Dunlavin detectives

Every Thursday, I trot off to the elegant town of Dunlavin to pick up my veggie box. During the school year, the box meets me at school, but now that school's out, the Plum Tree Bakery graciously houses it (and happily sells me a loaf of bread in the process).

Dunlavin, the town closest to the Steiner school, boasts a magnificent if tiny library, a tiny garda station, two pubs, a chipper, a convenience store, a greengrocer, a bakery, a dry goods store, two churches, two national schools, and a fire station. There used to be a bank, but the Georgian house that housed it is now up for sale.

So you can imagine the excitement in town as two enterprising women decided to open a coffee shop across from the Centra. At some point during my brother's stay, we had 30 minutes to kill before picking up his nephew from school, so we stopped in and had soup and sandwiches. Upon arriving home, and after a detour to two gas stations (one for gas, one for air), my brother noticed that he could not find his driver's license. (As an aside, it is part of my family's genetic makeup to loose at least one item a day while traveling. I am fortunate that this gene appears to have passed me over.)

With only a few days left in his stay, we made a half-hearted attempt to locate it at the gas stations, but I wasn't due to trek south to Dunlavin for another week. And then life intervened, and the next thing I knew, two weeks had passed. On my way out the door for yet another quick trip to the US, I asked my dear spouse to pick up the veggies, which were languishing at the bakery, and by the way, could he check in the coffee shop to see if the license might have been left there?

And indeed, my big brother had left it on the coffee table (don't ask me why he had his license out to eat a sandwich). The owner, surmising that this was a person not from these parts, did her part, calling the local B&B's to see if a person of that name might be staying with them, but predictably came up empty-handed. So the upstanding citizen called in the local Garda, James. James, who divides his time between Dunlavin, Donard and Blessington launched his own full-scale investigation, which consisted of calling some B&B's in the area and coming up equally empty-handed.

About this time, my dear husband shows up with his sob story at the coffee shop, and Rose, the coffee shop lady, puts two and two together and gets on the phone to the Dunlavin station, but there's no one in. Since James is in none of his usual haunts, she puts in a call to Baltinglass, where Brian tries to catch up with him in a patrol car in Blessington. They patch husband through to the car, but James isn't there, so Brian promises to call once he's located James and license.

And here the trail goes cold. After a week of not hearing from Garda Brian, I headed out to Dunlavin today to pick up my veg box (the cool weather means lots of crispy greens). Since James' car was not in front of the Garda station, the boys and I put on our detective hats and headed over to the coffee shop. Rose recognized us immediately, and soon the fellows working on the sign out front were also chiming in. We decided I would call James after 3, when the note on the door said there would be someone in the station.

At 3:16, I placed the call. someone-not-James answered, and said he had heard that James had tried to ring all week. He promised to call me right back: sure enough, James still had the magic piece of plastic. Our address duly noted, James promised to mail it to us when he's back on duty Monday afternoon.

Case closed.

Cat's away

While I was off in Chicago, I can tell the boys missed me terribly. The following incriminating photos were downloaded from my dear husband's camera:

Yup, it looks like the boys took in not one, but two games: one hurling, one Gaelic football. It seems fitting that they should attend these games, as they are part of the runup to the all-Ireland game in September, the very first encounter we had with GAA sports when we were fresh off the boat.

GAA means Gaelic Athletic Association, and nowhere is the Irish identity stronger. The government may have lobbied hard to keep the language alive, but the population has embraced the sports--hurling, football and camogie. Kids play it from an early age, and all of Ireland gets into the action. The first weekend we were here, we ventured into Dublin to find an electronics shop to get a power adapter for our wireless router. At every stop of the tram, more and more people crammed on, wearing either green and yellow (Kerry) or red and white (Tyrone). There were thousands of fans, all heading into town to Croke Park to the All-Irish game, the world series of GAA sports, and they turned downtown Dublin into a joyous party. It didn't matter who won.

And I understand the celebration and the feeling of the living room being for the family again. All summer long, Dublin and a few other spots on the island are overrun by tourists, which while critical to the local economy, are but houseguests. GAA games are played out on pitches in smaller towns, then larger and larger towns, until September. The guests go home, the family lets down their hair and reclaims the living room.

