irish accent exclaimed, “Fer fucks sake!” (Forgive the language, but somehow the exclamation lacks its potency when censored). “Don’t you know the difference between a cow and a bull?”
It would seem not.
But back to Bray Head, I left the blood-thirsty cows behind me and continued on. The wind picked up and the bay only glistened and improved as the sun grew stronger. I encounter a small group of American tourists coming down the mountain, and after sufficiently warning them against the mean cows, they told me I could not only see the remnants of a tower at the top, but also climb even higher to the highest peak.
So on I went. I reached the tower, which was old and battered, though my real interest was the dropping cliffs, thundering waves against the rocks, and emerald green grass over jutting black stones. It was, in a word, breathtaking. At moments, mist would gather up, either from the waves or the clouds, and twist and twirl like a zealot ballerina before plummeting back down the side of the cliffs. I stood, transfixed, awed, dumb, but certainly not blind.
Behind me was the highest cliff, the very tip, a grassy top over sheer stones of black and grey. To climb it would be reckless, stupid, and possibly a bit dangerous.
Of course I did it. Heart pounding, I slowly walked up the steep incline, tackling it not just because it was a challenge, but because I had the distinct feeling I would regret it later if I didn’t do it. Of course I might also have regretted it if I had gotten blown clear off the mountain—which the wind certainly tried to do.
But through sheer determination (I’m convinced this is my only real skill—down right stubbornness), I made it to the top. To say it was spiritual would be an understatement.
If I might digress for a moment in order to prove a point—some years ago a psychic once looked at me and said, “my, what an Old Soul you are.” I never put much stock in reincarnation, but it was a fun statement to hear, even if one always wants to believe something outrageous about themselves. So I laughed, and told my friends I would only believe in reincarnation if someone told me I was a warrior in every one of my lives—something that felt like it should ring true. Many years after that, while I sat in an office at work, a man walked into my work and sat down. Apparently renowned as a local shaman of sorts, he offers to “read me” while he waits for his car to be fixed. I found the thought amusing, (and after all, it was free) and so I agreed.
He didn’t so much as look at my hand but at me, then said, “Did you know you were a warrior in all your past lives?” It was as eerie as it was off putting. I say this only to point out what could be validity in his following statement: “And did you know, you have a very strong tie to Ireland?”
I never quite believed him until I stood on the tip of that mountain, all-alone with nothing but the ocean, the earth, and the sky for companions. Maybe there are no past lives, or warrior stories, but I did feel that tie, that connection—I felt at home. In a moment of pure clarity, I knew that this is right where I’m supposed to be.
I wept, because that’s what I do when I’m overwhelmed. Then I laughed, because that’s also what I do. And I sat in the sun, (also to keep the wind from pulling me off the hill), and I soaked it all in. Some people find their divine in churches or synagogues or mosques—that is all good and well. But here is where I find my god, my goddess, my gods, and my goddesses. As if pleased by my impromptu worship, the heavy mists off the coast parted, revealing the purple outlines of the Skellig Islands, haunting the coast for a few moments until the clouds returned, swallowing the islands up in obscurity as if they had never been there. (But of course I have pictures to prove it).
As I made my way back down the mountain/hill (is 1000 feet a hill or a mountain? Its certainly a lot to climb, I can tell you that), I found a certain joy in my solitude. There was no one for miles—I would have seen them if they were coming. So I sang out loud to the Irish music in my iPod. I danced on the path because no one was there to see me act like a fool. I laughed and I loved and it was an unforgettable moment.
I could tell you about the rest of the island, the quaint towns, beautiful coasts, the lighthouse or hitting a massive pothole on a road that suddenly “no longer was a road” (as I verbally observed to no one), or hitting that hole again in reverse when there was no where to turn around on the no-road-road, but for me, those moments of Bray Head were definitive. That was the moment I knew I was finally here—I’m in Ireland.
PHOTOS: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=444959&id=794430163&l=64e11faf63
Sunday, June 13, 2010
The Ring Continues
I’m getting better at this driving thing. Heck, I’d even venture to say I’m getting pretty good at it. I can even hit 100 kilometers like the locals, leaning with each (and many) turn—sort of like Indie 500. I’ve gotten to the point that when I get behind a slow, cautious car, I’m muttering, “tourists” under my breath, like I’m sure all of Ireland was doing yesterday with me.
The Ring continued today a bit early (after having a bit too much Guinness that evening with fellow soccer fans), but I set out under the first rain I’ve seen in Ireland. For a “rainy” country, it doesn’t seem to rain often. As fate would have it, any time I got in the car, it would rain. As soon as I got out, it would stop. I feel the Irish gods are on my side on this trip.
The first town I hit was Caherdaniel, home of Daniel O’Connell—Ireland’s “Great Liberator” in the 1800s. His summer home is well preserved and set up as a museum, and while enjoyable, I found his back yard far more to my taste. Again I ended up on the beach, shoes in hand as I walked across the sand and water. There were very few other people out, or at least not as early as I was, and I could enjoy the dark rocks, clear blue water, and diving seagulls mostly to myself. I put on some Irish music on my iPod (because it seemed suited for the scenery), and walked from the house all the way to the ruins of an old abbey on the sea. O’Connell’s beloved wife was buried there, and her death hit him hard, as well as hitting his political career. Apparently, without her guidance, he didn’t make the wisest choices—which really makes me wonder if the old saying is true: “Behind every great man is an even greater woman” (or at least I think that’s how the saying goes).
