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!

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.

Down time

Our calendar showed that my brother's departure would mark the calm before the storm: August would bring three sets of visits and spell the closure of our time here. Monday, we dug into the pile of chores that had piled up (not just laundry), and updated the Great Wall of Planning to reflect what we absolutely wanted to still squeeze in.

So I was feeling quite virtuous and in control, looking forward to a full two and a half weeks of implementing said plan, when Alfred's godson send an IM: he couldn't get his planned days off: could he come tomorrow? And the answer was of course, of course.

Which meant that we got to put of until next week what we could have done then. Lucky for us, said godson is also a good sport when it comes to seeing some of the things that we wanted to see.

One of the items the boys had been clamoring for was the Sealife Aquarium in Bray. Since it lies on the other side of the Wicklow mountains outside our door, we decided to go over them on a different route. The Sally Gap is immortalized in song, but we had never managed to get there somehow. Well, we can report that it is stunning, so much in fact, that I neglected to take a single picture. I'll just have to go back, and am happy to have an excuse to do so.

I had been to Bray many years ago, with a very small only child, to see the aquarium, only to discover the whole building under construction. We enjoyed the pebbly beach and spray, and then took the train home. This time, we enjoyed the pebbly beach and spray, had a chuckle at the pale people pretending it was swimming weather, and actually went to the aquarium.

It's a small place, which left us ample time to meander home the long way, via Glendalough, which we've visited at least seven times by now, so our place in heaven should be well-secured.

Since there was clearly no time to roast a chicken for dinner, we headed to Hollywood to the Inn, where we met up with my hard-working spouse for dinner of Guinness stew topped off with sticky toffee pudding.

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.

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.