Out like a lamb

After a week of fever and coughing, rain and frost, the sun came out again today. Before lunch, it's warm enough to open the sunroof and turn up the Beethoven. The rheumatism readers, otherwise known as the Met, tell us this pattern should continue for another three days or so. Poor Dublin, they get fog in the morning, so I guess there is an advantage to living in the hills after all.

Daffodil Day is past by weeks, but the cool clime has kept the blossoms fresh; only the few first shows are starting to look a bit haggard, but the hyacinths and early tulips are distracting from that. Daffodils are every where I turn; for miles along a country road, under brambles, next to a country driveway, and of course, the golf course.


It has been very quiet on the links, as the company that owns the place went into receivership, which appears to be a bit like bankruptcy protection. A new managing company was brought in, and there is a flurry of activity, with mowers and little green John Deeres running around and making it pretty. With this weather, there will surely be some Dubliners playing hooky this afternoon. I know I would if I played golf!

The Irish very sensibly celebrate Mother's Day in March, before bunnies and brides start taking center stage. My boys very sensibly presented me with a menu of breakfast choices. However, the fact that I was up three house before them precluded breakfast in bed. Instead, we had brunch in the conservatory, after convincing them to move the heaviest table known to man out there--the glare and heat of all this sunshine makes it impossible to work out there!

The other sure sign of spring here is the lambs. What started as a trickle in February is now a gushing faucet, with the lambs very nearly outnumbering the grown (and comparatively grubby) sheep. They stay close to mama for a few days, and then venture out. These woolly adolescents travel in packs, springing and sproinging pell mell, and then stop abruptly to look at my car pass by, as if they'd never seen anything like it before. We can't figure out what winds the spring in their legs up, but when you see it, it's awfully cute.

They tell me that the lamb season is at its peak around Easter. That's still two weeks off, but the overkill giant chocolate eggs stuffed in every corner of the supermarket are already making their way to the half off bins, along with a few bunnies with broken ears lost to energetic shaking, no doubt. I somehow can't bring myself to spend €35 on a hollow egg and 8 truffles, so the boys will have to make due with chocolate bunnies from the chocolatier in Newbridge (they have cute white tails), and a few eggs and beans of the sweet type.

As for dyeing eggs, we're going to have to get creative: I haven't seen a white egg since we got here, and I've even looked at the evil Tesco (evil because they're UK-based and oh-so corporate). I suppose I should be thrilled that battery eggs just don't sell here (and that there are 7 different free range types). Nor is there dye to be found. Which may explain why they go overboard on the chocolate. Suits me just fine.

Snippets

Mentally exhausted from our intensive sightseeing of last week, we decided instead to do battle on the home front. With arrangements for house-sitters gelling, and the promise of spring palpable after a week of sunshine, we spent the better part of the day trying to get the back patio to a livable state.

First up was weeding and getting seeds into little pots on the windowsill. Next up was the task of trying to resuscitate the outdoor furniture, cheap pine with a fine plastic finish, peeling and rotted in places. The inevitable short tempers flared, and while the table is largely sanded, the beds remain unplanted and the pot of paint unopened.

There were many outstanding performances on the day but none eclipsed the contribution of Ireland captain Brian O’Driscoll, Paul O’Connell and first half replacement Denis Leamy, who had a truly stupendous match.

Clearly we needed a diversion. Lucky for us, the pub just down the lane had a big screen TV, and Ireland was playing Wales in Cardiff in the last of the Six Nations tournament. The stakes were high: the Irish haven't swept this rugby series for 61 years. After gobbling up steaming plates of noodles with pesto, we head over to Polyphouca House, where things are in full swing.

Ryan Jones sly trip on Ronan O’Gara on 41 seconds after the Irish outhalf hoisted an up and under drew an irate response from Donncha O’Callaghan whose one-on-one grappling with the Welsh captain was soon joined by most players from both teams.

Alfred pulls a few chairs out of the restaurant for us, and people scooch to make room. "Best seat in the house," says one fellow with a wink. "No, she's sitting next to Sean!" says someone else. Laughter all around.

Tomas O’Leary’s clever kick to the corner proved even more precipitous when Ireland spoiled the Welsh lineout and Shane Williams was collared over his own line.

Some fine playing going on, a few dogpiles. All in all, good rugby. Alfred gets a pint, I pull out my knitting and nurse a glass of cider.

The tension of the occasion was manifest in prolonged bouts of aerial ping-pong with the Irish halfbacks guilty of a couple of errors in putting the ball out on the full.

