Dublin
Walking down the sidewalk with the intension of wandering around Temple Bar, I only got a couple blocks from the hostel, when I saw lots of people in front of the Olympia Theatre, which has in front a big sign saying “Druid Synge.” It was 7:30 pm or so, and I hadn’t realized that this series of performances of all of J. M. Synge’s plays had opened. I stopped and looked at the schedule—for that night there were two plays listed on the front of the building:
The Shadow of the Glenn
The Playboy of the Western World
After some really brief hemming and hawing, I went into the box office. I didn’t stand in line long when a woman came along and sold me one of her three extra tickets for E15.00 instead of their regular E22.50. So I did one of the most impulsive things I’ve ever done—I went into the Olympia, and I saw those two plays! (Sure, Conservatory did Playboy of the Western World when I was a student, and I do remember being in the costume shop, but at least this is an Irish play!)
The Olympia was a Victorian vaudeville theatre, and its décor could be described as “shabby chic.” Lots of red velvet—lots and lots, and the corridor walls are painted red with white trim and glass-shaped lamps are over doors. In the auditorium, it’s all red with white painted floral molding around the proscenium, boxes and balcony. Crystal chandeliers way overhead. “Safety Curtain” in front of the stage—with a fake red curtain painted on, and dramatic masks, and oddly a sort of computer screen on which ads were projected, like at a movie theater before the previews start. The seats are covered with red velvet, but it’s worn and even torn in many places, making me wonder if it’s ever been re-upholstered (and reminding me of a couple of dollar movie theaters in St. Louis). On the floor, there’s a red carpet in the aisles and I think directly under your feet, but there are weird black metal squares directly under the seats. The rows are narrow, and the seats are not for wide hips. I found myself stretching my legs under the seats ahead of me.
Except for electricity, the safety curtains, and the lights and speakers, I don’t think the theatre has been altered. True, there’s probably a light booth. The boxes were unoccupied—they didn’t appear to have good sightlines anyway, and they had wires on them for the lighting. Of course, they date to when people went to the theatre to see and be seen, and nowadays lighting stuff in the old boxes seems to be common in theaters. It was easy to see this as a vaudeville theatre.
The plays were both funny and had almost the same setting—Irish cottage interior, the only thing that changed from one play to the next was the furnishings. Also a couple of the actors were in both plays. The actor who played the playboy was a cute redhead, and of course everyone had Irish accents. Beautifully done, though I must say the characters were a bit on the crazy side. No wonder there was rioting occasionally. I mean, during Synge’s time, at his plays, not while I was at the Olympia. I sat in a well-behaved audience.
Tuesday August 9: Hop on the bus and go to the airport. Grr.
I’m on the plane now, waiting for it to take off. A suitcase and backpack taken from the hostel on Lord Edward Street to the Busaras Bus Station a few blocks further than the Abbey Theatre was quite exhausting, but I made it, and that’s the important thing. At the JKF airport, my next concern will be getting my suitcase and getting on the shuttle to the other airport.
New York
La Guardia Airport—this is the second NYC airport I’ve been to today. I eventually got on the correct bus at JFK. Bewildering places. It was a long wait at the bus station. I wonder if NYC is having a rabbi convention or maybe male Orthodox Jews wear black from head to toe and wide brimmed hats and long beards every day even if they’re not rabbis. OK, I said that wrong—I don’t think the beards are fake. Unless they’re in disguise, like they’re private investigators. Um, never mind.
Kansas
Don’t ask me how anyone emigrating from Ireland to the U.S. could possibly stand the climate. Ick.
I keep having Ireland flashbacks. I may be physically back in the States, but my mind is still in Ireland.
