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.

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.

All hallows eve

It's a big deal here!

We didn't get to the store in time to get a pumpkin, so we, or should I say a determined Marcus, carved a turnip! Really.


Danny dressed up as a Garda (Irish police).

Marcus doesn't do dress-up anymore. But he still manages to score candy. Hmm.