Battles

I know I said I was done posting to this blog, but wasn't prepared for the reaction. A few gracious responses, to be sure, but some real disappointment was voiced. I'm not alone! It doesn't take much encouragement for me to post a little bonus for you all.

There was one minor item from the Great Wall of Planning that had just had to wait until we got home. For months, every time we crested the hill at the turnoff to Valleymount from Glendalough, we noted a little brown directional sign sending us to "Braveheart Drive." When I asked one of my knitting group about it, she regaled me with tales of how she and her husband dabble in playing extras, and yes, Mel Gibson's Scottish epic was partly filmed in the meadows in the Curragh. Indeed, when we visited Trim Castle we were shown the window through which the prince's lover was thrown in the film, and were told the Princess of Wales walks through the cloister at Bective Abbey. So we decided it would be fitting and fun to watch it, and a note was affixed to the wall. Ah, but the demons of time and vagaries of the Blessington Library's reserve system meant that we just never seemed to get to it during our time in Ireland. We decided it would have to wait until we got home.

But when we returned in August, we were distracted by unpacking, then repairing, then getting back into the swing of things. At some point, we found a video tape of Braveheart borrowed far too many years ago, and decided to watch it. Unfortunately for us, our video setup provided neither image nor sound: clearly something had been unplugged in our absence, and we would have to deal with it another day. I placed a hold on a DVD of the movie at the library.

I turned my attention to the Tulfarris book: Upon our return from New York at the end of October, there was a package waiting on the doorstep: the proof. Standing in the front hall, we all mobbed the book, and turned the pages together; about 20 pages in, Alfred voiced what we were all thinking: it looks dark. Discouraged, I engaged in a not always cordial back-and-forth with the printer, which resulted in my pulling the book from sale and correcting the brightness of many images. It may seem obvious, but digital images on your computer screen are much lighter than those printed on the page. I needed to learn how to use photo editing software and lighten up some images and correct white balance on wintery scenes. The results were definitely worth it, and we're very happy with the book.

Like William Wallace, Gibson's character, we fought two decisive battles this past week and won: the movie arrived at our branch library, and we scheduled the viewing for Saturday evening. We had to start early--it's long! And the movie is decidedly more gory than our book.

And Friday night before I went to bed, I uploaded the corrected book to the server. The link to the book has changed. But as an appeasement, there is a new, better discount code valid through November 24, 2009: enter BLURBHOLIDAY at checkout for a 20% discount and free ground shipping on any order of up to 5 books. It's a great deal, but expires soon!

UPDATE: An observant good friend has discovered that this code is apparently only valid for books you have authored yourself. I wish Blurb had mentioned this when they sent me the code, since in the past they have been shareable. My apologies!

Unpacking

It has been two months since we returned home. After an initial spurt of putting the groundwork of our lives back together, we have begun adding the layers of complexity--cello lessons, orchestra--back in. Unpacking started predictably slowly, as we took things out and either put them back where they used to live, or found a space for new items amidst the old.

One little boy immediately dug into the boxes of trains, and had three layouts running concurrently within 24 hours. The other petted the cat until her fur was all shiny, and got to work locating an explorer post at a fire station. We got a bit sidetracked with some DIY, as we were one closet short due to the spectacular failure of the front hall closet system (think winter coats and board games and puzzles). A new closet system was in order so we could move said winter coats from our bedrooms, making room for our clothes.

Before we knew it, we had barreled headlong into the school year, with book lists and back-to-school gatherings. Alfred arrived home, pulling three more overweight suitcases behind him. There were a couple of things that I had not brought with that I had asked him to tuck in, and he brought with a few other surprises. After four long weeks of unpacking, we finally piled the suitcases back in the garage, to let them gather dust, knowing that we didn't need to go anywhere--for a while, at least.

Which explains the new knife in my knife block and the Renault keychain for my car keys, and the pile of yummy sweaters on my shelves. A few items (including the fleece) will arrive via slow boat sometime next month, and we're looking forward to the early Christmas that will be. But there is one thing that I neither brought with nor left behind that I wasn't sure what to do with.