Tuesday, August 9, 2005
Monday, August 8, 2005
The Dublin Writer's Museum
As a previous entry suggests, yesterday I spent hours sitting in the park—St. Stephen’s Green—but I also spent some of that time wandering around, looking at flowers and fountains and the lake and ducks. There’s a stone footbridge curving over the lake, where a painter had a canvas on an easel (looked like the painting was more or less complete) and where lots of people stopped to admire the view. There are a couple of spots where big rocks overlook the lake, but unfortunately a railing prevented me from climbing on the rocks and sitting there, dangling my feet just above the water. I guess the city doesn’t want to be responsible for drownings. It’s funny, given what other parts of Ireland are like. It reminds me of that windy and rainy day we trudged around the Dingle Peninsula, climbing over slick stone walls to look at really old ruins. Well, actually, the 7th century oratorium isn’t a ruin—it’s been kept up for all these years. Amazing.
Anyway, from the park I wandered a bit through Temple Bar and saw street musicians and such, did not find the Internet juice café I used nearly two weeks ago, went back to the hostel and inquired about the Internet room, but it turns out the system is down, but there’s an Internet café down the street and around the corner on Parliament Street. So I went there—E2 per hour, but without the friendly service and nice ambiance. And no juice. I might try Temple Bar tonight and check my flights online. That sounds like a good idea.
It’s after 9 am, and I’m hanging out on a bench in the Archbishop Ryan Park, the one with the Oscar Wilde Memorial (the “Fag on a Crag”). The first tour of Oscar Wilde House is 10:15 am, so that’s why I’m in this neck of the woods.
All street lights in Central Dublin are friendly toward the blind. When the light has a red standing figure meaning “don’t walk,” there’s a slow and steady, deep beep. When it’s time to walk, and you see a walking green figure, there’s a sharp sound at first, like an SF lazer pistol, followed by quickly frantic beeps. It I think gets slower as it turns to a yellow standing figure.
Many pedestrians plunge into the street when the light is red, but that’s a good way to get hit by a bus. There have been a couple times I’m crossing the street and I see a bus coming right at me. Fortunately, because there are so many tourists, many streets have, painted in white at the edges of the crosswalk, an arrow and the words “Look right” or “Look left.”
The Dublin Writers’ Museum
In the Land of Youth
Irish Fairy Tales by James Stephens
Mary Lavin (1912-1996)
Brendan Behan—the drinker with the writing problem.
Elizabeth Bowen
Kate O’Brien (1897-1974)
Children’s literature:
Ella Young (1867-1956)—Celtic Wonder Tales (1910)
The Tangle-Coated Horse
Patricia Lynch (1898-1972)—The Turf Cutter’s Donkey
Meta Mayne Reid—The McNeills at Rathcapple
With Angus in the Forest
(And just what were ye doing with Angus in the Forest?)
Ellis Dillon—The Island of Ghosts
The Spirits of The Attic—Mary Arrigan
The Spirits of the Bog--ditto (She must be a very spirited writer.)
Banshees, Beasts and Brides from the Sea –Bob Curran
Truly Wilde: the Unsettling Story of Dolly Wilde, Oscar’s Unusual Niece by Joan Schenkar (Looking at just the cover photo, I thought I was looking at a female version of Oscar Wilde—the resemblance is that strong.)
The house that houses the Dublin Writer’s Museum is quite beautiful. It’s from the 1760s and was originally an Anglo-Irish aristocrat’s house and later home of whiskey-related Jamieson. There’s a wrap-around staircase with an extremely high ceiling from which hangs a big lantern, and over the stairs are two huge stained glass windows, with a fanlight at the top, and they date to the mid 1890s. Most of the rooms have molded and painted ceilings, and there are chandeliers here and there. After you go upstairs, you can wander into the library, which is mostly painted blue (lightish) and has very tall dark wood g lass-doored bookcases full of books by Irish writers. Then the other major room in that part of the house is the gallery of writers, which looks like it should have been a ballroom, but instead it was originally two rooms and the wall between them was taken out and replaced with Neoclassical, shiny goldish marble columns. It has crystal chandeliers, one in each half, with the wall moulded painted gold—it’s pretty much a white and gold room—and the windows are almost as tall as the room—which like the others has about a fifteen-foot ceiling. Rugs lie on the floor, two elaborate black fireplaces containing large bouquets of realistic flowers (some eucalyptus, so it’s probably combo of silks and dried). The room is circled with large gilt-framed portraits and bronze busts on pedestals—all, of course, Irish writers. Also, this is the room where I saw the one-woman 50-minute production of Irish Writers Entertain courtesy of the Irish Actors Theatre Company. It’s every day, seven days a week, at 1 pm, and I rather get the impression that it’s several actors taking turns, so it’s not always Eileen O’Sullivan doing it, although she did a fine job. It includes impersonations and songs, about Irish history.
