Unraveling

I dreamt last night that there was a cobra in the apartment (but wait, we live in a house) with a loud hiss and a flat head. When I called emergency services (which would have been easier to understand if I had been holding the receiver the right way around) they were unsure of what to do, since they don't have to deal with snakes in Ireland. Alfred was wondering if perhaps we brought it back from Morocco unintentionally when the snake rounded the corner and struck at the dog (but we don't have a dog!). That's when I woke up. The cold sweat was a bracing way to start the day.

After such a lovely vacation, we had an inauspiscious return home. The kids managed to hold off until after the flight from Bristol to start bickering. But as we pulled into the car park at home, we noticed the mounds of garbage next to the toters. Now I understand that the folks who work here were working shortened hours, but it clearly hadn't been collected since well before we left.

A chat with the neighbor revealed that the golf course had gone into examinership, which appears to be a sort of protection preceding bankruptcy. The paper had a short article on it, but it had several effects not noticed by the reporter. First up, it seems the entire staff was let go. More bad news at a bad time, though they say they will be hired back on an hourly basis as bookings merit.

So, obviously, the garbage was not being collected: it turns out that the farmer down the road where the skip lives got tired of not being paid and bulldozed a berm of earth on the lane between the properties. In addition, there was a note in the mailbox telling us to not drink the water, that they we still doing repairs. Clearly they're not doing repairs (unless they're tunneling in from underneath or have invisible cars); there's just no one left to monitor the quality.

Most mysteriously, the internet was down, even though there is clearly electricity at the hotel where the signal comes in and is rebroadcast. If you recall, the net came up less than twenty-four hours before we left: it sounds like we missed all the excitement the next day as the network company came with guarded trucks and removed their leased equipment because they hadn't been paid. In the process of unplugging, they managed to break the connection, leaving the whole village without a signal.

Of course, we know this now: at the time, all we could do was inform the landlady, and let her begin the process of sorting things out. In the meantime, we have moved from drinking bottled water to using it for cooking and teethbrushing. Rubbish is more difficult: my husband, in a gesture reminiscent of my own father, took a black garbage bag up to work to chuck it there rather than add to the mounting health hazard (the stray cats tend to rip open any bag that smells of food, and the wind scatters everything).

After four days of haranguing the net folks, she got through, and a fellow came out and plugged things back together. There's still a chance that the connection may be cut off again, so we're not selling the dongles!

Well, you say, at least things on the home front are fine. Would that it were! We received news that our endearingly curmudgeon neighbor Eric is in hospital battling a resurgence of his cancer. We are grateful for CaringBridge, which allows us to keep in touch and offer remote support to him and his family.

And then came the bombshell: as I was trying to figure out how to manage tax season remotely, our housesitter informed us that she had found a room to rent (apparently a better deal than free rent and kitty love) and would be moving out in May. Like a hastily knit sweater, it seems our plans are unravelling faster than we can darn them together.

However, as they say, we are not quitters. Our first visitor arrives tomorrow morning, and we intend to show him a few of the sites. The daffodils we planted in the fall are fairly bursting in the mild weather that has returned to the island, which means that a little boy has a birthday that needs celebrating next week as well. We shall somehow manage to get the taxes done, and somehow, somehow, line up another housesitter to take us through the summer here.

Friday: Souk Cuisine

Friday morning we attended our second cooking class. This was the one I had heard good things about, and we were really looking forward to it, even though it meant braving the souks (and cries of “Ali Baba!”) once more. We met up with a bunch of twenty-somethings at the Cafe de France on the Place: a couple from Salt Lake and a couple from Paris. Our fearless leader was a Swiss woman who was filling in for the Dutch owner. It turned out that English was the lingua franca for the day, though there was an ample sprinkling of French, especially in the souks.

We were presented with a shopping list that included things like dried fruits, flour, two chickens (more on that later) and tomatoes. Oh, and one egg. There was simply no way to discern a menu from it, so we set about our task, with our guide taking us to the preferred merchants (why? She never let on) and making sure we didn’t get lost. There were some memorable moments: folks who were shocked that they killed a chicken when you ordered it (he let it bleed out while he settle the account and then plucked it and gave it to us).