A Welsh runner breaks out and needs to be stopped. "Kill 'im!" I hear to my left. I give him a motherly glance. "I didn't mean that…" he says. I smile, "Yes you did." "Well, yeah, I s'pose." More joviality.

Fitzgerald then tidied up brilliantly and beat several defenders on a slaloming run but as Ireland surged into the 22 with two brilliant offloading cameos from John Hayes, they conceded their sixth penalty of the half.

"Where the !@#$ did he get that?!" (Wales picks a ball out of a dogpile) and "!@#$# @#$%!@!" (Ireland makes a forward pass). Wales scores again to lead 15-14, with only 16 minutes to go. This is not good.

It’s a measure of the character of this Ireland team that they refused to buckle, getting first the field position and then following half a dozen rucks, O’Gara dropped back into the pocket to drop a goal with two minutes and 15 seconds left.

Cheers erupt. Could it be that they will win this? Ireland could use some good news about now.

"Boo!" a deafening roar. With only 16 seconds left on the clock, referee Wayne Barnes, whose wrath they incurred religiously awards a penalty kick to the home team. If Stephen Jones makes this kick, Wales will deprive Ireland of the sweep. We all are holding our breath.

The kick. The ball arcs gracefully, almost as if in slow motion, toward the goalposts. Its trajectory is clearly between the posts, it looks like Wales will steal the glory away. But the ball is low, and a green jersey standing between the posts jumps up and plucks the ball from the air. There is silence as everyone registers that the ball did not cross the line. The room erupts. Shouts and jumps. Now the party begins.

The Grand Slam famine is over 61 years after Ireland’s only previous triumph, as Ireland produced a remarkable performance underpinned by high tensile mental steel to win a truly heart-stopping encounter that wasn’t decided until the final kick of the game.

I love a parade

When I was a girl, we used to head downtown every summer for the Shasta County Sheriff's Posse Parade. Come to think of it, I'm not really clear what the occasion was, but the parade was a fine one from my perspective, with a color guard, lots of horses, and clowns at the end to scoop up the horse poop. People threw candy, and being a kid, you could squeeze to the front row and see everything. It was probably a pretty lame parade, but it at least paritally explains why, when faced with the opportunity to attend the world's most famous St. Patrick's Day parade--the one in Dublin--we took a pass.

Instead, we scoured the listings to find a parade that promised some local flavor but not too much in the way of heaving masses of tourists. Our town, Blessington, wasn't having one this year, though we did see posters for early evening music, kiddie meals, and face painting at the West Wicklow House, so we put that on the calendar for the evening. But we needed a parade.

We settled on a town an hour and two counties away called Tullamore; it met all our criteria and more: the parade brochure promised us street entertainers, guest of honour Pauline Curley, and boasted of "American Mussel Cars." Hard to resist that!

We arrived in time to see the locals walking toward the centre of town, clad in varying degrees of green and orange. Much like a sporting event, with the team colors just happening to match the national flag, and the mascot lending itself to ridiculous hats with golden buckles and silly sayings.

We parked and followed the crowds to the main thoroughfare, a fine example of an Irish main street, with a grandstand set up on the back of a truck. The population of the best seats (well, only seats) in the house were the town elders, wearing their fancy dress and bunches of shamrocks;

Add a few fiddle players, keeping a handful of polka dancers circling in the street. The mood was festive, and hawkers were selling flags, silly hats and long stuffed animals (?) on sticks. We couldn't figure out why you would wave this particular thing, so purchased our very own Irish flag for €3, which Danny promtply appropriated as his own.

Parades are led off by a color guard where I come from, and here is no exception. What is different is that they gave the microphone to a gentleman with a silver-tongued gift of gab, which meant that the parade often came to a standstill while he had his ample say. Of course, there's no rush, but it proved a bit of a challenge, say for people on bicycles or those herding small children.

As promised by the brochure, we did have an Olympian, riding in style in a lovely Rolls Royce:

And street entertainers:

Fortunately, the American Mussel Cards turned out to have nothing to do with mollusks, and more with Fords and Peterbuilts. We're not sure how they got the big rigs over here, or how they can afford to run them with diesel running about $5 a gallon.

There were of course, a few Irish "mussel" vehicles:

As for the mysterious stuffies, it soon became apparent, every time a fellow dressed as a green-robed saint came by. Yup, snakes they were, the very same ones that St. Paddy led out of Ireland.