When I first arrived at the museum, I was in footsore tourist mode, so after paying admission I went back to the café and had a pot of tea and a large scone full of chocolate chips. Afterwards, I took the audio tour, interrupting it to see the little play and then going back to the audio tour.
Now I’m at the Garden of Remembrance, right in front of the museum. There’s a curving patio off the street, with some bright flowers and a brightly painted blue and gold railing, and steps I haven’t gone down yet (though I intend to) that lead to more flowers and benches down below, and on the other end a flight of stairs leads up to a statue that I’m going to visit in just a bit.
I didn’t mention that from here I can see the writer’s museum. It’s actually 2 18th century mansions right up next to each other, with red brick facades and tall, skinny windows and ironwork balconies and big chimneys. Looks like typical Dublin architecture, but it’s more interesting inside.
Also, the Writer’s Gallery has “Fates” figures painted with a gold background, on the ceiling and on panels of at least two doors. Metallic gold background, that is.
It’s a bright sunny day and in the seventies—I was sweating by the time I walked all the way to the Writers’ Museum. This morning I walked from the hostel to Merrion Square, where I wandered around the park until about 10. Unfortunately, the notice on the door at A1 Merrion Square, Oscar Wilde House, stated that there will be no tours today, not till Wednesday! This was, like, a major reason for me to go to Dublin. Grrrr. Well, at least I saw it from the outside. But it's not as if I'm likely to return to Dublin, at least not for a very long time. I have so many other countries to visit.
After that disappointment, I walked through Temple Bar and stopped at Celtic Note, the music store, to find out if they’d found the North Clegg Cd, but no such luck. I did find pencils for my coworkers at one of those cheesy touristy shops, and also got a couple tiny bottles of Harp Lager. I then kept walking, across the Halfpenny Bridge, to O’Connell Street, up Abbey St., and I found the Busaras Bus Station that I need to get to in the morning, so I then went on to the Writer’s Museum, after a brief rest at the feet of Daniel O’Connor. The statue, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve walked five miles today.
Later--
After my little occupation at the Garden of Remembrance, I went all the way back to the hostel (after walking through huge crowds, mainly on O’Connell Street, which has nasty fast food and arcades and stores more than anything else) and got the new password for the room (oddly I couldn’t find my original slip of paper—it must have fallen out of my pocket, even though I’m wearing my cargo pants) and got up to the room, where I dropped off my shopping bag from the museum and my raincoat and took my bottle of sunscreen with me to the rest room at the bottom of the stairs, where I freshened up and refilled my water bottle. Finally, I headed for the Queen of Tarts, the café that Bob said was really good for lunch (and I had said, “Oh, and what about dinner?” and I got a sarcastic comment about dinner should be just as good, unless they change cooks)—but it turned out they only serve breakfast and lunch, so dinner isn’t just as good. It was still just barely open, and she did say I could get something to go, so I got a couple of potato cakes and found a little grocery store-like shop where I bought cranberry juice, a banana, and a mint chocolate Cadbury bar. I then proceeded to the grounds of Christ Church Cathedral, but they chase people off the grounds at 7 pm. Oh well—I had a little bit of time sitting on the steps leading down into the foundations of an older church, rather fascinating thing in front of the cathedral. I wonder if this was unearthed in the 20th century.
Now I’m on a stretch of grass in sight of the cathedral, separated by an alley. Bad timing—some guy was yelling at a woman in the alley, and a couple of cops came along, and when the cops were done breaking that up, they came onto these grounds and were talking with a couple of young women—making me wonder if they’d be chasing off everyone here, but they walked off with those two, so I don’t know what that was about. So much for ambience during my dinner. Everyone was watching—there are several people here, as if it’s a public park, although it rather looks like the grounds of the butt-ugly government office building that’s on top of an ancient Viking treasure. I should have brought a shovel.