At some point, we spent an entertaining half hour in a spice shop, where the shopkeeper put on a great show and explained many things, but then it turned out that there were no spices on our shopping list!

We finally ended up in a little tiny riad, about a half-room wide. This half room was our kitchen space—all six of us, plus the guide and cook, and later the kitchen helper. There were a lot of bumping elbows! I was thrilled to see lovely German knives (one small, one big), but diappointed to find that while the chef’s knife was sharp, the paring knife was quite dull.

We were handed a stack of recipes stapled together, and there were six workstations, some high, some low. My back was hurting, so I chose high. What I didn’t know was that by choosing my workstation, I had chosen the dishes I would be working on. By comparing the pile of recipes with the ingredients in front of me, I discovered I had chosen the ubiquitous Moroccan salad and a sweet carrot appetizer. My recipes called for things like peeling and seeding tomatoes and coring carrots (cutting them in half lengthwise and prying the core out), something I generally don’t bother with. In the end, Alfred and I (he was working on a samosa-type vegetable filling with young Miss Salt Lake) ended up spending over an hour peeling, coring and chopping, while the people across the room were whipping up spicy sauces and marinades, working with the now showered chicken and fresh sardines and preserved lemons and other exotic ingredients. No spices on our side of the room, sigh.

The cook spoke very little French, and none of us spoke Arabic, so it was not always easy to communicate. I found my frustration rising as I had to ask for nearly everything I needed: dishes, plates, pots, matches, oil, missing ingredients, etc. At some point, I got on the wrong side of the cook by putting the oil and vinegar in the bowl before the tomatoes, and scolding me, she wouldn’t let me chop the onion. She gave it to Alfred to chop instead.

We did eventually get the main dishes simmering away and found we could relax a bit and work together making cookies and rolling brionates. This was far more fun than coring carrots!

In the end, we had prepared feast: several salads, a hearty appetizer and a main dish that leaft us groaning (we barely touched it, we were so full). An excellent—Moroccan—wine was offered with the meal. And we still had cookies to eat and take home. And we had reservations for dinner that night—Friday is couscous day in Morocco!

Here are ‘my’ two recipes, the way I make them:

Moroccan Salad

• 1 kilo tomatoes, (peeled and seeded and) diced
• 1 red onion, finely chopped
• 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons vinegar
• 2 tablespoons olive oil

Toss all ingredients together in a bowl.

Sweet Carrot Salad

• 1 kilo carrots, peeled and cut into batons
• 3 cloves of garlic, unpeeled
• 1 tablespoon fresh parsley, chopped
• ½ teaspoon sweet red paprika
• ½ teaspoon ground cumin
• ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
• ½ teaspoon salt
• 4 teaspoons sugar
• 2 tablespoons vinegar
• 2 tablespoons olive oil

Cook the carrots in boiling salted water with the garlic. Drain and place in a bowl. Peel boiled garlic cloves an dmix with remaining ingredients. Toss together and let cool. Serve as a salad.

The Marrakech Express

I had that classic Crosby, Stills & Nash song running through my head the entire flight from Bristol to Marrakech. It was pretty annoying after a while, but it was considerably better than the Ryanair jungle. I managed to turn the heel of my sock and was reducing the gusset when we finally landed.

The first thing I glimpsed through the plane window (I was in an aisle seat) was the green. This was Africa, and I was expecting barren land, even though I knew Marrakech was something of an oasis. Amidst the low greenery were purple wildflowers. Clearly it had been a wet spring, but the sun was shining, and the pilot told us it was 24 degrees. Heaven.

The airport is small, and confusing: a gentleman in a uniform insisted on seeing our passports at the door. He glanced at them, grunted and waved us in. What we were to do then was not clear until we realized that the mass of people was actually a series of queues for passport control. We found what appeared to be the shortest line, and I went off in search of landing cards. After a mere half hour in line, we were released to walk what seemed miles to the customs line, where our baggage was x-rayed. We passed that hurdle, and were looking forward to being one of those lucky arrivals who had a driver with their name on a sign when we came out. Little did we know that that's pretty much what everyone does--all three planeloads of people. The drivers were about ten deep, some of them so tired of holding up signs that they were dangling by their sides. Like people turning their heads to read book spines in the library, we wended our way through the crowd to find our sign. There, at the back!