Now, if I had been sitting on the podium, I would have given out an award for this entry: Nowhere else in the world could you have a float with a bunch of punchy fellows cutting peat. Can you spot the leprechaun?

As the announcer promised, they saved the best for last--at least he and our eldest could agree on that. The entire County Offaly fire and rescue brigade came out, and the sight and sound was quite impressive.

*****

So, you ask, do you follow a parade like that? Well, apparently you head to a pub, but it was such a lovely day, and the crowds were so thick that we opted for yet another car picnic. We still had four hours to go until things warmed up at the West Wicklow House, and so we turned once more to our trusty Ordinace Survey Maps and Peter.

We had seen the ruin on our drive in, and so took a left turn to Lea Castle (the name is lovely, too, isn't it?). Peter told us to climb the fence and walk across the field, but due to cows, we took the long way around--only to find the shortcut on the other side. I sure hope you like castles, because we do, and this is not the last wildly romantic castle we shall clamber over.

On the way out, a farmer fellow mentioned that if we liked castles, it would be a good day for one a few hills over. But we were tired, and there are more weekends to come. We eventually did get back to Blessington, where we confirmed that corned beef is served here for St. Patrick's Day, along with a cold pint and live music and craic at the local pub.

Full weekend

It was one of those weekends where we were feeling intense, over-achieving pressure to have fun. In retrospect, it's pretty stupid, getting all worked up and yelling at each other, staying up late trying to figure out what to do next, but that's what we did. You'd think middle age would have left us smarter than that.

What we did relearn was that if you leave things to the very last minute, you're not going to get away with a quick call to a great hotel in Waterford with a view of the big St. Paddy's day fireworks over the River Suir. And it should be no surprise that all castles and farms nearby are booked out as well. Of course, there is only one fleabag hotel available. We need a plan B. (Actually, we need a plan A, but let's be kind to ourselves.) Hmm, it's only a three hour drive: maybe we should just drive down for the day, and drive up afterward, getting to bed really late. So we think we'll do that. The next morning, we realize that we don't want to drive that much and fight the expected crowd of 50,000.

So, Plan C. We went to music lessons like we do every week, and then after lunch, we piled in the car with a few snacks and a couple of Ordinance Survey maps, and headed down to the Piper's Stone, a stone circle just a few miles down the road. Through the gorse bushes, say hello to the sheep, scratch your head about the sheep's skull in the middle of the circle, strain to hear the piper. Very cool.
Then back down, finding a passage grave, an Ogham stone in Donard, and picking up some local eggs at the corner market. We decide to try to follow the oral directions of the guide at Glendalough a couple of weeks ago to find a stone circle in the nearby woods. We gave this one the old college try, but to no avail. The walk in the woods was a fine afternoon in its own right, but if there was a stone circle, it was either hidden under three inches of moss, or had been obliterated by recent logging activity (I hope not!).

Back then to Tulfarris, where the boys had a date with the neighbor to watch the next in the Six Nations series of rugby matches (Ireland won again--if they win this week, it'll be a grand slam sweep). We'd figured we could go into town to catch the Waterford fireworks on the big screen at the pub. Alas, the place was so packed we never would have had a table, and the screens were tuned to yet another game played on a green field. Clearly the fireworks were not meant to be, so we headed over to our favorite pizza place and got some pies to go.

*****

The next morning, we had a real, some would say cunning, plan: We heard tell of the Shamrock Festival in Navan. Now this sounded like it might provide some Irish flavor of the local persuasion. So, we headed out mid-morning to drive north to County Meath. Alas, the town was almost deathly quiet, with nary a pub open with food. We grabbed sandwiches at the Centra (think 7-11) and ate in the car (those dual sunroofs are pretty cool for this), while formulating a new plan: drive out of Navan town and try to locate a convergence of red on the map (you may recall that small red writing on OS maps means a place of interest) and entry in Peter (more on him later).


Just outside of town was a "church and round tower." Donaghmore Church (15th century) was pretty much in ruins, but the round tower was lovely, even if a Victorian-era restoration had blocked out the windows. Church and tower mean churchyard, and we're always interested in the stories that the headstones tell.

And then, mere millimeters further on the map, was "castle." Well, we're game for that, and our Irish guidebook from the 70s (Guide to the National Monuments in the Republic of Ireland, by Peter Harbison, hereinafter referred to affectionately as Peter) told us that it was Dunmoe Castle, a 15th century edifice that Cromwell took pot shots at from the opposite side of the River Boyne in 1649. We chat over the fence with the neighbor, who notes that there was a secret passageway from the castle under the river until the 1940s when it collapsed. We marvel at how lucky his boys are to have a real castle in their backyard.