Since I’m not having a leisurely meal, maybe I’ll go wander around Temple Bar, although I’ve walked so much today that I don’t feel a lot like wandering, and I don’t feel like walking all the way back to the Gate Theatre to see the American play View From the Bridge (which I saw at the Rep during my Webster days), so I’ll go to Temple Bar, and at some point I’ll hopefully find that Internet café I used previously. I could also have some tea.
Anyway, from the park I wandered a bit through Temple Bar and saw street musicians and such, did not find the Internet juice café I used nearly two weeks ago, went back to the hostel and inquired about the Internet room, but it turns out the system is down, but there’s an Internet café down the street and around the corner on Parliament Street. So I went there—E2 per hour, but without the friendly service and nice ambiance. And no juice. I might try Temple Bar tonight and check my flights online. That sounds like a good idea.
It’s after 9 am, and I’m hanging out on a bench in the Archbishop Ryan Park, the one with the Oscar Wilde Memorial (the “Fag on a Crag”). The first tour of Oscar Wilde House is 10:15 am, so that’s why I’m in this neck of the woods.
All street lights in Central Dublin are friendly toward the blind. When the light has a red standing figure meaning “don’t walk,” there’s a slow and steady, deep beep. When it’s time to walk, and you see a walking green figure, there’s a sharp sound at first, like an SF lazer pistol, followed by quickly frantic beeps. It I think gets slower as it turns to a yellow standing figure.
Many pedestrians plunge into the street when the light is red, but that’s a good way to get hit by a bus. There have been a couple times I’m crossing the street and I see a bus coming right at me. Fortunately, because there are so many tourists, many streets have, painted in white at the edges of the crosswalk, an arrow and the words “Look right” or “Look left.”
The Dublin Writers’ Museum
In the Land of Youth
Irish Fairy Tales by James Stephens
Mary Lavin (1912-1996)
Brendan Behan—the drinker with the writing problem.
Elizabeth Bowen
Kate O’Brien (1897-1974)
Children’s literature:
Ella Young (1867-1956)—Celtic Wonder Tales (1910)
The Tangle-Coated Horse
Patricia Lynch (1898-1972)—The Turf Cutter’s Donkey
Meta Mayne Reid—The McNeills at Rathcapple
With Angus in the Forest
(And just what were ye doing with Angus in the Forest?)
Ellis Dillon—The Island of Ghosts
The Spirits of The Attic—Mary Arrigan
The Spirits of the Bog--ditto (She must be a very spirited writer.)
Banshees, Beasts and Brides from the Sea –Bob Curran
Truly Wilde: the Unsettling Story of Dolly Wilde, Oscar’s Unusual Niece by Joan Schenkar (Looking at just the cover photo, I thought I was looking at a female version of Oscar Wilde—the resemblance is that strong.)
The house that houses the Dublin Writer’s Museum is quite beautiful. It’s from the 1760s and was originally an Anglo-Irish aristocrat’s house and later home of whiskey-related Jamieson. There’s a wrap-around staircase with an extremely high ceiling from which hangs a big lantern, and over the stairs are two huge stained glass windows, with a fanlight at the top, and they date to the mid 1890s. Most of the rooms have molded and painted ceilings, and there are chandeliers here and there. After you go upstairs, you can wander into the library, which is mostly painted blue (lightish) and has very tall dark wood g lass-doored bookcases full of books by Irish writers. Then the other major room in that part of the house is the gallery of writers, which looks like it should have been a ballroom, but instead it was originally two rooms and the wall between them was taken out and replaced with Neoclassical, shiny goldish marble columns. It has crystal chandeliers, one in each half, with the wall moulded painted gold—it’s pretty much a white and gold room—and the windows are almost as tall as the room—which like the others has about a fifteen-foot ceiling. Rugs lie on the floor, two elaborate black fireplaces containing large bouquets of realistic flowers (some eucalyptus, so it’s probably combo of silks and dried). The room is circled with large gilt-framed portraits and bronze busts on pedestals—all, of course, Irish writers. Also, this is the room where I saw the one-woman 50-minute production of Irish Writers Entertain courtesy of the Irish Actors Theatre Company. It’s every day, seven days a week, at 1 pm, and I rather get the impression that it’s several actors taking turns, so it’s not always Eileen O’Sullivan doing it, although she did a fine job. It includes impersonations and songs, about Irish history.