We made a quick stop at an ATM to withdraw 2000 Dihrams, and we were on our way to the Medina, or walled city. To get there, we passed miles of brand new luxury apartments, clearly intended for foreigners. And that palm tree? It's really a cell phone tower.

Once inside the city walls, we wended our way through increasingly narrow streets until we could go no more. At that point, my door opened and an extended hand helped me out, and the man attached to it welcomed me to Marrakech. I had just met Domnique, one half of our hosting partners. With our luggage tossed into a hand cart pulled by an old man, we were led down a narrow, uneven, dusty lane to a non-descrip door. "Number 26, Dar Taliwint," explains Dom, and leads us into a delightful, peaceful courtyard of our riad.

Mint tea magically appeared, as did some little delectibles, and Dominique begins with a gentle introduction. He' s clearly experienced at helping seasoned world travellers like us deal with the shock to the system of the incredible hustle and bustle. For we had had to walk a gauntlet of merchants who were hustling us to get to the front door.


Embolded, we laid a plan for our first forray: we would walk up to the Place Jmaa el Fna (hereinafter "La Place") and try to break our 200 Dh bills to pick up a light snack. We made it about 10 paces before the hustle began: "Ali Baba! You are looking for this?" The street we were to follow was completely dug up; only ten feet wide to begin with, the muddy trench in the middle meant there was a path about a foot wide on the side. Imagine a street closure without a flagger. Now turn the cars into men, women, children, bicycles, and the odd donkey cart. You get the picture.

The Place was where it was supposed to be, and it's big. There were the orange juice carts we had heard about, and stands of dates and nuts. Flies everywhere. A glass of juice was 3 Dh, and my smallest bill was 100 Dh. We walked around trying to build up courage to break the bill. We opted for an orange juice maker. A glass (a real one, and I didn't think about how he could wash it until afterwards) was squozen in front of me, and was lovely. But the handful of sticky change didn't add up. When we went to buy dates, we didn't even have half the 80 Dh he wanted. Clearly we had been shortchanged. Alfred went back and demanded his change, and managed to get most of it. But we still paid about triple the posted price.


We were demoralized. We sat in a smelly, filthy park under palm trees and ate dates and some nuts we had brought with. Had we made a huge mistake? When did we get too old for new adventures? Sugar levels restored by the dates, we meandered past the Koutoubia Mosque, which towers over La Place. As non-muslims, we couldn't go in, but we could walk around and even glimpse in the open doorway.

The gardens next to the mosque were lovely, almost French, with trees dripping with oranges. Alfred picked one, and I consulted the map to figure out how to return to the riad. We walked through a bustling neighborhood, dodging cars, donkey carts and mopeds, and walked past a few interesting shops and signs for attractions. We felt quite cocky by the time we found the riad's front door.

We asked Dominique for a recommendation for dinner: he made reservations at Dar Mima, otherwise known as Chez Mimi. While we were relaxing with more cookies and mint tea, in walked a charming man carrying an enormous shopping bag. With a perfectly British hello, we bustled about, and it took a few minutes to discern that this was Lénaïck, the other half of our hosts. Lénaïck sat down and discussed the menu at Mimi's at length, giving me a full run down of the possibilities.

As evening fell, Younes, our young Berber night watchman, arrived and parked his moped in the corner of the courtyard. It was already 8 pm, and we had been up since four! Younes led us through incredibly narrow passageways and knocked at the cat-enhanced doorway to Mimi's.

We had found the refinement we sought: attentive and gracious waitress, delicious food impeccably presented, friendly guests at the next table. We dined for hours (the first of many couscouses), and would have loved to have had dessert, but we were literally falling asleep at the table. We promised ourselves that we would return, and headed back.


A lovely hot shower and we fell into bed, exhausted, but just a wee bit more relaxed than we had been 24 hours prior. Our honeymoon had finally begun!

