Pumpathon

Any seasoned parent (or kid, for that matter) knows that there is always one sure-fire way to entertain the troops: it's big and red, with sirens and lights. Sometimes there's even a Dalmatian on board. What family album doesn't have a picture of a kid standing in front of the fire truck at their local fire department open house ?

Those who know our family know that we have one boy who has not outgrown this fascination, and much to his delight, he has found others who also have not outgrown their passion. As a kid, I loved poking around construction sites, picking up the odd cut-off and nail; what freedom to be able to walk into a hardware store as an adult and buy whole sheets of plywood (and the truck to carry them in). And so it is with the Irish Fire Service Preservation Group, a group dedicated to the rescue, restoration, and preservation of the Irish fire service heritage. A noble statement for a group of fellows who get together to play with old fire trucks--that they own.

Their big (a relative term) gathering of the year, in nearby Athy, is called the Pumpathon. Members of the group gather with whatever equipment is actually running (or can be pushed), chuck their hoses into the river at Barrow Quay and start pumping. There's no fee to attend, and we discovered there's no advertising for the event either: this is a participatory event, where everyone gets their hands dirty and/or wet.

Which meant that this was pretty much the high point of our stay for a certain young man, who went to bed that night with a big grin on his face. "What a day!"

Penny dropping

We have struggled over the years to understand Irish history, a seemingly unending mash-up of invasions and back-and-forth between shifting enemies. There were The Troubles of course, and we knew it had something to do with the English; it seemed to be a rather long-standing issue, given the number of castles dotting the landscape in ruins due to Cromwell. But even simple books written for children were twenty pages long, with lots of picture of warriors and invasions, and what was home rule about anyway?

During his time here, my brother visited Dublin, and went to Kilmainham Gaol; he reported that it was a terrific tour, and gave him a good basis for understanding the Irish struggle for independence. So with our last guests in tow, we decided to follow his good example and bone up.

Our day started with a trip in on Luas, Dublin's shiny tram system, dropping us right at a stop for the hop-on, hop-off bus tour, a double-decker bus that ferries tourists around and is frankly, loads of fun, with talkative drivers behind the wheel--sometimes they even sing! We alighted at the Gaol, and joined the short queue.

Our OPW card got us in for free (yes, I would say it was a worthwhile investment!), and we pumped some food into the kidlets and had a look around the museum while we waited for our tour. We were once again impressed by the incredibly knowledgable and articulate tour guide, which seems to be the norm in a country known for its storytelling ability. And this place had many stories to tell; indeed, it was stories that led to this independent republic's being.

The tour starts in the prison chapel, where we hear of Joseph Plunkett marrying his childhood sweetheart, Grace Gifford, only hours before he was executed for his role in the Easter uprising of 1916. I had taken the bus tour before, and had seen the bullet holes still visible on the Post Office on O'Connell street, so that part was clear. It was also clear that the ruling British were not amused by the uprising, and had court-marshalled all the ringleaders and sentenced them to death.

But this was a touching tale, one of love and sorrow, and the British made a fatal error in dragging out the dozen or so executions over the course of a week. Word got out: of the ill-fated lovers, of the execution of a man who was too badly injured to stand before his firing squad and had to be propped up on a chair. And outrage ensued. The war for independence had begun, and the lable "Free State" was not enough: this time the people would settle for no less than a free and independent republic.

It was horrifying to imagine being incrcerated there (did I mention Danny and I got separated from the group?), and we were happy to see the sunshine, however brief, outside. We reboarded our bus tour, and as we pulled away from the kerb, the driver started singing a familiar tune, one I had not paid much mind to before.

As we gather in the chapel here, in old Kilmainham jail,
I think about the last few weeks, oh, will they say we failed,
From our school days they have told us we must yearn for liberty,
Yet all I want in this dark place is to have you here with me.

Oh, Grace just hold me in your arms,and let this moment linger,
They'll take me out at dawn and I will die,
With all my love I place this wedding ring upon your finger,
There wont be time to share our love so we must say goodbye.

Wheeling and dealing

The used car market in Ireland, like the population, is retracting. An island economy is an economic microcosm, with the rules of supply and demand clearly visible. In this case, people came to the Isle, got jobs, rented homes, and bought cars. Those jobs have now largely disappeared, meaning rents are dropping precipitously, and it's a buyer's market for used cars.

Which means we didn't have much hope for selling our cars, thinking we'd be lucky to not have to dump them altogether. Charities don't even accept car donations. And forget about cash for clunkers: even the older cars here wouldn't qualify for it, as cars here simply don't have the extremely low mileage that American cars do. And they tend to be pulled off the road earlier for safety reasons.

So, in a quiet moment a couple of days ago, I listed both cars on gumtree, the UK equivalent of Craigslist (automated, free, hides email and contact information). It seemed a bit early, but we were asking a decent price, so I figured why not?