When I first arrived at the museum, I was in footsore tourist mode, so after paying admission I went back to the café and had a pot of tea and a large scone full of chocolate chips. Afterwards, I took the audio tour, interrupting it to see the little play and then going back to the audio tour.
Now I’m at the Garden of Remembrance, right in front of the museum. There’s a curving patio off the street, with some bright flowers and a brightly painted blue and gold railing, and steps I haven’t gone down yet (though I intend to) that lead to more flowers and benches down below, and on the other end a flight of stairs leads up to a statue that I’m going to visit in just a bit.
I didn’t mention that from here I can see the writer’s museum. It’s actually 2 18th century mansions right up next to each other, with red brick facades and tall, skinny windows and ironwork balconies and big chimneys. Looks like typical Dublin architecture, but it’s more interesting inside.
Also, the Writer’s Gallery has “Fates” figures painted with a gold background, on the ceiling and on panels of at least two doors. Metallic gold background, that is.
It’s a bright sunny day and in the seventies—I was sweating by the time I walked all the way to the Writers’ Museum. This morning I walked from the hostel to Merrion Square, where I wandered around the park until about 10. Unfortunately, the notice on the door at A1 Merrion Square, Oscar Wilde House, stated that there will be no tours today, not till Wednesday! This was, like, a major reason for me to go to Dublin. Grrrr. Well, at least I saw it from the outside. But it's not as if I'm likely to return to Dublin, at least not for a very long time. I have so many other countries to visit.
After that disappointment, I walked through Temple Bar and stopped at Celtic Note, the music store, to find out if they’d found the North Clegg Cd, but no such luck. I did find pencils for my coworkers at one of those cheesy touristy shops, and also got a couple tiny bottles of Harp Lager. I then kept walking, across the Halfpenny Bridge, to O’Connell Street, up Abbey St., and I found the Busaras Bus Station that I need to get to in the morning, so I then went on to the Writer’s Museum, after a brief rest at the feet of Daniel O’Connor. The statue, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve walked five miles today.
Later--
After my little occupation at the Garden of Remembrance, I went all the way back to the hostel (after walking through huge crowds, mainly on O’Connell Street, which has nasty fast food and arcades and stores more than anything else) and got the new password for the room (oddly I couldn’t find my original slip of paper—it must have fallen out of my pocket, even though I’m wearing my cargo pants) and got up to the room, where I dropped off my shopping bag from the museum and my raincoat and took my bottle of sunscreen with me to the rest room at the bottom of the stairs, where I freshened up and refilled my water bottle. Finally, I headed for the Queen of Tarts, the café that Bob said was really good for lunch (and I had said, “Oh, and what about dinner?” and I got a sarcastic comment about dinner should be just as good, unless they change cooks)—but it turned out they only serve breakfast and lunch, so dinner isn’t just as good. It was still just barely open, and she did say I could get something to go, so I got a couple of potato cakes and found a little grocery store-like shop where I bought cranberry juice, a banana, and a mint chocolate Cadbury bar. I then proceeded to the grounds of Christ Church Cathedral, but they chase people off the grounds at 7 pm. Oh well—I had a little bit of time sitting on the steps leading down into the foundations of an older church, rather fascinating thing in front of the cathedral. I wonder if this was unearthed in the 20th century.
Now I’m on a stretch of grass in sight of the cathedral, separated by an alley. Bad timing—some guy was yelling at a woman in the alley, and a couple of cops came along, and when the cops were done breaking that up, they came onto these grounds and were talking with a couple of young women—making me wonder if they’d be chasing off everyone here, but they walked off with those two, so I don’t know what that was about. So much for ambience during my dinner. Everyone was watching—there are several people here, as if it’s a public park, although it rather looks like the grounds of the butt-ugly government office building that’s on top of an ancient Viking treasure. I should have brought a shovel.