Back in the car, Alfred says, "What's that on the left?" I look at the map and read, "Bective Abbey." He makes the turn, and we spend a pleasant hour climbing over the ruins of a 12th century Cistercian abbey (Peter notes it was renovated several times, fortified and even did a stint as a private home). The cloister is lovely, and some of the fine carving can still be seen in spite of centuries of weathering, Cromwellian enforcement and neglect.




Our theoretical destination was Trim. We recalled a place where we had stopped about 10 years ago, on our way back from the west on a St. Paddy's Day weekend. The town was all abustle, with sheep pens in the main road, dancers and live music in the town square, and big burly guys having a tug of war on the hill overlooking the castle (which you may recognize as York Castle from Braveheart). The atmosphere was magical, with the spectacular Trim Castle (the largest in Ireland) towering over it all.

But of course, nothing stays the same. To give an idea of the change in a relatively short period, here is what Peter says about accessing the castle: "Through gate and up a short lane. If gate is locked, ask for key in restaurant opposite the entrance. Not signposted." That was 1970: When were there ten years ago, the castle was closed for renovation. The influx of Hollywood and Celtic Tiger money have done their bit: the town has been fixed up with sidewalks and stripe down the middle of the road and there is a modern monstrosity of a building where the dancers did their jig. The hillside is still verdant though, and the castle was open -- and charging hefty admission. Flashing our shiny heritage card, we walked right in.


Our dream of a nice supper in a pub eluded us once more, and we end up grabbing a bite in the chipper (which we are assuming occupies the space of the restaurant Peter mentioned as having the key). It has been a full weekend.

Now we just need to decide what to do for St. Patrick's day!

Missing

Word on the street is that people miss the blog. I would count myself among them. I'm also missing my long walks along the waterfront and down the lane to pick wool off of barbed wire fences where the sheep stick their heads through to nibble at the greener side.

There are a number of reasons why this space has been static. Faithful readers may have noticed a comment posted anonymously that reproached me for my quasi-complaining about the infrastructure situation. I understand that that person may be hurting in their own ways, but I've never had very thick skin, and the words were hurtful. I found myself sitting down to write to dear friends and family, only to find my voice stifled by the what-if this-is-taken-the-wrong-way doubts by someone who doesn't know me. An essay about the weather service, which I believe to be populated by accomplished rheumatism readers (they are too accurate for it to be scientific) is out for the time being. I briefly considered making this a member-only blog, but readership is above their limit. Gratifying, but puzzling.

We've also been dealing with continuing infrastructure issues here: when we returned from vacation, the rubbish bins were piled high; it took a week of calls and emails to the landlady, and magically the bins were emptied. Two weeks ago Sunday. She assured me that there would be regular pickup, but regular apparently doesn't mean weekly. After the bins were emptied, we went out and filled two garbage bags with the stuff that had been blowing around the village: the torn bags and blowing trash are back, with bags piled high again, being ripped open by the stray kitties.

The water situation has improved only marginally: Eddie the plumber finally managed to make it out (while we had guests, we had to work hard to convince him we'd rather be interrupted than not be able to use the tap), and we now have a functioning reverse osmosis filter on the kitchen tap (that's what the mysterious third knob on the sink was!). It means we now have water we can use for cooking and washing vegetables, but it's still not drinkable, as we have no ideas of the level of contamination. Alfred continues to carry water down from Dublin so we have something to drink.

There have been a couple of hiccups in Internet service, with it being down a bit here and there, but (touch wood), it always seems to come back. The golf course has a tournament booked over next weekend, so that may upset the status quo when they leave, but we'll have to deal with that when it comes. There's always the dongle!

And then there's been work. A mountain of work, keeping me translating for two weeks solid, even after turning down contracts. I always joke that paying work keeps me from getting things done, and here it is: I still have two jobs to deliver, but I'm writing this instead! I'll just sleep less.

As I write this, it's Saturday morning, bright and early, and the house is still quiet. We went to bed exhausted last night, without resolving what/where we are doing this long weekend. We might end up staying in a castle near Cavan (which has a great parade, we hear), we couldn't find a room in Waterford for the fireworks tonight, we might find a farm near Cork, or we may just stay here and save vacation days. (St. Paddy's falls on a Tuesday, so about half the population is taking Monday off as well; we're undecided still!)

