Here

The middle of last week, I sent my big brother into Dublin city with my eldest, where they rode the green hop-on-hop-off double decker busses, toured Kilmanham Gaol, and bought prepackaged sandwiches and ate them at Trinity College. To cap it off, we all met up in the evening and went to the Mill, where we had a good pub meal and a pint. No one really believes they serve fries with lasagne here until it happens to them.

It was, according to any guidebook, a good, solid tourist experience. However, if all my brother wanted was that, he could have done this anytime. And we have purposely eschewed this type of activity, partly because we've done the double-decker bus so many times already (it is a good tour, even the natives agree) and partly because we prefer to live and be here.

And this weekend, we were.

Friday evening saw a summer gathering to mark the end of the school year. Steiner (Waldorf) schools traditionally celebrate the four changes of season, but their American brethren tend to miss out on the summer celebration because they let out too early. We arrived early for this St. John's festival, since I had a violin lesson, and preparations were already in full swing: Barney had used his tractor to stack the bonfire and was hauling logs and hay bales as seats around it, Kate had lit a fire in the clay cob oven, Cassie was kneading bread dough for pizzas in said oven, and one of the guys was chopping a box of onions while burning wood under the new barbeque (two old pieces of thick sheet metal that had served as the side of a ship, complete with rivet holes).

More and more cars arrived, filling the car park and the adjacent field; musicians arrived and started noodling together, the long table began to groan under potluck offerings. Someone brought a waffle iron, and started stocking children and a few lucky adults with hot waffles. Pretty soon, the sausages and burgers sizzled on the grill, bubbly thick pizzas emerged from the oven, fiddlers played for dancing, and used paper plates were lit under the bonfire.

As the evening wore on, fiddles and flutes and a guitar and a bodran and an accordeon came out in an impromtu session next to the fire, and folks settled into cozy conversation while the kids ran themselves ragged. The sky finally darkened as the kids played in the ashes, dooming them to bathing before bed. No one wanted to leave. But as the first star emerged, we packed filthy, tired children (well, only one was filthy) into our cars and headed home, where we scrubbed off the worst of it and tossed ourselves into bed.

A slow start to Saturday was predictable. When I finally arose, we put together a big fry (another name for the artery-clogging traditional Irish breakfast) and fed the hungry troops. We had only one thing on the agenda for Saturday: road bowling.

Now, none of us recall when we first heard about road bowling, but the premise sounded so outrageous, we weren't sure if is was some sort of snipe hunt, an elaborate practical joke played on the unsuspecting and naïve. But knowing what we do of the Irish psyche, it sounded like something they just might do. And so we had to witness it. Scheduled for 2 pm, we headed out the lake drive early, passing a burnt-out house along the way, and enjoyed ice cream and the view in front of the Lacken general store.

And just what is road bowling, you say? A bunch of strapping Irish lads (girls don't seem to be interested in such frivolity) find between two and five kilometers of peaceful country lane, and bowl 28-ounce steel balls along them toward a finish line. The person who completes the course in the fewest bowls wins. There are a few challenges, such as oncoming traffic and finding lost balls in the overgrown verge (with predictably scatilogical jokes ensuing: "You didn't take a picture of me on my knees looking for Tom's balls, did you?" "Did you find them?""I found one, and then I found the other." "Were they close to each other?"). In an informal game (yes there are leagues and championships in the West), innocent bystanders are enlisted to keep count throws and help spot where the balls go off into the ditch, which explains how we all ended up with clipboards and red pens.

We learned that this was an annual event between Ballyknockan and Lacken, two neighboring villages on the shores of the Blessington Lakes. This year Ballyknockan was severly handicapped by having celebrated a wedding the night before; the steel balls feel heavier when you're hungover. By mutual agreement or compassion, the course was shortened a bit (it's five kilometers between the towns; cut to about three), and off we went, up hills and down, around curves, down driveways (the solid balls make a satisfying sound against corrugated metal barn doors), dashing down the roadway after little balls.