Since I’m not having a leisurely meal, maybe I’ll go wander around Temple Bar, although I’ve walked so much today that I don’t feel a lot like wandering, and I don’t feel like walking all the way back to the Gate Theatre to see the American play View From the Bridge (which I saw at the Rep during my Webster days), so I’ll go to Temple Bar, and at some point I’ll hopefully find that Internet café I used previously. I could also have some tea.
Sunday, August 7, 2005
The Importance of Being Earnest
Abbey Theatre, Dublin
Oddly, the Abbey doesn’t allow patrons in till a quarter till 8 (and the performance is scheduled for 8 pm). So I wandered around the building—there are paintings as you go upstairs to the balcony and bar, and there are paintings all around the room upstairs. Some are by John Yeats (W. B.’s dad), such as the portrait of Lady Gregory. (At the National Gallery today, I saw similar portraits, because I went to the Yeats gallery.) I eventually sat down and continued reading the Dublin book Liz lent me, until it was just about time and I went downstairs, bought a program from a cute boy, and sat down: three rows back, dead centre. If I had been in the front row, I would have been at knee level, but I liked where I was, because I got a good look at detail. Costumes, costumes, costumes!
Scenery: a French café at the turn of the century, when Oscar Wilde has gotten out of prison and is living in poverty and experiencing writer’s block. It is a colorful, whimsical, Art Nouveau sort of café, with floral stained glass windows in curving shapes, a stained glass double door with the naked male figure that’s also on the posters and the program. There are lamps with brightly colored, flower-shaped glass shades. Upstage left is a bar counter and plenty of bottles and glasses. Upstage left are café tables and at the back an ivory-colored chaise lounge and matching cushioned chair. There are several circular café tables covered with pale pink cloths and then green satin tablecloths over the pink. Downstage center was one of these tables, along with a couple of café chairs. Oh, yes, I should mention the curving staircase—to the left and above the double doors. And in front of the chaise lounge were two tall lampposts with coat hooks around them (later serving as trees in the garden scene). Downstage right is one of the café tables, which begins with a peacock sculpture atop a matching peacock-feathered tablecloth.
Rather than a normal start to The Importance of Being Earnest, there’s the framework story with Oscar Wilde at this café at the end of his life. Several attractive young men—prostitutes—are hanging out there and Oscar Wilde shows up, aged, wearing purple velvet and knee breeches and shoulder-length hair as when he was young. He has confrontations with men who disapprove of him, and Frank Norris shows up and sits down with him center downstage. Oscar drinks a green beverage—absinthe—and Frank thinks it’s disgusting. They have a conversation about Oscar’s poverty, and that if he’d only write he wouldn’t live in poverty, but Oscar explains that his writing isn’t about misery (but if he had written after prison, it would be about misery—and I think I should add here that he did write and publish a couple essays concerning prison life, and of course “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”). The conversation is reminiscent of Frank Norris’s biography of Oscar Wilde. They talk about his once-popular plays, and after Frank leaves, so does everybody else, and Oscar is the only one onstage, at the center table, reminiscing about The Importance of Being Earnest, and he begins to recite the first few lines, till the voice of Algernon takes over offstage. Algernon calls his butler, Laine, and next thing you know, Oscar gets up and becomes Laine while Algernon comes onstage talking, and The Importance of Being Earnest has begun in earnest. Somewhat later, when Algernon and Earnest are together and Laine announces Lady Bracknell and Gwendolyn, there’s a somewhat “awkward” moment: a Bosie-like young man shows up instead of Gwendolyn, and he runs into another room, while Oscar/Laine frantically looks around, again announcing the two women, and he grabs off the lounge a green peacock-feather appliquéd skirt, which he proceeds to quickly put on. He goes to the peacock tablecloth, grabs the peacock and tablecloth, and runs out the upstage centre double doors. Waiting for the two women, Algernon and Earnest are starting to look bored and perplexed downstage, crossing their arms and such, and finally, “Laine” is heard offstage saying, “Lady Blackwell and Miss Gwendolyn.” In march, center stage, Lady Bracknell (Oscar) wearing a peacock skirt, a peacock shoulder cape, and an enormous hat with a peacock on it, accompanied by a Bosie-like and very blonde Gwendolyn in a beautiful 1890s dress in yellow and turquoise. (I say Bosie-like, but “she” really looked female, the actor was that pretty.) The audience was laughing and applauding loudly!
