Mud and ducks

There were of course, tractors everywhere, which was a good thing, given the mud. Schlocky, sticky, slippery, heaven-for-a-pig mud. And exhibits for wind turbines, solar panels, heat pumps. In the mud. Even the beauty queens wore wellies, so deep was the mud.

Like any fair worth the entrance fee (€20 for the family), there were also competitions in many categories: poultry, steers. horses, sheep, vegetables (inlcuding the all-Ireland potato), jams and other contrivances.

And lest that not be entertaining enough, there was music and dancing!

But this wasn't your average county fair, for this was all crammed into one day, tucked into the Wicklow hills in a town called Tinahely. And even if the town was of moderate size, the show it hosted was huge. The YouTube video of the previous year's show ran a full 12 minutes, and it wasn't dragging. This was like the Shasta County Disctrict Fair (the fair of my childhood, by which I measure all such events), but because of the compressed timeline, everything happened at once.

Having been dragged slong to the county fair many a time (my parents often manned the historic schoolhouse exhibit), I could easily have skipped this, but there were two compelling reasons to go, and it wasn't the cryptic signs reading "Tinahely Show, Bank Monday" in red letters.

Nope, it was word of mouth. While road bowling, a moment of weak folly found me returning to the place a week later for a meetup with Tom, the red-headed shepherd. For he had seen me picking bits of wool off the barbed wire fence and wanted to know if I would like some wool. Turns out he had a few relics in his herd from the times when Irish sheep were raised for their wool (they are principally meat animals now), and he had a couple of fleeces he'd rather see go to yarn, rather than off to China (they pay him a paltry €1.50 per fleece). And so it came to pass, in front of the Lacken General Store, that Tom moved not one but two full raw fleeces from the back of his truck to the back of my car.

He pointed to the hills where the beasts had been raised, and we chatted a bit about the tractor run the week before, which he agreed had been good craic, "but it's nothing compared to the Show." "What show?" "Down in Tinahely, bank Monday," says he.

Once home, we snuggle up to the computer and start digging: Yup, there it is, the Tinahely Show. I click on the video, and am thinking, yes, this looks mildly interesting, when we see the ducks. It is one of those only-in-Ireland moments, and we know we must go. To the duck races. In the mud.

In stiches and other trivialities

I have already related my delight when I saw a note for a knitting group at the library. So imagine my continued delight when I discovered that these women (nope, no gents) were a bunch of fun women from all walks of life, beginners to accomplished fingers. And so, a gratuitous picture of something one of the more experienced knitters whipped up last week.

I've got a pair of socks on the needles for my traveling that resumes in two weeks, and a new pullover on circular needles for the young lad, using a red Donegal tweed I picked up in Glendalough.

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Here's our friend Paul coming over for supper. Clearly, he'll be leaving after darkness falls and is looking for a way to work off the delicious lamb tagine that's simmering on the stove.

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And then there are the cats and the rubbish.

There were a good dozen stray cats in the village when we arrived. Our neighbor is a kindly lady, who makes sure they are fed, and who works with the volunteer organizer who takes them in for spaying by a kindly vet a few towns over. The cats are all shades of calico, clearly from the same family stock.

But ever since Tulfarris went into receivership, we've had the mounting rubbish heap. With more folks taking advantage of the low rents out here, the garbage seems to pile up faster than ever, and the cats rip open the bags in search of tasty morsels. And as more cats from adjoining villages have caught wind of it (yes, it does smell on sunny days), the population increases. We've added some tabbies. But no new wheelie bins.

On the road

I drove into town yesterday to knock off one of the last two administrative tasks, applying for a PPS number (the equivalent of a Social Security number) for the two boys. I has tried to do it last month, but the capricious clerk requested a letter from each school proving the boys were attending class. Alternatively, I could have brought the boys with, but I still haven't figured out how that would prove they were in school.

At any rate, I set out early, and planned to drive over the hill at Bohernabreena (gotta love that name) thinking I would arrive shortly after they opened and lessen my wait time. I did manage to get there and be first in line, but wasn't as early as I had hoped since I ran into traffic issues. When I told Alfred I had met horses on the road, he assumed I meant I had met lads training racehorses with buggies, a fairly common occurrence around these parts. But no, I meant I met horses, not buggies. It was one of those quintescentially Irish moments, and reminds me why we are here. These were stocky draught horses, working stiffs who had left the office without permission.


The soggy weather confirms that it is late autumn, one of my favorite seasons. It always seems to get short shrift with the precipitous attitude merchants have toward the holiday season, but I like falling leaves, and have never figured out why people think upstate New York should corner the market on fall colors (yes, I have been there in autumn).


I did not capture the event on film, but when I stopped to take this next picture, a pair of black and white terriers (one salt, one pepper) came out of a neighboring house to investigate me. When I proved to be uninteresting, they squoze under the fence into the field where cattle were grazing and proceeded to chase them. The funny part is that the cows actually ran away.


The Irish authorities tell me to drop by after Monday and they'll write down the boys' numbers for me: apparently they don't bother mailing such things for children. I wonder what happens if I don't stop by because the roads are clogged with livestock?