Chatting with a woman waiting at the finish line, we learn that that we were spotting her son Kevin, that yesterday's wedding was in her family, and that the groom was once married to our neighbor in Tulfarris. Indeed, she has heard of us ('those Americans in Tulfarris'), since the Wicklow grapevine is alive and well, aided and abetted by mobile phones and the postman.

Not coincidentally, the course ended only a few hundred feet from Cullen's pub in Ballyknockan. Assured we are part of the bowling team, we are invited to join in the tallying of the score ,which happens over a pint or two at said pub. Kevin's mom begs off joining us, as she has 2000 sausages to cook for breakfast at tomorrow's tractor run. After a few pints, the publican dished up plates of chicken curry--on the house. A photographer for the local paper also lined us up for a photograph, so we'll have to pick up a copy of Wicklow People later this week.

As we sat there, we waved at our neighbor's little girl passing by (she lives in Ballyknockan with her mother, but we see her on weekends), and she waved back. The party broke up as folks were headed home to clean up before the supper dance in the marquee next door, so we said our farewells, and assured them we would see them at the tractor run the next day.

And we did. The big event of the season around these parts, the Hillybilly Tractor Run, has grown too big for its Ballyknockan britches, and this year moved to a large field in Humphreystown, just up the road from Tulfarris. Attentive readers will remember this as the place we get our eggs, so it was close enough to home to forego the car and walk there. As if a parade of over 300 tractors isn't enough to clog up our web of rural roads, AC/DC was playing over in Punchestown, so we had an interesting overlap of tractor fans and rockers in our neighborhood. But I digress.

Breakfast was still being served when we arrived under the Ponderosa style archway at 11 o'clock, and since it was Kevin's mom pushing the sausages, we stuffed the donation box and stuffed ourselves with another breakfast. The Irish take on the American hillbilly was humourous at times (Pochahontus wearing silver shoes and young girls all in ponytails) and spot on at others (the collection of stuffed armchairs on the lawn and plaid aprons). The collection of huge pots hung over the fire was nothing short of impressive. Equally impressive is that this seemingly hokey gathering generated €57,000 for local charity last year.

The ice cream truck from Manor Kilbride pulled in, served up, ran out and went home; the local Romas arrived to ply their wares; a fudge and candy floss (what we call cotton candy) truck set up; and the fire - wood and local peat - was stoked under the colcannon.

The garda finally showed up to do traffic control, crowds gathered behind the ropes, and the run started, only about an hour late: it was a good hour of parading vehicles, mostly tractors, some vintage cars and some floats (=trailers pulled by tractors full of people in various themes). Striking to me, more so than the sheer number and variety of tractors, was the intergenerational appeal: men driving their girlfriends in the tractors, their wives, their babies (in carseats!) and then their children, until you see young men driving alone, pre-girlfriend and old men, post-wife.

You would think that we couldn't possibly stuff anything more into the weekend, but wait, there's more: we left the tractor run before the vehicles returned from their loop to Blessington and before the colcannon was done. Not because we don't like colcannon--we do! But we had been invited to toast the christening of the newest resident of Tulfarris, another neighbor's baby daughter. Cake was eaten and little girls in party dresses ran about in a giggly pack, while wild boys got their best clothes dirty in the pampas grass.

When the drizzle got serious, the crowd thinned and moved inside. Pretty soon it was just the neighbors in the pub, enjoying the craic. Before we headed home to yet another late bedtime, we learned that the burned out house we had seen outside Ballyknockan was our neighbor's childhood home, and that his mother's life had been saved by popping by for takeaway food last Thursday.

Which all seems a long way from double-decker bus tours of Dublin.

Calm and storms

And so we were enjoying the craic in the pub last night, when I realized that we were supposed to be over in Dunlavin, playing with the West Wicklow "orchestra" -- all seven of them. But the warmth from the fire was a good counter to the wind lashing outside, and besides, by the time we got home to get instruments and trekked over the hills to Dunlavin, it would be almost over.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning. Sort of.