We'll be gone by the time the all-Ireland plays out, but our home team of Wicklow is already out of the running. Still, perhaps we'll try to find a pub to watch the final, just to see the family again.

Gratuitous signage, part II

A pair of signs, one merely funny, the other's placement rather confusing. Both entirely gratutitous.

Stuff and trappings

I reconnected with my college roommate on Facebook, and we had a brief exchange, where I realized that she didn't know we were on the other side of the pond, and she realized we were not at home. When she realized what was what, she put me on to a blog for some friends of hers who decided to chuck it in and travel in Europe for a year. Makes me feel inadequate, since we had the whole safety net of a steady income and insurance, and by the time you add in all the trappings like renting a house, owning a car, and enrolling the kids in school, well, you're not really getting away from it, you're just switching brands.

Anyhow, it put our move back in perspective. For yes, we are now less than a month away from returning home, a place made sweeter for its absence, and are now having to deal with undoing everything we have done for the last (nearly) year. Just as I had no idea where to find things I needed when I got here, I'm discovering that I don't know where to get rid of things.

For instance, there are the textbooks. Upon enrollment, the German school sent us a single sheet on what, when and how to pay tuition, and a four-page book list--in about eight-point type. It became apparent that I didn't need to buy every book (French and Irish weren't on his plate), but I spent literally months rounding up all the bits, from poster paints and stencil brushes (available from only one art store in Dublin, and sold out the day I finally found it) to geography workbooks and scientific calculators. I was delighted by the refreshingly brief list from the Steiner school, and took care of it in one day: flute, saw, c-clamp and apron.

And so, at the end of the school year, we are faced with a mountain of schoolbooks, and my adorable teenager tells me that half the copy books are unused, as are a couple of textbooks. It appears that the book list was for the entire three-year cycle (that's grades 7-9), not just the one year! Which explains the excess, but not what to do with it.

If this were Seattle, I could use Craigslist or have a garage sale and be done with it; freecycle or donate the remainder to Goodwill. But it's not, and so I have to find the equivalent of garage sales, Craigslist, Goodwill, and freecycle.

So I set out: I found a website that lists used schoolbooks, and as I handed over the first of the pile to a mom in front of the Blessington Library at 7 pm on a Monday evening, she lamented the price of schoolbooks, and wasn't it great that you could pick so many up at that shop in Newbridge. Which of course is where we went the following day, and sold all but two of the remaining ones. The second to last went via the web to a woman in Bandon, County Cork, the home of my ancestors, and taught me a lesson about 1)how insanely expensive it is to send heavy things like books in Ireland and 2) checks written with a cross at the bottom can't be cashed, and we were foolish to choose a bank that doesn't have a branch in our town (or perhaps we were foolish to choose a town that didn't have a branch of our bank). It took a trip to Dublin to deposit what was left after I paid An Post. The unsold book is a history volume that has been superseded by a new edition. We have put it in the maybe pile for coming home.

And so it goes with all the other bits and pieces that we have acquired. With a firm job offer in hand, we are taking the first concrete steps to returning, booking flights and researching shipping options. We've written up blurbs for the cars, and have begun the arduous process of sorting through every cupboard and drawer. Lists are being made, and we've identified a car boot sale on the final Saturday before our departure; the rest will go to freecycle and St Vincent's.

And just what, pray tell, do I do with this blog? I don't need to worry about shipping it, for bytes take up no space (even though they may weigh heavily on us); a copy will be in my carry-on baggage (in my laptop), but that's not what I mean. I could simply stop here, but I imagine there will be a few follow-ups to deal with the messy loose ends that give such wonderful texture to our lives. So I'll leave it up for now, and figure out what to do with it later.

And besides, I may want to link to it from the Christmas letter.

Sesiun

We've all had these moments: maybe yours was watching skaters at the Olympics, perhaps hearing someone play incredible music or seeing an inspiring game of soccer. We feel moved to become like them, to be able to move with grace or create beauty with seemingly no effort. But as we mature, we wisely note that those people have paid their dues; hours of practice, numerous blisters and tears. Most of us are not willing to pay the price. But we’d still like to be able to soar like they do. Still.