Though void of any physical presence, it had been a weighty part of my everyday in Tulfarris, as much a part of my day as rustling up some supper and traipsing through muddy fields. I'm talking about this blog.

My morning walks around the lake, with the crunch of the gravel under my wellies, cleared my head and awakened the Wicklow muse. But those walks and the hills are gone from my life, and even though I did finally get the pumpathon pictures up, and wrote a few tidbits, one morning I found the muse, like sand slipping through my fingers, was gone altogether. I felt lost.

It appears that others are having trouble letting it go of it as well: Traffic reports tell me that folks are still reading the blog. A few notes from friends and family wanted to know if I would keep writing? They wanted more!

A bit of investigating options led me to a book: a combination of the best writings and favorite pictures. With the boys back in school, I turned to pasting and cutting, flowing and trimming the blog to fit into physical pages. And so, while the Pacific Northwest rains darkened this morning's skies, I uploaded a beautiful book, full of shadows and light on green fields dotted with white sheep.

We figure that we'll send a couple of copies to our parental units for Christmas, and let others decide if they'd like a copy of their own. You'll find a banner to click on at the top of the page (or you can click here): To help sway your decision, use the code united at checkout for a $5 discount, and the publisher will donate $5 to United Way of King County. Feel free to give the code out or reuse it as much as you'd like.

With this post, I plan to reluctantly tuck this blog into bed, and let it rest. I do want to thank you all for sharing in our adventure. I will resume my occasional posts on tradition and sustainability in my original blog, The Full Irish. I hope you'll join me there!

UPDATE on 16 November 2009: After getting the bugs out of the production process, the link to the book has changed. Also, please note that there is a new, better discount code valid through November 24, 2009: enter BLURBHOLIDAY at checkout for a 20% discount and free ground shipping on any order of up to 5 books. It's a great deal, but expires soon!

Last Saturday

Saturday morning dawned clear and bright, an ever-so-gentle breeze whispering the trees. From where I lie and first crack open my eyes, I see the top of a beech tree, all green and leafy except for one craggy naked branch that reaches up. As I contemplate that this green is a green unlike every other, a lone crow alights, cawing with its entire body. It's become a running joke that this is where I need to get up. But I know that this is a rare commodity, and I don't need to get up early, so I instead cuddle against my warm bed partner.

The day was spread out before us. We had an invitiation from the neighbors to grill and chat in the evening until the wee hours (or later), to enjoy the craic one last time. I had purposely worked hard during the week to get things to a place where I could have a peaceful weekend to enjoy Ireland and my family; for I leave my husband to finish up here, and when he joins us again, we will be in school mode, not to mention the fact that there will be no megaliths to pursue.

We had one bead for the weekend: Heritage Week, an annual celebration of Irish heritage and patrimony (now, there's a word we don't use in the US of A!). The kickoff celebration was in the beautiful town of Kilkenny, on the castle grounds. It was an easy itinerary, and we realized we could find it without a map. Which is good, because the map doesn't have the shiny new motorway on it.

We woke the sore-armed teen (more on his tree-climbing adventures later) and piled into the people mover (still for sale--interested?). The town was abuzz, both because of the festival, but also because of the upcoming hurling game. Yellow and black flags, banners, shirts, scarves, pajamas everywhere. There was even an inflatable Kilkenny Cat on a rooftop, complete with hurley.

We both have fond memories of this town, having visited it as a young family 12 years ago, and Alfred a dozen years before that. In fact, he had bought a hat there that has become a favorite, and he wanted to duck into the shop where they were made. How sad to find that Frank Wall hats are no longer made anymore, but how lovely that his son, Michael, a spry white-haired gentleman, still runs the shop. We emerged with a few calendar cards for Kilkenny supporters. "Up Kilkenny!" they cry, and Americans should not be shocked; it translates roughly as "Go, Kilkenny!" (And it's really funny to hear the call when County Down plays: "Up Down!")