As I write, the wind is howling around the house, whistling into the windows. My jeans are soaked through just from walking from the car to the back door carrying my veggie box from one of the famer-parents at school. It has been windy for two nights, though the addition of torrential rain only started yesterday afternoon. Since we spent a similar Sunday afternoon with a tub of caulking and some good music, our house is less drafty, but still "breathes": our landlord says, "but how can it be drafty? Those are triple glazed windows!" Indeed they are, but if they don’t shut properly, they won't be able to keep this wind out. I'm not sure even German windows are up to the task.

The stormy weather comes on the heels of a stormy week. Not weather wise, no, in fact, we had sunshine and the first snowdrops are poking up their delightful heads. I actually got a chance to escape fro the turmoil and stress and do a bit of tidying up in the garden, making room for the bulbs to do their thing.

And despite of the wind, things are calming down again. After a week without broadband, using the mobile dial up, the landlady lit a fire under the Omnitel fellows, and our network magically came back up. Two hours later, it cut out again, but then it restored itself right about the time we decided to give up and go to bed. It's been fine since (touch wood).

Seamus the plasterer from the property management company arrived on Monday morning with a box of white powder and the requisite collection of spackling knives. Danny, home "sick" from school, was entertained for at least half and hour. I sent his cheery self to school the next day (Danny, not Seamus). Seamus said he'll be back next week with a bit of paint. I'm not sure if I dare hope, but perhaps his company is atypical.

The situation at Marcus' school resolved itself with a chat with a harried German teacher called Frau Baum (Mrs. Tree), who has to try to force feed 19th century German literature to 8th graders. She was responsive to our request to not leave behind Marcus just because he's a temporary student. There's still the history teacher, whom our son fondly characterizes as "psychopathic." Maybe I'll deal with her once I figure out how to counter the Catholic science teacher's lesson on birth control.

By far the most stressful area, though, has been at Alfred's workplace. While Redmond is reeling from the behemoth's announcement of job cuts (since eclipsed by Boeing and Starbucks), Ireland has felt its share of the pain. Redundancies, as they are called here, were voluntary, and it was a long week for everyone, wondering if enough volunteers were going to step up. In the end, nine people applied, eight were needed; Alfred was spared the difficult task of 'volunteering' one of his reports, whose wife is expecting in May. There is an upside to this process: managers were able to have very frank talks with employees about just what role they played; employees were asked to really evaluate whether they wanted to be there. Every one of the volunteers was looking for a way out, and Microsoft provided it. They are all going off as a team this afternoon to celebrate. I fully expect Alfred to miss supper, but bet he'll be back in time for soccer, assuming the wind doesn't blow their ball away.

Of course, all this has meant long hours for Alfred, and he managed to leave Marcus waiting for half an hour yesterday evening. I was settled at our neighbor's kitchen table, catching up on their doings (major changes: she will take the kids to France for the remainder of the school year to prepare them for the move to a French-speaking secondary school here; her husband passed his driving test; the baby's been sick, but is learning to talk), when my phone rang and Marcus vented. I did mention that the torrential rains joined the gale-force winds yesterday afternoon? And that teenage pride prevents him from doing anything as commonsensical as wearing a coat?

And so it was that we found ourselves in our favorite pub (Blessington has three, though only one serves food, and it is darn good food), snuggled in front of the fire. And we are no longer tourists here: the waitress recognizes us, calling my husband "himself" (the Irish equivalent of "dearie") and we find we are actually acquainted with a few folks around us.

Alfred was deep in conversation with one of his fellow tin whistle classmates, discussing how to play a roll. My guess is that she's around eight or nine years old, and thinks it's funny that a grown man is in her class. Every now and then, she can't hold it in and giggles. I recognize her mother, who has a 17-year old and a toddler at the table as well, from cello lessons on Saturday; we chat too. She is kind enough to suggest that both my son and husband might be interested in another class in another small town, one where they actually learn to read music. Danny hovers around, Marcus pretends he doesn't know us.

I note as we are bundling up to brave the elements that there is a second lower pane of glass inside the pub window, and realize it is there to protect us from the wind that invariably whistles in around the main window frame. So that's what those are for!

I have not yet booked all the flights and hotels (and riads) for the spring trips, but should get to it over the weekend. The American embassy has not yet received my passport, so things might get interesting. But am grateful that things have calmed down and we can complete our year here.