An early valentine

The website says that the Valentine's concert is Saturday night, but the foursome that gathered in the red saloon in Russborough House last night warmed our hearts. Kevin Conneff singing and thumping the bodhrán, Paul McGrattan on flute, maestro Gerry O'Connor on fiddle and Breton guitar virtuoso Gilles le Bigot more than took the chill off the place, and could have melted any remaining snow on the drive with their joyous tunes and energetic songs. What an incredible privilege to watch these folks at the top of their game and clearly enjoying the gig, share a glass of wine with friendly strangers and come together, tapping our toes on the lovely old parquet flooring.

I'm sure the Valentine's concert will be lovely as well, but it's a bit like a rich chocolate cake: I'm not sure another slice could be nearly as satisfying.

Tuesday meanderings

It's a bit ironic, that in a country where so many things just don't work well, that some things work amazingly well. There are days when we are ready to pull our hair out over the inability or lack of motivation make things work. We have developed a few working theories:

1. Just because it's working now doesn't mean that it will keep working. In practical terms, that means not throwing away the customer service number, and buttering up any technician who comes out to your house with a cup of tea. You'd better be nice to them, because you'll probably be seeing them or talking to them again. And again.
2. There is a code for time estimates. If someone apologizes and tells you it will take a few days or even a week to do something, it will be done much earlier, maybe even within hours. However, if they say it will be sorted (that's Irish for "taken care of") by the end of the day or even next week, you are in for the long haul.
3. Time isn't money. Time is time and most deadlines are patently false. The world won't end if you don't meet them and go home instead. You only need money enough to pay for a round every now and then.
4. It's about human connections. This is a corallary to #3. Your friends will buy you a round even if you can't pay today. Talking--that is speaking about subjects of human interest and listening to them as well--to people is how things get done. Plan to chat about the weather a bit before you ask them to shut off the water that's spewing into the crawl space or move their cow from the road.

Yes, this is on my mind, as I watch the golf course groundskeepers plow the road around the estate. I'm scratching my head, trying to figure out why they are bothering now, when the sun is shining and the snow is clearly melting, and where they were last week, when the road was nearly impassable. My guess is that they couldn't get out here to do it, and that someone important (maybe a banker or the owner) is coming out to have a look today (they can't play golf in the snow). Or maybe not, since they gave up halfway through the parking lot that no one uses anyway. Of course, in the process, they've spread ground ice over formerly bare macadam. See #1.

It's also on my mind as I rush through tasks to take advantage of a fairly good connection speed on my mobile dialup. The broadband has been out since last Tuesday, and with bad roads, no one could get out to work on the problem until last Friday, when they promised they would have it sorted out before the weekend. See theories #1 & #2. (I'll stop adding numbers now, you get the point, and this is, after all, a meandering, not a well-crafted essay.)

One thing about having snow on the ground is that you can tell who has come and gone by the tracks to the doors in our small village. And it means I now know for certain that the postman really only does come out once or twice a week, and then only if there's a enough post in his bag to make it worth his while. The good news is that one of the days last week he brought my passport back with its extra pages, so the Moroccans will have a place to stamp it next week. Now if the connection will just come back so I can reserve a lovely romantic riad in Marrakech, we'll be set.

Thoughts of a vacation (which will be without laptop and children, by design), immediately cheer me up. It puts me in quite a charitable mood (unless you are a representative of the broadband "provider," a misnomer if ever I heard one). There are quite a few things about this country that work well, and still manage to be charming in spite of it.

Roads: I know that people make a great deal of noise about the state and width of the roads, but I see them as an example of things that work--well enough. Think about it: if you only lay down a narrow band of pavement, there's much less impact to the surrounding area in terms of runoff, fewer taxpayer Euros spent on contracts, and fewer construction delays for commuters; easements, which only serve to keep solicitors busy anyway, are hardly needed. There's enough room to squeeze by if you meet a tractor, and if it means you have to actually have to hang up and pay attention to your driving, that's a good thing. I recall reading that Irish roads are actually safer than many other European countries, which tells me something is right. Potholes are also a good thing, in measure: they slow you down (see safety, above, and add in fuel savings). The county does work at it, but it's like taking care of an older house, it's virtually impossible to catch up, but you do keep at it. Every now and then, the pothole truck meanders through our 'neighbourhood', and the lads chuck a few shovels full of cold asphalt into the worst offenders. There's no hotline to call, no database and no controller determining which holes to fill on which date: the lads can figure that out for themselves when they're on the road.