As we approached the castle, we could hear the music, and sure enough, a marching band was warming up the crowd, next to the medieval re-enacters and stonemasons. We grabbed some delicous food: falafel and dolmas, sausage roll and goat cheese and spinach pie, and a punnet of raspberries to fortify us for merrymaking.

We watched stonemasons cutting and piecing a wall like a giant, heavy jigsaw puzzle; butter churning, a drumming workshop with Brazilian bells and Irish bodrans. The castle was open for self-guided tours, and we meandered our way through the relatively modern splendor and enjoying the spectacular views of the river and town.

The day slipped away pleasantly enough, and as clouds gathered, we headed back up the main street, window-shopping (we had a gift card from Christmas that we had forgotten about), and zipped back up the Isle to our little village, where tents and umbrellas had been erected around the bonfire to protect us from the imminent precipitation.

A quick check of email revealed a shuffling of automobiles on the other Island, as friends help reassemble our lives Stateside. A few quick calls, and we have arranged our airport transport and greeting committee as well as a date for the cat to get some intense love from my brother.

Steak burgers with roquefort and avocado, cider and prosecco, great talk and laughter. One by one people peeled off to head to bed, and all to soon, I realized that the sky was light.

The day dawned wild and windy, Wicklow at it's most wild and envigorating. The neighbors are sure that I won't miss the weather, but I'm not sure, as I listen to the wind creep in and whistle around the doors while all hands put the yard back in order. We'll head two doors down and watch Cork against Tyrone in the Gaelic football semifinal this afternoon, pack the bags the rest of the way, and print out our boarding passes.

Sore arms

It is a peculiarity of the Irish that men are often referred to by their nickname rather than their given name. My dear husband answers to "Alfie" on the football pitch (that's a soccer field), and Brian two doors down goes by "Gib."

And so it was that during a chat a few weeks back, Gib freshly cast and on crutches from tearing his Achilles tendon, that we learn that after working a myriad of jobs, he has found his passion in the treetops. With a regular contract to maintain forests under and around ESB power lines, he joyfully climbs trees for a living.

Which is why he was itching to get out of the cast for more than one reason. And as the summer progressed, it came to pass that he promised to drum up another harness and take Marcus up a beech tree across the lane.

This being Ireland, it took a while for it to come together, but it did so spectacularly: with sun shining, blue sky, puffy white clouds and a brisk breeze, the harness arrived, and Gib broke out a new rope. The two started with a relatively small tree close to the block of houses, perhaps only 60 feet tall or so.

Vaguely reminiscent of the REI climbing rock, a rope was fastened to a high branch (with the aid skyhooks), and a series of knots allowed the young lad to pull himself up. Not fast at first, and there was a great deal of hanging upside-down to start.

The entertainment value was apparent, as everyone on the block came out on the stoop and spent a fair time watching.

After half an hour of swinging around, Gib moved the rope farther up, and set a higher goal for Marcus. And left him to it.

At this point it became clear that this was a personal thing. Marcus didn't need anyone watching his every move. Indeed, as he went higher into the foliage, he nearly disappeared. No, this was flying solo, and though Gib was around, doing this and that (including swinging Danny on the other harness, for example), he wasn't actively paying him much mind. After an hour, a tired and hungry Marcus came down for lunch. But not before he'd made it to the top fork of that tree, above the roofline.

The weather took advantage of their lunch break to open up the heavens and soak things, and then the sun came out for their afternoon foray. They had chosen the beech across the car park, a lopsided old beech, for further scaling and branch walking, but the number of stinging nettles at its base made them rethink it, and they moved to a neighboring tree.

Unlike the first climb, Marcus rapidly disappeared into the dappled light of the branches, and except for his red hoodie, disappeared from view. Gib followed him up, and when they reached their goal, Gib asked him to step off into thin air, the rope holding him. Something magical happened: the boy, trusting the man, the tree, the rope, and himself, took the step.

In less than an hour, they were down on the earth again, quiet respect flowing between them. Rope burns on his hands, the boy sought first aid from his mother, but only briefly.

The cats of Tulfarris

Our very first picture of Tulfarris shows a black dog sniffing on the back patio. I didn't pay much mind to it at the time, it was a just a dog. And those few cats were just a few cats.

