So last time we discussed the merits of having a pseudo-local tour guide, Oprah solving your problems… or the unlikeliness of that happening, and bacon sandwiches as a diplomatic tactic. We also touched briefly on The Big Freeze and how infinitely amusing this label should be to anyone who has actually experienced the phenomenon more commonly referred to as winter, but also how, paradoxically, the snow that would only allow for, in Montana or Michigan, maybe waking up a few minutes earlier to wipe off the windshield of your car, makes the entirety of this island (including the intrepid Montanans, who might have been a little cocky) stop. Point blank. Well, now we’ve got another basically two weeks to cover in Ireland… and of course, this could get very long if I’m allowed to go off on a tangent. But honestly, the impressions that I got from this trip were so many and varied that the write-up is going to be tangential any way you slice it.
The house in Doolin was not actually in Doolin, but up on what is called The Burren, a huge slab of limestone upon which grow the most beautiful, unlikely flowers… but not in a foot of snow. The Burren was beautiful in the winter weather, and even more beautiful once the seemingly omni-present fog and freezing rain lifted after two days and Lo! there was the ocean, not two miles away. It’s one of those windswept sort of places where you can practically hear the wind whistling even when it’s still, and where, when it is windy, you’ve pretty much got no choice but to hunker down, because there just ain’t nowhere to hide. The house itself was luxurious by my current standards, which consider a shower in which shoes aren’t even necessary as a precaution to be some sort of unthinkable extravagance. It had beds with heating pads, a kitchen, a shower with no shoes necessary and (get ready for this) a microwave, a washer AND a dryer.
I know that those of you who are currently reading this blog in your kitchen (barefoot) making Easy Mac while you wait for your jeans to come out of the dryer won’t appreciate the epic-ness of this, but you must consider something: Europe is an incredibly high-tech place in certain areas, but, at least in Italy, a dryer is something that only the weak (the incredibly wealthy weak) possess and the strong scoff at. A microwave just takes up space on your counter, because you’re not eating anything microwavable, because they don’t sell that short of nonsense in Italy. The point is that these were two appliances that I had not seen in four months. The smell of clothes right out of the dryer is something that everyone should stop to appreciate whenever they come across it. There’s simply nothing like putting on something straight out of the dryer. Respect it. Love it.
Long story short, Doolin was an excellent place from which to explore the west of Ireland. It was nice to have a home base to go back to each night, from Galway, Limerick, the Cliffs of Mohr, Connemara, the Aran Islands… we certainly got a lot done! Go to Galway, if you ever get a chance. It’s a beautiful city, and there’s something there called a Galway Hooker that seemed particularly to pique my brother’s interests. But that’s also where the Clauddagh ring was ostensibly invented, and where there are allegedly a lot of black haired, blue eyed sirens who ask men to dance and then make them travel all over the world. Just get within a three hour radius of Galway and this reference will become clear. Go to the Cliffs of Mohr one, because they’re the freakin’ Cliffs of Mohr, and two, because that’s where they filmed The Cave for The Half Blood Prince. I know. I saw it. I freaked out and tried to get down there. I was restrained. Some people don’t want me to have any fun. Or to join the wizarding community to which I truly belong. Go to Limerick because there’s a really good place from which to watch the sunset, right along the Shannon. There’s a stone block to sit on and everything. Curious? Ask Scott the next time you see him. Go to Connemara because it’ll remind you a little of what the Montana Hi-Line might be like (this in reference to town size and the saltiness of certain local characters) if it were on the sea coast and in possession of any legitimate elevation.
And for Bob’s sake, go to the Aran Islands because I have simply never been to a more bewitchingly magical place in my whole life than Inis Mor. Part of the appeal for me was certainly the remoteness. Looking back on it now, when I’ve been out of Ireland and traveling for about two weeks, it appeals to me even more because I’ve been mostly in cities (this was true when I was in Italy, too), and I’m a girl who grew up under the Big Sky (proper noun), and so am, if not distrustful of big cities, then at least more cautious in them than I am when in small towns. There are just different sets of behavior for each of these places, and I was so happy to just walk around and feel the cold air on my face and look out over spectacular vistas and climb treacherous paths to beautiful things… it felt almost like being back in Montana. Except with ocean. And Dara.
Dara Molloy (yes, another maybe-relative) is a small, neat man, probably in his middle-50s, with a very well-kept white beard and a tam. He carries himself as if he is much taller than he is, looks you straight in the eye when talking to you, and seems to radiate this sense of purpose and serenity that is instantly attractive. It makes you notice him. Or it made me notice him. He was dressed in woolens the day that we met him, and looked very much the weathered islander… until, upon offering to take us on a tour of his adopted homeland (he’s originally from Dublin), he whipped out an iPhone and began speaking in rapid Gaelic to his favorite bus driver, Oliver. I don’t know what caught me more by surprise: the fact that this character out of The Playboy of the Western World should have an iPhone when I do not, or that he spoke Irish so rapidly, so nonchalantly, as if it were nothing at all. Not some huge revelation or great endeavor to safe a dying language, but just business as usual. I was immediately enchanted by the sensory overload that the smells, the sights and the sounds of this little island, and I think I had a goofy grin on my face as I gazed rapturously from one beautiful, historical, cultural site to another all day.
On an island that is 11 miles long and about three miles wide (I think… don’t quote me) at its widest, it is absolutely astounding how many of these historical and cultural sites exist. Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover the isolation, the desolate limestone criss-crossed everywhere by stone walls, some without gates, which separate one man’s property from another’s, that comprise Inis Mor. For some reason, after days and days of, if not outright cruel, then at least very cloudy weather, the sun burst forth upon the limestone (it’s said geologically that Inis Mor and the other islands were once connected to the Burren), making it hard to look at it, and you could see for what seemed like ever from Dun Aengus, the crowning archaeological glory of the little place, which Dara told us about with professorial while at the same time encouraging us to hang over the ledge (a 300 foot drop) to take pictures. Oops. Sorry, Mom.