Within an hour, I had my first nibble, but it wasn't encouraging: did I want to trade the Clio straight over for a Kawasaki motorcycle? No, I responded, but thanks for asking. So I was quite pleased when I got another email asking about the Clio. We called back, and made an appointment to view the car this afternoon. Which meant we had less than 24 hours to get the thing clean.

It's difficult to explain to people who haven't been here what rural roads will do to a car: the raina nd mud of winter is gone, but it's haying season, which means tractors are mowing and moving hay to barn, driving between barn and field. Because of the rain, the fields are quite soaked, which means very muddy stretches of road - and very grubby cars. And if it's not rainy, the roads are dusty.

We swapped cars this morning, and number two son and I took the Clio to the speed wash at the Texaco at the south end of town. For €6, I got a token reminiscent of the laundry room tokens at the University of Freiburg. The attendant explained I should insert the token in the machine: I was to use the foam wand until the bell rang, then the brush in a bucket to scrub, and then a bell would ring to let me know it was time to rinse. A final bell would warn me that the water was going to turn off.

I was fine until the second bell, which rang when I was only halfway through scrubbing one side of the car. The globs of mud that cling to the bottom of the car are not easy to remove, and I won't even go into what those snazzy sport wheels harbored. I had barely managed to rinse the car when the @#$! bell rang again and the water shut off; when I got in the car, I noticed that the windshield was still filthy. By the time I got home again and looked at the mop strokes on the sides and hood, I knew I was going to have to do something else.

We grabbed a quick bite, and headed over to the Tougher at the other side of the lake. For another €6, I got a chit with a code to punch into the machine, which is like an American automated car wash, only European style: instead of pulling a car through a tunnel if suds and brushes, an arch with those striped twirly brushes and spray jets and blowers that moves back and forth over the car.

It did the trick: the car looked so good I would buy it all over again. The fellow came out, drove it, liked it, bargained a bit and said he'd take it. One down.

All year long, the boys have been collecting golf balls: we go for walks to enjoy the sunset, and they scamper about like puppies in the rough, each Eureka reminding me of a year-long Easter-egg hunt. With a burgeoning collection, and a mother who is severely limiting the amount of stuff to transport home, they decided to sell them. Over to the pro club at the resort they trekked with their collection, but the spoilsports said they were not interested. Fine, thought the boys, we'll just go into competition with them. And they did. Two handwritten signs in the golfer's parking lot: a golfer dropped by this afternoon and swapped €4 for ten Titleist balls.

And just when I thought I could relax and get the house ready for our guests arriving late tonight, another email came in from gumtree, this time for the Scenic. Darling husband returned the call, and it turns out to be someone working in his office. An impromptu test drive 20 minutes later, and they like it. They have one more car over the weekend to see, and we'll talk next week.

Lady Blessington

I have a dear friend who lives in Scotland (she's the one responsible for taking us to Hadrian's wall), who is the only person I know who never forgets a birthday or anniversary. Cards come with astounding punctuality, and sometimes bonuses arrive as well.

Stuck to the wall next to my computer (thank heavens for blu-tack!) is a picture postcard of a painting of Margaret, Countess of Blessington, by Sir Thomas Lawrence. Knowing the name of our temporary home town, she had seen it and thought of us.

This newsy card (for she fills the back with all sorts of tidbits written with a real ink pen) was followed by the requisite Christmas card (also handwritten), an anniversary card (she remembers! Well, she was my bridesmaid) and a birthday card, also full of purple-inked news.

There are a few things we will finish up once home: there is the borrowed video of Braveheart, filmed just up the road and at Trim castle; there is a bit of writing and rewriting, blog posts and article research; and there are a couple of books about the lives of people who lived here, the one being a contemporary, well-researched book on the families of Blessington (The Blessington Estate 1667-1908, by Kathy Trant), and one a period piece, called appropriately enough, The Most Gorgeous Lady Blessington. I note with a smile that the frontispiece is exactly the same as the portrait next to me.

National music

After a well-deserved day off (one kid stayed in jammies the whole day, not naming names but you know which one) we tackled another pleasure from the great wall. All year long, our car radios have been tuned to RTÉ (Raidió Teilifís Éireann), and we have heard the terms "RTÉ Orchestra" and "National Concert Hall" repeatedly. It was time to go see what it was all about.

Now, Seattle has a showy new Benaroya Hall; New York has Carnegie Hall: Dublin has the National Concert Hall. Passing the imposing gates and entering the elegant, plushly carpeted lobby, you can't help but feel anticipation building. But once in the intimate hall, I'm reminded that Ireland is a small country.

For this elegant space is cozy, and in this sold-out performance, we are actually seated in the choir balcony, behind the orchestra. Two of us are used to this vantage point, though not without instruments, for the third, it's a fun treat.

We are treated to an energetic and informal great concert, replete with a vivacious blond soprano, who actually had the older demographic singing along with Moon River; a world premiere written by a fellow who wore corduroy and no tie; and a bird's eye view of the percussionists (where did they get the Garda corps drum?)