But they are as much part of the fabric of our lives as the hills and the neighbors. Linda, our next-door neighbor who dabbles in painting, is also known by the moniker The Cat Lady and the Biscuit Lady. For it is she who every day heads out to the car park with a big pot of kitty victuals and feeds the 19 strays. And it is she who always has a doggie biscuit for Gypsy, the black dog in our picture.

Gypsy theoretically "belongs" to Tommy and Tatiana, who live three doors down. She adopted them by showing up on their doorstep. It appears she was looking for smart people who enjoyed the outdoors, long walks, swimming and hiking. But she has also adopted each of us: Linda for biscuits and temporary digs when her people are out of town, our boys for tossing the squeaky ball and swims in the lake. She chases the stray cats, but delicately sniffs noses with Purdy, Linda's own spoiled beast. And it is not uncommon to find her sniffing around my ankles as I write, since I leave the door wide open on fine days such as this.

Linda also works with the local shelter to capture and have spayed the strays. Mostly calico, this is clearly a select gene pool, recently added to by an outsider Persian/tabby-blooded tomcat, from the looks of this last bunch of kittens. The new mother is just back from a spa treatment at the local vet, and will not be a mama ever again. Now Linda just needs to find homes for three adorable kittens.

Clean treads

I washed the Wicklow mud off my Wellies this afternoon. Grass still clung to them in places from the walk this morning that took me past the spot where we built snowmen (and a snow cat); a few small pebbles were wedged between the deep treads from the newly graveled village car park where once the bins overflowed. Once they had dried in the fleeting sun, I packed them with a few tubes of vegetable pâté from Mary's health food shop and nestled them in the suitcase next to the game of Monopoly we got as a present from the Easter Bunny and the box the boys constructed to protect Danny's paper lantern from the St. Michael's festival procession last fall. I have to squeeze a lot of memory into these suitcases.

As I stood up and stretched my back (all that bending and back and forth between cases), the phone rang; Alfred's carpool was in Brittas, he'd be in town in a quarter hour and could I pick him up. I grabbed my keys, and left the boys to play soccer and football (Gaelic, of course) with our tree surgeon neighbor: this exercise is part of his rehabilitation from his ruptured Achilles tendon a month back. I nabbed a parking spot on Main Street in front of the same pizza place that provided the stack of pies for Danny's birthday party (they're on holiday until mid-September, so I shall miss saying goodbye to them), jogged over to Harvest Fare for passata and soya milk, and was going up the road two doors to the bookshop to pick up one last book: The Irish Companion, a lovely little tome full of trivia in no particular order. There is a spot in the suitcase reserved for it.

Husband in now in tow, we head home. As we pull into my usual parking space in Tulfarris, Alfred's phone does its little dance to get his attention. The mechanic is calling to let us know that he's finished the car. Had he only called fifteen minutes earlier, I could have slept in on Friday.

At the beginning of the week, I hatched a cunning plan: I could knock a couple hours off jet lag if we stayed to go to bed late and get up late. This plan met with approval from the teenager in my life and the young one likes any plan that involves jammies. Even my Darling Spouse was amenable, especially the bit anout late nights, since that gives us more time together (but only theoretically, as any parent of a teen can attest).

However, the car gods decided it was not to be. Alfred had been noticing a rumbly noise that changed frequency with the speed. Teenage boy said he should call Car Talk (from Ireland?), but his dad did the boring parent thing and took it to the mechanic. Toothless grin Tom diagnosed bad bearings, so in an uncanny twist of fate, at the same moment I was making an appointment to show his car, darling husband was making an appointment to get it fixed. Our buyer was copacetic with waiting a few days, especially if it meant we paid the mechanic to do the work, and so Alfred figured he would drive in, leave the car at the mechanic, and hitch a ride in with a local co-worker. He'd do the opposite in the evening, and we would get the car to the buyer later in the week.