I brought my violin to Ireland. Partly because I couldn't imagine not playing the thing for a year, partly out of a true intention of finding some kind of community group where I might be able to make some sort of contribution, but I'll admit I was also harboring a secret desire to sit in a pub and play in a session.

I networked my way to a teacher, who would plop a piece on the music stand, and we would play through it together--over and over again, building speed. I joined the small community group--designed for schoolkids--that he led. Eventually, one evening he invited me to come along while he and some friends 'got together to play some tunes.' I didn't dare bring my instrument into the pub with me, and just tapped my toe with them.

At the St john's festival at the Steiner School, the musicians naturally gravitated to one another, and an impromptu session happened around the campfire. I sat for a while, hoping, and then when they started playing some tunes I actually knew, I got my instrument out of the car. But of course, by the time I'd made it back across the field, they had exhausted my repertoire. No matter, I figured, at least my violin got to "hear" the music, something that actually helps the wood to resonate better.

And so, just when I thought my chance was past, that I hadn't managed to find that elusive dream, a quick call. My teacher was getting together with a few friends for some tunes, and would I like to come along. And bring the fiddle! And so I did. And I even managed to play--just a bit, not soaring like an eagle, but keeping time, and doing a little bit more than just dreaming.

Adventures in plumbing, Part III

Faithful readers have been following the continuing saga of plumbing in our adopted home. With electricians out on strike the last week, and plumber threatening to join them (and the pilots considering it too, if only the weather would improve), it seemed serendipitous that our accommodations in New Ross were equipped with one of my all-time favorite plumbing fixtures: the power shower.

We first encountered this beast during our first visit to Dublin, those many years ago. The agent threw out terms like "power shower" and "immersion," and, not wanting to seem stupid, we didn't say anything. I mean, how hard could it be to figure out a shower? There was a moment of trepidation while we considered the combination of electricity and water, with the accompanying potential for domestic daredevil thrills while naked and armed only with a bar of soap.

The first thing that happened--or rather didn't--was that we pressed the on button and nothing happened. We searched around the room, trying switches and finally located a little string hanging in the opposite corner of the bathroom. Pulling this rewarded us with a lukewarm dribble that we could warm a bit by turning one of the knobs. We never did figure out how to make the water stream any more powerful, powerful enough to say, rinse soap out of our hair.

You can imagine how thrilled we were to discover that our little house in Tulfarris does not have a power shower, though it seems to keep Eddie the plumber busy without it. And since it was only for one night, we delighted in showing off the electric device to my husband's godson. What we had forgotten, or perhaps it was only this model, was the deafening noise, delivered directly at ear level, for the duration of our invigorating power showers.

Away down south

So how to top our adventures in Wicklow with the godson? Why, plan a quick road trip, of course! A quick consult of the Great Wall revealed a couple of things that piqued his interest, so we decided to head south toward Waterford, that great Irish town of crystal fame.

An aside: You may have heard all the brouhaha about the launch of Microsoft's new search engine, Bing (I guess nobody else thinks of White Christmas and Bob Hope when they hear that name?). Since Darling Husband is part of the family, we decided to try its navigation feature out. How long would it take to get to Waterford, and what was the recommended route? In a head-to-head with the great G, little B took us south toward Tullow, then past New Ross and to Waterford, and then past it, up the River Suir another 30 km to a small village of the same name. Clearly, there are still a few bugs to work out.

Our targeted attraction was not light-catching dust collectors, but the Waterford and Suir railway, a narrow gauge restored line that would take us on a 40-minute scenic ride along the river. There were a few attractions along the way back that we hoped to see as well, to break up the drive.

With Alfred released from the office a wee bit early (it was a Friday, after all), off we headed, south to County Carlow. We were headed for a hostel beat New Ross, similar to the digs in Omagh. To change things up a bit, I took the wheel, and let my life partner in crime navigate, which meant far more little white lines, and fewer thick red ones--or even middle-sized yellow ones. We also had trusty Peter with, and between the map and the book, we only had to double back three times before we found a place to park the car so we could explore Ballymoon castle and refuel the starving teenager.