But by far, the thing that's been weighing on our minds is the rapid deterioration of our arrangements back home. Back in February, the house sitter noted that the house seemed cold. I gave her a few pointers and asked her to tell me if that helped, or if we should get the boiler man to come out. I heard nothing, and assumed the best. But I was also hearing nothing about incoming mail (we had agreed on regular reports and calls), and with the internet down on our end, I had no way of knowing if she was trying to reach us or failing. Tax season is upon us, and I need to know what was coming in.

Long story short, she got tired of living in a cold house and being asked to actually do as agreed in exchange for her free rent; Two weeks ago she let me know she was taking an apartment at the end of May, and would stay until we were back then, to give us time to replace her. One week ago (after friends jumped in to help with the mail and noted that the house seemed empty and cold) she admitted she was no longer sleeping at the house, just popping in every other day for the cat; Three days ago she let me know she was going to be gone for two weeks for spring break and the backup neighbors would be gone too; and yesterday she announced she is moving all her things out this weekend to make room for the new (as yet unidentified) sitter.

Our entire stay here was precluded on having someone at home to take care of "things." Indeed, the first thing people asked when we said we were going away for a year was, "what about your house?" After figuring out there were schools for the boys, securing a house sitter was what sealed the deal. Now we have a house where we have to get the heat working in absentia so we can get a housesitter in --in absentia. We all know how much fun it is trying to meet up with a repairman, who gives you a window and then changes it at the last minute, and that's where we are, except I get a call from their office asking if I can meet the guy three hours earlier. Well, no I can't, but perhaps if they can reach the really good friend who's doing me a huge favor by meeting up with him, maybe she can. So of course, they missed each other. Maybe next week.

And maybe next week I'll find someone responsible to move in, rather than try to put together a rota of kitty care and mail sorting by amazing friends that I want to keep as friends. Because I'd much rather be writing about how incredibly green the fields are right now, the couple of lovely mild days we had, where it was a breeze instead of a chill wind whistling down the vales; about the incredibly cute lambs popping out with the same frequency as the cheery daffodils, which both come in an incredible array of shapes and sizes and seem to have springs in their legs (the lambs, not the bulbs). And how much fun it was to have a passel of kids eating takeaway pizza for someone's birthday and how the boys got my car washed by the Dunlavin fire brigade and it was already dirty a week later. Those little joys that make you forget that taxes will shoot up in two weeks, but isn't it great the lads are playing in Croake Park and wasn't that the funniest song you've every heard, mocking Ryanair (now Urine Air) for announcing they would charge for using the toilets on their flights. Because I'd much rather be living here rather than trying to deal with not living there.

Maybe next week.

Lion or lamb?

Today, Friday, has dawned sunny and nearly mild. But this may change, given that it is spring and that's what spring weather does. We still haven't figured out whether March came in like a lion or a lamb: in the first four days of the month we've had both each day: snow in the morning, open sunroof by afternoon. Or vice-versa. I need to remember to close the sunroof when I park the car, even if it's only for an hour.

We had a great time last weekend, trying to keep our first guest awake between monuments, but he ended up enjoying himself thoroughly (or so he said). We gave him the full treatment: the high cross at Moone (and the great playground next to it); the windswept hilltop at Old Kilcullen, and a foray over the Wicklow Gap to Glendalough. We even took him to a pub to hear legendary fiddler Tommy Peoples. It was a good start to the week, even if it did mean we didn't sleep much.

Both homefronts seem to be shoring up a bit: the rubbish magically got collected last Sunday (but is full again), no improvement on the water, but we're somehow more used to it (and have a friend's key for backup), and the Internet has stayed up (touch wood). In Redmond, a couple of friends stepped in to sort mail and scan the important bits (can you say 'tax season?'), which took a huge weight of my shoulders. Now to find a suitable person to pet the cat on a daily basis.

Which means that not much is happening, but we're actually grateful for that. The week itself was actually the first "normal" week we've had in ages: I got to go to knitting group, there was a fair amount of paid work that got done, and we even managed to schedule a low-key birthday party for the young one (borrowed a DVD from the neighbor and will order pizza. Don't know if anyone will show up!) Orchestra and music lessons happened, and the daffodils started blooming.

As we came out of the vale of Glendalough last Sunday, we could see sunshine, and then a full rainbow came into view, causing much excitement in the back seat. We followed it for miles, but never did find the turnoff for the pot of gold. Oh, well, perhaps we'll just set some leprechaun traps here (I'm sure this place must be infested, given the other issues), and see if we catch any.