While we were in town, we also stopped by the bookshop at Trinity College to pick up the DVD of the Book of Kells, and my favorite yarn shop to replenish my Irish sock yarn stash. Then a quick tram ride to the park and ride, where the rain held off until we were safely ensconced in our car.

Russborough & Rathbally

The absolutely closest attraction to where we live (other than the golf course itself) is Russborough House. It merits a star in the Michelin Guide, and is often called "the most beautiful house in Ireland." If we hike up the hill to our friends in Baltyboys, we can see it, with its gracefully sweeping lawns down to the lake. It is a favorite Sunday walk: in February with its long afternoon shadows, the daffodils just peeking their green heads through the snow, in autumn with the delicious flaming leaves, when we wondered where that lane that led to the lake wanted to go.

The Blessington Lakes, however, were not always there: they are the result of damming the Poulaphouca falls, a favorite picnicing spot for Vistorian-era Dubliners wanting to escape the city. They would catch the steam tram from Terenure (now part of Dublin), and wend their way down through Blessington to the falls.

I learned that the River Liffey--yes, the same river that runs through the center of Dublin--was dammed in the 1930s as part of a scheme to provide water and electricity for Dublin (yes, the irony of our water being undrinkable does not escape me). As a result, many of the landholders who abutted the river gained waterfront property, which didn't do them much good, because it took from them their livelihood: raising cattle and cutting peat from the valley floor. The villages around the lake are dotted to this day with people who were misplaced.

I picked up all these tidbits from a book that appeared in the bookshop window in November,
Beneath the Poulaphouca Reservoir, which presents the survey of properties that were flooded out by the scheme. Detailed maps and photographs round out the inventory, and makes for a handsome coffee table book. So handsome in fact, that it is already in its second printing.

It is fascinating to see that the manor house at Tulfarris, which is now on a lobe of land jutting into the lakes was perched on a hill at the bend in the river. The ruined house that we explored in the snow back in February is also on the map, and there is a track leading from it to Russborough House. It revealed itself as the shell of a formerly elegant house, with tiny wings flanking it, mirroring Russborough House and giving a fine view of its grander sibling from its front stoop. The map calls it Rathbally House, but tells no more of its clearly elegant past.

So when we finally took the tour (we had saved it for my mother), we were surprised that the incredibly well-informed guide knew nothing of it. Granted, she was, as she called herself, a "blow-in," but that didn't stop her from recognizing a pair of tour-takers.

We too, ran into a few people we knew from the Steiner school, folks who had come to enjoy the fine day, to walk the acres of sheep-dotted fields and gardens and to shop the monthly farmer's market, as we did too.

It seems then, that while Russborough House opens its doors to all for colorful gatherings, Rathbally will sit on top of her lonely hill and keep her secrets to herself.

Old and dying

I should warn you in advance that this is a melancholic piece. It is hard not to adopt an Eeyore-like tone when your birthday dawns grey and wet and gloomy, and you realize you are another week closer to leaving both Emerald Isle and Husband than the last time you thought about it.

Yesterday was still breezy and warm as we headed over the Wicklow Gap to Hollywood, the town for which the place in California was named, to the Inn for supper and a pint for my crowd, which must wait while I pick up the veggies. I point out Tutty's across the street to my mother, recalling a February visit to hear the legendary Tommy Peoples play. I explain that they have music and drink there, but we can't get food there.

When I return, my hoarde is hungry, their pints drained. They are ordering, and I quickly glance at the menu and choose light fare, since I know they have good desserts here. Odd as it seems, we both have news to relate even though we have only been apart for an hour. How Yuki's belly is swelling with her baby girl, how the filling station computer system was down, so no one could pump gas or diesel, and how Tutty's had a sign hanging in the window that they were closed until later today. It appears, notes my husband, that Mrs. Tutty "does" funerals. An interesting turn of phrase, and I seek clarification that she's not catering them or playing music, but that the family are funeral directors as well as publicans.

The restaurant is only about half full, so we chuckle to see a reserved sign being placed on a table next to us, musing that it seems highly unlikely that there will be a run on the place in the next hour or so. Our dinners demolished (how do boys eat so much?), we move on to sticky toffee pudding and chocolate fondant cake (what we would call molten chocolate cake), and a family moves into the reserved table.

As we get back in the car to get Alfred to soccer on time (or rather, not too late), a car nabs my spot, and we notice that the two lanes in town are absolutely packed with cars. There is a Gardá directing traffic at the intersection to town, and cars are being directed into an adjacent field to park. The crowds of people gathering outside the church, the closing of Tutty's, the cars: it is an Irish funeral.

We relay to my mother how the national traffic reports often warn people of large funerals, since the cortege can stretch for miles. My mother in turn relates how my father called the obituaries 'the Irish sporting section' of the paper. It is not the first funeral we have seen here, and it is oddly reassuring that the community still comes together en masse to see off their kin and friends. It seems a stark contrast to our lives in the States, where we rarely hear of deaths via the grapevine, usually reading an obit too late to attend a funeral--or a wake.

Sad, but you can't say you weren't warned.