Under clear skies (which of course turned cloudy the second I hit the driving seat), I headed up to a tiny town called Castle Cove. I set out for Castle Cove with the distinct ambition of finding Staigus Fort—an ancient structure still standing for over a thousand years. Built pre-Christianity, it was probably the fortress of a major chieftain, and, the most interesting part, is that the still-standing walls are built without a piece of mortar of any kind. The ancient mind certainly boggles the modern one at times—I can’t help but wonder what intellect was employed to built a wall far outlasting its people or even its name, all without technology we find so essential today.
Finding Staigus Fort was a bit of a challenge, although Ireland is delightfully well marked as far as signs go. But the road was tiny—as in very tiny, and when I was met with an oncoming car, we did a bit of a very slow magic act, our cars practically brushing, and at one point my mirror just a hair’s length from his rear light. Amazingly (mostly thanks to the fact that I’m not worried about the paint job on my Kia), I squeezed past and was bouncing down the road again. I thoroughly enjoyed Staigus Fort—it was high up on the hill and filled with a small handful of other tourists (Chinese, French, and German). Tourists like each other, I think. We have something in common. So we talked, some took a picture of me so that I can actually be IN all the photos I took, and then we parted ways.
From Staigus Fort I headed out to Sneem—a delightful little town that had so much character, it was busting at the seams. Every house was not only a different color, but a different build, which made the streets bright and unique. In the center of the town is something of a green (albeit a small one), and a stone bridge connecting the two centers of the town. The locals call this “the knot in the Ring of Kerry.” It was very quaint, and the perfect place for a late lunch/early diner.
Afterwards, far too tired to do much more, I went back from the way I came (seeing the beautiful coast all over again), until I hit the port town of Portmagee. Here I’m staying at the bridge to the Valentia Islands, which I may stay an extra day to explore after tomorrow. I find myself too tired to go in search for food, so I’ll probably call it an early night at my beautiful bed & breakfast hotel (with large windows, lush white blankets and green scenery).
Tomorrow, if the weather permits, I’ll take on the huge endeavor of Skellig Michael—a tiny island just off Portmagee, home to a 6th Century monastery. Wish me luck!
PHOTOS (all photos on this blog can be seen even for those who don’t have a Facebook account by using these links):
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=442428&id=794430163&l=6841b6633d
The Ring continued today a bit early (after having a bit too much Guinness that evening with fellow soccer fans), but I set out under the first rain I’ve seen in Ireland. For a “rainy” country, it doesn’t seem to rain often. As fate would have it, any time I got in the car, it would rain. As soon as I got out, it would stop. I feel the Irish gods are on my side on this trip.
The first town I hit was Caherdaniel, home of Daniel O’Connell—Ireland’s “Great Liberator” in the 1800s. His summer home is well preserved and set up as a museum, and while enjoyable, I found his back yard far more to my taste. Again I ended up on the beach, shoes in hand as I walked across the sand and water. There were very few other people out, or at least not as early as I was, and I could enjoy the dark rocks, clear blue water, and diving seagulls mostly to myself. I put on some Irish music on my iPod (because it seemed suited for the scenery), and walked from the house all the way to the ruins of an old abbey on the sea. O’Connell’s beloved wife was buried there, and her death hit him hard, as well as hitting his political career. Apparently, without her guidance, he didn’t make the wisest choices—which really makes me wonder if the old saying is true: “Behind every great man is an even greater woman” (or at least I think that’s how the saying goes).
Under clear skies (which of course turned cloudy the second I hit the driving seat), I headed up to a tiny town called Castle Cove. I set out for Castle Cove with the distinct ambition of finding Staigus Fort—an ancient structure still standing for over a thousand years. Built pre-Christianity, it was probably the fortress of a major chieftain, and, the most interesting part, is that the still-standing walls are built without a piece of mortar of any kind. The ancient mind certainly boggles the modern one at times—I can’t help but wonder what intellect was employed to built a wall far outlasting its people or even its name, all without technology we find so essential today.
Finding Staigus Fort was a bit of a challenge, although Ireland is delightfully well marked as far as signs go. But the road was tiny—as in very tiny, and when I was met with an oncoming car, we did a bit of a very slow magic act, our cars practically brushing, and at one point my mirror just a hair’s length from his rear light. Amazingly (mostly thanks to the fact that I’m not worried about the paint job on my Kia), I squeezed past and was bouncing down the road again. I thoroughly enjoyed Staigus Fort—it was high up on the hill and filled with a small handful of other tourists (Chinese, French, and German). Tourists like each other, I think. We have something in common. So we talked, some took a picture of me so that I can actually be IN all the photos I took, and then we parted ways.
From Staigus Fort I headed out to Sneem—a delightful little town that had so much character, it was busting at the seams. Every house was not only a different color, but a different build, which made the streets bright and unique. In the center of the town is something of a green (albeit a small one), and a stone bridge connecting the two centers of the town. The locals call this “the knot in the Ring of Kerry.” It was very quaint, and the perfect place for a late lunch/early diner.
Afterwards, far too tired to do much more, I went back from the way I came (seeing the beautiful coast all over again), until I hit the port town of Portmagee. Here I’m staying at the bridge to the Valentia Islands, which I may stay an extra day to explore after tomorrow. I find myself too tired to go in search for food, so I’ll probably call it an early night at my beautiful bed & breakfast hotel (with large windows, lush white blankets and green scenery).
Tomorrow, if the weather permits, I’ll take on the huge endeavor of Skellig Michael—a tiny island just off Portmagee, home to a 6th Century monastery. Wish me luck!
PHOTOS (all photos on this blog can be seen even for those who don’t have a Facebook account by using these links):
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=442428&id=794430163&l=6841b6633d
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