However, plans don't seem to do well in this climate, and it turns out that it wasn't just the bearings. I wont bore you with the gory details, mostly because I don't know the fancy word for the round bit of metal that was sheared off, but it translated into making us a one car family until Tom could find the part and get it shipped to Ireland--for Clio came from Belfast, and is a sportier model than is sold here.

The good news is that Alfred could carpool, no problem; the bad news is that the carpool left from the monument tree in Blessington at 7:15. And I needed to drive him in. So much for my cunning plan.

This driving in at the same time has all the cachet of a regular commute, something I gave up so many years ago that it almost holds a certain charm. Seeing the same drivers on the road at the same time (and being passed by the same '97 Toyota from Baltyboys on the same straight stretch); then there's the power walker in the orange jacket, and of course the number 65 bus, which explains why all that traffic is converging in town at the same time.

Still, there are some advantages to commuting here, not the least of which are the breathtaking views as you cross the bridge: look to your left, there's Burgage Castle; to your right, there's mist in the hills. I could wax poetic about the hills: like a beautiful woman who dresses differently every day, but always turns heads. Even the Irish talk about this part of the country as one of the most beautiful, calling it the Garden of Ireland. We're wondering if the view is ever the same twice, and if we would ever tire of it, but, alas, one year is not long enough to answer those questions.

Sighing, I tucked my freshly washed wellies into my suitcase.

Baggage

We came to the Emerald Isle as a family, with eight suitcases, four backpacks and a violin. I had recently torn my hamstring, so was about as helpful as the baggage when it came to moving through the airport; all I could do was stand there and make like I was guarding the mountain of bags, when in fact all I could have done was yell very loudly.

We dug the mountain of empty bags out of the toe space under the eaves in our bedroom yesterday. Most still bear the numbers we gave them (quite arbitrarily, I note) to make it easier to inventory. We have aquired two more bags over the year (We were thinking we could take extra bags, even as the airlines brack down harder? We were thinking that more bags would improve our chances of them getting on the plane when we go through Heathrow?). Would that it were as easy as cramming everything in those bags and going back the way we came.

Ah, but rien n'est simple, or as my mother told my husband on our wedding day, "you'll never be bored!" For only three of us (the shortest) will be headed home Monday, mere days away, via Heathrow. The tall member will head out on the day we flew in--September 11 (flights are cheaper on that date. Still.) So we do need to leave a few items for him to live with. And then there are all the sundry household items that we didn't think we could live without. And indeed we can't: I'm still trying to figure out how to pack the sheets that are on our bed. Many of those will be rehomed in a car boot sale (people here don't have garages, so car boots are how these sorts of things are done); some will go to friends, more to charity, and a few boxes will hitch a ride with a fellow employee whose return date is a month later than ours. Sorting things into the correct piles makes my head hurt.

One dear reader commented that she appreciated me writing even while packing. Truth be told, I'm not packing if I'm writing. Ditto work. I've never been one for early packing, and this promises to be more of the same. Though if I'd like to play megaliths over the weekend (is there one we haven't seen yet?), then I'd better get cracking.

After this post.

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.

Mind the Gap

I said goodbye to my farmer today. Not my hairdresser or decorator, no, my farmer, the person who grows the vegetables that grace our table. Glowing carrots, squeaky green beans, sweet peas; apples and pears, tomatoes and crisp lettuce, as well as mild fresh onions in both yellow and purple. I will miss her and those sturdy crates filled with vigor and inspiration.

I also said goodbye to Glendalough today. It was the very first monument I visited in Ireland some 12 years ago, with a lone red-headed toddler on a bitingly cold January morning. The woman at the tourist office in Bray had warned us that the lads had been moving the signs around over the weekend and we shouldn't trust them, proffering instead a third-generation copy of a hand-written map to get us to Sally Gap and the monastic site. We never did find the Sally Gap that day, but today we made up for lost time, making a clockwise circle from home: through Kilbride and its little castle, over the Sally Gap, past the source of the Liffey, round the bend into Glencree and the German cemetery and through upscale Enniskerry, down past the Great Sugarloaf (why is it "Great" if the other Sugarloaf is taller?), through Laragh and the woolen mill and on to Glendalough.