Characterized as an "unusual fortress" by Peter, the place was enormous, with the remains of the walls revealing thick walls and evidence of many rooms, some with quite elegant proportions.

With our destination still a bit of a ways off, we decided to stop for a meal in the next town big enough to have a pub with food. Duiske fit that bill, and despite the challenging parking situation, found ourselves in a cozy pub with a lanky waiter and tasty food. Even better, it sported a handsome bridge, and featured a quite tasty sticky toffee pudding.

We arrived at the hostel just a bit before bedtime, and were greeted by a peat fire to reward us for our perseverance, for it laid at the end of an excruciatingly long dirt track that threatened both the side mirrors and the exhaust system of the car (they both survived, thankfully). The hostel sported a power shower, a chess set and a resident rooster who came to beg at the kitchen window when he smelled toast.

The next morning, we headed out bright and early (after that classic hostel meal, baked beans on toast). Through the town of New Ross, where we stopped to peek at the Dunbrody Emigrant Ship, a tall elegant old lady moored in the river.

The wide spot of Kilmeadan boasts a thatched-roof pub and the terminus for the Waterford and Suir River Railway, a serious little narrow-gauge railway that is holding its own against the adjacent motorway construction. While the weather went from cloudy to very wet, the coachman described the sights along the way as well as future plans and past history for the railway. It was by all measures, delightful, and much drier than traipsing around stone ruins in the rain.

We really didn't want to traipse around stone ruins in the rain, but when we got to Jerpoint Abbey, it was still pouring. But I wasn't about to miss out on what Peter calls "undoubtedly one of the finest Cistercian monastic ruins in Ireland." Borrowing an OPW (Office of Pubic Works) umbrella, we braved the wetness to follow the informative guide and view the exquisite carvings in the most "excellently reconstructed" cloister.

The easiest thing would have been to speed home directly, but the straightest way took us past one of our favorites, the high cross at Moone. The master of this cross never fails us, using simple gestures in a coarse medium to suggest complex stories. Remember the story of the loaves and fishes? It's here.

Alfred headed up to the airport the next day to farewell to his godson the following day. The number of visitors on the docket is down to two!

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.

I scream

Just one of the many perks of where we live is the little dairy up the road, past the castle ruins, where they make Goldenhill ice cream. And really cool is their old ice cream truck that shows up at all these local events. And even cooler is how everyone in the line seems to know each other, including the redhead scooping. They were present at both the Russborough farmer's market and the Kilbride field day, and kept scooping even through cloudbursts.

How cool is that?

Bloom, fame and tears

Back in February, I stopped by the garden centre down the road and bought some sweet pea and other bedding plant seeds. I was motivated by a full week of sun streaming into the conservatory, and was looking forward to a time when we could enjoy the outdoors. We even got a coat of paint on the rotting patio table and chairs. I was envisioning a time when we would finally have some visitors, and be able to sit on a sunny patio and plan trips and share a meal and a glass of wine.

It was about this same time that family started making noises about visiting. I put the seeds in peat pots and kept them moist; they germinated. My brother and my mother booked flights from their homes eight time zones away. Alas, my starts didn't survive our three weeks' absence, so I resorted to bedding plants from the same garden centre.

But the sweet peas and nasturtiums planted straight into the pots outside managed to survive and are thriving. Together with the blooming roses and impatiens (called busy Lizzie here), the garden and travel plans are abloom. And so it was that I put my brother on a plane back home this morning, after a very full and satisfying two and a half weeks here.

***

It may not garner all the attention of the Tour de France or Wimbeldon, but our foray into road bowling rates high with us. So we were tickled when we had our picture taken with the team for a local paper. Well, it turns out that group photo didn't make it in, but page 13 of this week's Leinster Leader clearly shows my brother snapping a picture of a road bowler.

Friday afternoon, we were sunning ourselves on the rocks of the Giant's Causeway when two fellows from the Belfast Telegraph asked if they could interview us and take our pictures. The Belfast Telegraph should be publishing the story and photos in the coming week: I'll post the link in the comments if it materializes.