Customer service numbers: If a number begins with 1-800 in the States, I immediately set aside a half hour and steel myself to make the call. I know I will enter voice jail, and resign myself to having to call at least twice to get the right menu options in the right order. I despise companies who put the same song on a loop, because I will have it stuck in my head for days after listening to it nonstop for 20 minutes on speakerphone. My kids taunt me with the Verizon theme. But when I see 1 850 in front of a number here, I'm learning to relax. Not only is it a free call, but most often, I get an Irishman or woman with a lilting accent and a great sense of humour, and I rarely have to push any keys to get them--they actually answer the phone! What's more, they usually take care of things in a matter of a few minutes. I've never needed more than 5 minutes on a customer service call here. And no Muzak. Really.

The library: At first glance, it seems a nightmare, being limited to five books and two CDs, especially because I see something interesting there every time I turn around (I've rarely met a book I didn’t like). But in this case, it turns out that unpredictable computers work to our advantage. The first thing I learned was that the library's connection to the county system is about as relaible as our internet connection (and for all I know, they may be the same). If the system is down, they just write down the bar code number for the books you are checking out (the youngest librarian has figured out you can write it on the computer so you only have to copy them in instead of typing them in when the system comes back up). Since they can't see if you already are at your limit, you can easily go over it. And when I pointed this out, she smiled over her glasses and said, "no worries, we know where you live!"

There are four librarians at the Blessington Library, and I get the impression that they are good friends who meet up for a drink often. Together they dream up all sorts of things, bringing in recitals (traditional music) and exibitions (vernacular architecture of Wicklow county is the current one). Emboldened by their success, they decided to launch a knitting and crochet café, creating a space for chat and getting a few rows done. The first group met yesterday, and I was thrilled at the multi-generational aspect: everything from a mom with two very young children (whom the elder librarian delighted in entertainng for an hour so the mum could chat and teach crochet to her neighbor), a couple of grandmothers, one working on a very traditional Aran, another who wanted to finally learn how to knit, since her granddaughter is learning. On our way out, we notice that the librarians have set up a Valentine's display of brown-paper wrapped books with heart tags. "Are they naughty books?" asks one knitter. "No," says the librarian who is struggling with her first chain of crochet, "they're blind date books--though some have naughty bits!" Laughter all around. And I think we all left with a plain brown wrapper tucked in our bags with a ball of wool.

The snowmen of Tulfarris

It's pretty gratuitous, a bunch of pictures of snowmen from our round of snow, but these guys (and gals?) are different. Besides, with the kids home from school and Alfred on a business trip in Brno, I have too little uninterrupted time to write (and did I note that the Internet is down again? My guess is too much snow in front of the antenna.)

Greeting visitors to the golf course is this exuberant example.

I'm not sure what is says about the Irish spirit, but I like them. And this one takes creativity to an entirely new level. He's a bit slumpy, probably stayed out all night playing with the other snowmen...


Only a few ventured up to the city yesterday and today for the whole rat race thing; we were not among them. Instead, we stayed home and constructed our own modest offerings.


It is raining in England already, says Tommy, our most knowledgeable neighbor (really, I think he does know everything, and he's awfully nice about it). So the snow should turn to that slushy mess that everyone loves to talk about, and then we can have a few days of freeze/thaw. It'll be fun, really!

Two and a half round towers

One of the five-star attractions in Ireland is the ancient monastic site of Glendalough, where St Kevin became a hermit. It became so popular that he could no longer stay a hermit and it morphed into a huge monastery. It is easy to see why: it is a stunning spot, two deep lakes in a valley. I would be partial to it even if it weren't less than a half-hour from our doorstep.

Glendalough is also home to a place called the Glendalough Woolen Mills, which is a misnomer: it is in Laragh, not Glendalough proper, and there is no mill here anymore, just oodles of sweaters and the like. We stumbled across it some 12 years ago on our first visit here, and I bought a traditional Aran handknit. It was expensive, but Alfred said, "c'mon, how many times will we be here?" There are still some sweaters from that era there, as the price tags are still in Punt, not Euro. They also have a small selection of traditional yarns--Donegal tweed and Aran, as well as all the leprechaun and Guinness kitsch you could ever want (and if it isn’t, there's another purely kitschy place down the road apiece).