With all that road behind us it was getting on late by the time we got to the monastic site, and bargaining for a cashmere cardigan meant we had just missed the 3 o'clock tour; 3:30 was to be conducted in Italian, so we took stickers for 4. As luck would have it, we were the only party, and so got a private tour (all for free, thanks to our OPW card), and at a pace that even my mother could keep up with (we've been working her pretty hard, and she's sleeping pretty soundly these days!).

We were saddened to hear that St Kevin's Kitchen had been recently closed, as a crack started opening up and dropping bits of plaster from the ceiling, conking tour guides and tourists on the head. Only a few weeks ago when my brother visited, we were allowed in; it now remains closed indefinitely. Our guide showed us a few goodies, and then took us over the bridge to the ballaun stone (a large stone with a shallow basin). It is called the Deer Stone, and she related the story of the stone. It seems that a local man's wife died in childbirth, bringing forth twins (or just one baby, depending on the variation and the teller). The distraught father brought the babes to St. Kevin for their care. The goodly saint, lacking womanly members at the monastery, knelt at the stone to pray all night (you can see where his hand left an impression on the stone), and in the morning a deer appeared and let him milk it into the basin. The deer returned every day.

Locals say it is a miracle that the basin never empties of water. We all laugh knowingly: in this valley, barely a day goes by without rain, and certainly this year is no exception (this July is the wettest on record in 50 years). She also told us that legend says than if you dip your hand in the water, it means you will return to Glendalough. Both Alfred and I put our hands in without hesitation, then smiled at each other.

America(n)

In an attempt to tick a "biggie" off the great wall of planning, I resorted to a desparate measure: I booked a prepackaged rail tour to the Aran Islands. The combination of train ride, ease of a tour and beauty of the islands was too much to resist, and I thought it would please the various members of our clan. Alas, my mother rose that morning feeling under the weather, but with the refund deadline past, the rest of us headed up to Dublin to Heuston Station.

Parking was a snap, Butler's chocolate had a kiosk in the station, and the train was only a wee bit late. We found a foursome of seats in the modern train, and settled in to enjoy the landscape. As we were seated in a car with all the others in our tour (surprisingly few), I was faced with the inescapable reality that I am American. And a tourist.

I was immediately jarred by the sound of an American accent, from which I have been shielded these many months: the woman across the aisle was talking about the west coast towns of Portland and Chico. I know these places well, and was immediately transportred there via her words. And yet I found I didn't want to be pulled there, not yet, at least, as if traveling to California in my mind would rob me of these last few drops of Ireland. And so I turned my head, rather than join in the conversation, and drank in the Connemara ponies and stone walls between the fields as they whizzed by the train window.

We were only six for the Aran islands, and as we waited at the bus stop for our shuttle to Connemara aiport, we discovered that the honeymooning couple were on the same delayed flight from San Francisco as my mother. We also learn that the fresh bride is nervous about the 12-minute flight to the Arans (for which we must weigh in). But the flight is delightful, barely skimming the water, and before we know it, we are cutting a corner across the grassy bit between the landing strip and the Inishmor terminal.

The rocky island is chock-full of minibusses and bicycles ferrying tourists around on narrow lanes. We are in the Gaeltacht, and note that while they speak English to us, they chat to each other in Irish. We are clearly outsiders.

After waiting 20 unscheduled minutes for our minibus, we are given precisely seven minutes to visit Seven Churches, and by the time we've located the page in the guidebook, our driver is honking. No mind, we've bigger fish to fry, namely Dun Aenghus, the cliff-bound fort at the edge of the world. We join the hoardes hiking up the rocky hill, and bask in the sun and fresh Altlantic breezes.

We make our requisite sweater purchases, catch our flight and bus back to Galway, where we have a few minutes to grab a small feast for the train ride back. We are tired, in a good way, and strike up conversation with an extended family visiting from the midwest of the United States. They are on their dream vacation, and with one day left, hope to catch a legendary Irish rainbow. The little people surely hear them, and oblige, with not one, but two photo ops of rainbows over green fields.