Saturday morning, we tracked down our hosts at the Omagh Hostel to see if there was anything other than stripping the beds and settling the bill that needed to happen before we left. Proprietress Marella said that they had a video producer arriving in a half hour, and if we could help by providing a few comments for a promo, they would be very thankful. It's a slow year, and Northern Ireland has always played the poor cousin to the Republic in terms of tourism income, so they're really hurting this year. It was easy to say yes, and it should appear on You Tube and the hostel website in a few weeks.

Who knew that the paparazzi would follow us?

***

We got a preview last Tuesday of things to come: after a lower grade presentation of poems and songs on Monday, the upper grades at the Steiner School presented their rendition of Persephone. With strong voices and gestures, they brought the story to life in one of the best school plays to date. After the curtain call, the class teacher bid a tearful farewell to the single graduate (it is a small school!). And then it hit me: we were beginning our goodbyes. It must have hit my little boy as well, for a mere ten minutes later, he was a tearful boy, sad at leaving his dear teacher. "I'm never going to school again!" he sobbed. A good solution - never get attached to someone, never have the pain of parting.

We did have a bit of a reprieve, as one mother mentioned that she was having folks over for tea, and hoped we could come. Her idea of tea included both a large bouncy castle, and an immense spread including refried beans and tortilla chips. It turns out her husband is from Berkeley.

However, the inevitable moment and tears came, and we had to bid farewell to a community that has welcomed us with open hearts, folding our son into the life of the school as well as helping us gain our footing here. We will have a few activity days during the summer to reconnect, but our days are numbered. A sweet note from the school teachers was enough to make me want to buy an old manor house and put down real roots. And then I think of our moss at home, and know we will return.

Giant steps

Day three of our jaunt to the north with my brother was part of checking a biggie off our "to do in Ireland" list: The Giant's Causeway. But first, we had to get there, and as everyone knows, getting there is half the fun!

Having heard that the county council was charging an outrageous £5 to park at the otherwise-free causeway, we formulated a cunning plan: we would take the heritage steam train that runs from Bushmills (the town of whiskey fame) to the causeway. The train was sure to please at least two of our party, and we wanted to visit the distillery anyway, so it sounded like a good deal.

Of course, the fact that the train tickets set us back £30 may point up a minor flaw in our logic, but at least we stayed dry on the trek to the coast. And by the time we reached our destination, the sun had come out.

Now, some misguided souls will tell you that this gigantic formation of polygonal rocks was the result of volcanic activity or some such nonsense. But locals, and indeed anyone with any sense, will tell you that it was the result of a run-in between two giants, one on the Scottish side, and one on the Irish. When the Irish giant, Fionn mac Cumhaill (anglicized as Finn McCool), ventured over to challenge his Scottish counterpart, Benandonner, he saw him from afar and realized that he was too small in comparison to win a battle.

At home, his Irish giantess wife, like all good Irishwomen, knew just what to do, and tucked Fionn in the baby's cradle sporting a bonnet. When the Scotsman came calling and saw the size of Fionn's baby, he ran for his life, destroying the land bridge between the two. Indeed, there is another, similar constellation of rocks on the Isle of Staffa in Scotland.

There was no way to top this--our third UNESCO world heritage site in a week--so we ate ice cream from the visitor centre while we waited for our return train. Unfortunately, the fact that the train ran only hourly meant that we missed the last tour at Bushmills, but that didn't stop us from buying some small bottles for our plan to continue our scientific survey of Irish whiskeys.

We had an absolutely unimaginative dinner of fried whatever with chips and mushy peas in the town of Limavady on our way back to Omagh, but we did enjoy the display of flags and bonfires in the run up of the marching season.

We headed out the next day for a leisurely drive back to Tulfarris, and needed a good spot to take a break. A letterbox clue took us to the Hill of Slane, a significant site we had overlooked in past outings because it is so overshadowed by other attractions nearby. But the Hill of Slane is where Patrick lit the first Pascale fire in Ireland in 433, in plain view of king Laoghaire's digs on the Hill of Tara. The subsequent conversion of the king's subjects to Christianity changed the fabric of ireland forever. The fire is still lit here every Easter, and we had the whole place to ourselves (expect for the cows and cemetery residents).

Home again, home again, back to Blessington, to spaghetti and packing, and playing with the neighbor's dog, Gypsy.