Which is why this past Saturday afternoon, after accordion and tin whistle lessons, we all piled into the Mégane and headed over the hill, into the mists to Glendalough. On our way up the hill, an oncoming car flashed their headlights at us: we stopped, thinking she was going to warn us of an impassable mountain pass (they call them gaps here) or an accident. Nope, neither, just a shepard moving his flock down the road.

Our first stop was the aforementioned mill, since Danny has been wearing his sweater ("Mommy, they call it a jumper here!") day and night, and it is getting both long in the tooth and short in the sleeves. The river by the mill was swollen from the recent rains, and had overrun its banks by a foot or two. But the damp was only mist, so we were confident we could have a quick walk at Glendalough itself afterward. We ducked in, where I bought a kilo of red Donegal tweed--on a single cone, not in balls. It should suffice for two sweaters, er jumpers. We also picked up another cardigan on the request of Alfred's mum, who was delighted with our Christmas offering.

Outside though, the mist had progressed to heavy mist. Undaunted, we trekked over to St Kevin's favorite spot, and poked around. The swollen creek and misty hills made it lovely, but the cold and rain were steaming up the camera lens, so we only spent a half-hour or so getting soaked to the skin before heading home.

Sunday, however, dawned sunny and nearly warm. Leaving Alfred to make pancakes, I took a long walk around the golf course without my coat and gloves, and wasn't the least bit cold. Besides hundreds of snowdrops, there were actually a few golfers, and even some poaching fishermen. Clearly, this was not a day to be wasted on housework.

So once Alfred got back from soccer, we piled in the Mégane (do you see a pattern yet?); this time we headed westward. Toward Old Kilcullen, because the name fascinated us, and because it had a little red notation on the map, "church and round tower." With Alfred behind the wheel, food in the backseat and me reading the map, we actually drove directly to our destination, which turned out to be a ruined church and a half a round tower (the bottom half, natch). There were even the bases of two high crosses, but there's a reason that vernacular homes here are built on the sides of hills rather than the top: it's really windy here. This also explains why the thriving town of (presumably new) Kilcullen is down in the valley, near the river.

Feeling emboldened, we continue westward, through the horse country of County Kildare, toward the city of that name. We pass by the National Stud and the Japanese Garden (closed, no surprise), and then Alfred does a quick u-turn. He's seen a sign for St Brigid's well, and didn't Danny weave St Brigid's crosses for her saint's day, and wasn't that today? Indeed it was, and the well was a delightful refuge of peace and tranquility, with a bubbling well and benches for meditation. It was also well-frequented that day, since Brigid is the patroness of Ireland (often in the shadow of Paddy, I'm afraid) and it was indeed her saint's day.

Legend has it that Brigid was so kind she would always give to people what they needed, much to her parent's chagrin. Young women came to live with her and follow her ways (again, much to her parent's chagrin), and she decided she needed a place to take them all. Happening to run into the king one afternoon, she asked him if he would give her some land. The king laughed, but when she asked for only as much land as her cloak could cover, the king agreed. Each woman took a corner of the cloak and walked away from each other. The cloak stretched and stretched to cover an enormous amount of land, and that is now the Curraugh, today roughly 5,000 acres of mostly natural grassland populated by sheep and racehorses. By the way, the King converted to Christianity after that little episode.

So, on February 1, when Americans are gearing up for a groundhog in a top hat, the Irish are walking the stations of the cross at St Brigid's well, cutting reeds and weaving St Brigid's crosses. Then they head to the pub for a pint in her honor.

Inspired, we headed into Kildare town, where we immediately find St Brigid's Cathedral, a small 13th century stone church that fell into ruin, and was rebuilt and consecrated in 1896. A choir is inside practicing for the saint's day mass (and they sound terrific), so we walk around the grounds. And there, in the corner of the churchyard is yet another round tower, this one complete.

The weather by now is chilly and grey, and the weather pundits are predicting snow for Monday and Tuesday. Alfred needs to pack and get ready for his trip to Brno. After a warm supper, Danny and I sit down and weave four crosses: one for us, and one for each of our neighbors. The crosses are green now, but will turn yellow and brown when they dry.