We ate lunch at a little café with Dara. We all had Guinness stew, which, after a morning of very cold ferry rides and windy cliff-tops was a very welcome warming sensation indeed. Dara knew everyone in the café and everyone knew him, and they were all speaking Irish to each other. It’s amazing how used you can get, in a little under two weeks, to being in a country where you understand everything again, and so hearing a different language spoken all around you is once again a weird sensation.
When he was speaking English, Dara proved to be a wonderful conversationalist. He’s a fascinating man with an amazing life story (for more on which I’ll direct you to his book, The Globalization of God). Suffice it to say that he retains enough of his ecclesiastical demeanor, even after leaving the priesthood and beginning a family, to make you really want to talk to him. And the encouraging thing is, it felt like he was really listening to what you had to say and recognizing the value in it. Sometimes, with people you’re only just meeting, and especially when you’re much younger than they are, conversation can seem more like the recitation of resumes in order to impress, but Dara gave the impression of really listening with the expectation of getting to know you. It’s no wonder that he works with young people.
I could rhapsodize for another four pages about Inis Mor and Dara and how desperately I want to go back, and the immediate plans to appeal to K to let me do my SIP there… but I’ll shut up. If you really need to hear more about this particular subject, it’ll probably be enough to just say the words Aran Islands when I next see you, and then sit back and enjoy the show.
We took final leave of Sean on Inis Mor, where he was planning to stay and talk more with Dara. I was jealous, but if my plan works the way I want it to, that won’t be the last time I see him. I think that I’m not out of line when I say that this trip was absolutely one of the most memorable of my life, and what made it so awesome were primarily the people that we met. A lot of those connections, including the ones with royalty, the ones that give me an excuse to write the word ‘chieftainess’ and the ones with magical islands with seals and cliffs and history, would not have happened without his willingness to get in touch with people. So, to Sean, from the bottom of my heart: thank you so much for the unforgettable connections. But onward.
Now Sean-less, the Johnson, and Teague and I (creepers on a family vacation) started southward, toward Cork. The entirety of Ireland is really more beautiful than you imagine when you’re sitting around thinking about it, mostly because it’s real. The vistas and the ruins and the sheep are all there, but they are tempered with gas stations and highways and people. And the people are awesome. We visited a town called Cobh, right outside of Cork, which was beautiful and from where the Corbett side of our family seems to have left Ireland on the boats. Well, the name Corbett was more present in the landscape than it had been in any other place we’d been, anyway.
There was one thing along our route which we were anxious to see, simply because it is what it is: the Blarney Stone at Blarney Castle. I honestly don’t know why it’s such a big deal (since I still haven’t seen it), but for some reason you’re supposed to go kiss the Blarney Stone if you’re ever even in spitting distance of Ireland, so that’s what we were going to do.
Remember that Big Freeze we were mocking earlier? Well, we were thwarted once again by the Irish weather. The Big Freeze had, at that point (in our Montana opinion, anyway) dissipated beyond the point of legitimate threat. Well, that was not the case in Blarney. It rained, then froze, then rained and froze again before we got to the castle, and as we made our way across the increasingly treacherous parking lot, they closed the castle for fear of law suits. It was probably a good move, but disappointing nonetheless.
We did find Blarney Woolen Mills that day, and spent a few hours frolicking amongst the framed Irish Blessings and Waterford Crystal before heading to Kilkenny and a hostel to spend the night. This being a Sunday night, there wasn’t much open in the way of food. We had to resort to a little (read: kinda sketch) counter place called Uncle Sam’s, with a pizza place next to it. And here, a quite unexpected thing happened.
Some of our party ordered what was purported to be “Real Italian Pizza”. It even had the right names, like funghi and quatro stagione… but when it came, it looked like your average, not-terribly-good American pizza. Round, too much tomato sauce, too many toppings… I don’t know why, but it set me off. I couldn’t stop crying for a good forty minutes. I probably looked like a crazy person. It was probably tasty pizza, but the discrepancy between it and what I know to be possible brought about a wave of Rome-sickness that just about knocked me over. I basically took it easy for the rest of the night after that, grappling with what I’m sure will only become more persistent culture shock when I get properly back into one culture.
The next morning was an infinitely more successful culinary outing. If you’ve never heard of something called The Full Irish… well… here’s how I’ll explain it. Take the Atkins Diet and multiply by four. Add tea, a tomato boiled to within an inch of its life, and a ton of toast, and you’ve basically got the Full Irish. I loved the sausages, the rashers and the white pudding, but couldn’t get past the “blood” part in the blood pudding enough to enjoy it. The fried egg and baked beans further ensured that I am no longer protein deficient, even after four months of basically nothing but pasta.
This was the last day of Maribeth, Scott and Kealey’s trip. I honestly can’t thank my godparents enough for allowing me to hang out with them on this amazing, memorable adventure. I admit to a certain amount of loneliness and homesickness that crops up from time to time throughout this experience, but having them there was enough of a taste of home to make me forget that from time to time and totally immerse myself in the experience. Thanks for everything, godparents! Love ya! (And Kea, you’re an excellent bed partner and Glee DJ. Thanks!)
This is getting stupidly long again, so I’m going to keep you in suspense about the hi-jinks that the boys and I got up to after we were free of adult supervision and at liberty to roam where we pleased. Give me a few days… I’m getting way behind in this thing, mostly because I’m moving from place to place so fast right now, but I’ll try to update as soon as I can!
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