The dress that Gwendolyn was wearing in “her” first scene was like something out of a Harper’s Bazaar fashion plate. A yellow floral skirt with a turquoise waistcoat, a yellow and turquoise striped necktie over a white shirtwaist, and over the waistcoat and skirt was the open-fronted dress itself, turquoise embroidered in yellow swirly designs, and huge gigot sleeves. Very mid-1890s, and very like something I’d make.
But anyway, the one complaint I came up with is that Cicely had, well, not really five o’clock shadow, but enough that “she” should have had “her” pale face waxed. Gwendolyn, on the other hand, was convincing as a female, with golden hair in a chignon under a spiffy brimmed hat. The actor had very bright blue eyes and pale skin, and a resemblance to Bosie, Lord Alfred Douglas. Oh, yes, they both spoke in falsetto, unlike Lady Bracknell, who is described as having a Wagnerian voice.
The ending of the play has the framework story again, though briefly. Earnest is saying, “…the vital importance…” and Lady Bracknell/Oscar says, “of being earnest,” in a very earnest voice. Normally, it’s a funny line, but here it becomes sad. The lights dim, characters dance around Oscar and he changes out of his gown and hat and it wearing the purple velvet suit, and soon he and the waiter from the first scene are the only ones on stage. Oscar returns to the central table (I think there’s some change in the set first) and asks the waiter for absinthe. The waiter goes behind the counter and picks up the crystal decanter—it’s now empty of the green liquor, and he politely informs Oscar of this, but mentions that there’s white wine. Oscar takes out a cigarette during this, and the play ends with him lighting a match, lifting it, and blowing it out.
A melancholy and haunting, and more or less nonfiction, framework for an otherwise very comic play. Actually, I’m certain that the writer of this framework first read Frank Norris’s bio on Oscar Wilde, because I recall something very similar in it—perhaps even almost the same scene, since it was a bio with tidbits of conversation between Oscar and his biographer.
Oh, yes—I should mention that there was a second Lady Bracknell costume, similar to the first but even more comical a version of 1890s women’s fashion. It was much the same in construction, but the fabric was a metallic gold, orange, and brown material, with three dimensional silk flowers and leaves and vines attached, curving from the side of the skirt and around the cape, and of course big orange flowers on her brimmed hat. The audience clapped and laughed. This is a show in which the costumes—or at least some of them—got ovations.
I’m still at the park, and that’s the second time I’ve seen a group of three Goth young women in Dublin, whether or not they’re the same ones. I’ve seen a few other individuals who definitely looked Goth, but it seems to be only females—at least in a flamboyant sort of way, as opposed to guys with black sleeveless shirts, tattoos, and many piercings.
My last breakfast with the tour group—at the Trinity College breakfast cafeteria (they have another dining hall besides that)—involved lots of chatting, so that we were at the able well after most of us were done eating. But anyway, the reason I mention this is because the party animal Dave told the group about some kids like in their early twenties, who he and Lynn met at a pub the night before. He said that one of them was so outgoing and talkative that he made Bob look quiet, which I found rather amusing given the way Bob talks (but at least he says really interesting things—he teaches a history class at I forget which college). Dave described these “kids” as wild, and finally he said just to give us “an idea of how wild these kids were,” he explained that one of them had tattoos covering his arms and chest and countless piercings, and there were bumps up and down his arms where—I think where he’d inserted needles. These wild kids were delighted that they were Americans and wanted Dave and Lynn to stay with them all night, but they explained that no, they had to return to their friends. The kids didn’t think they should hang out with other Americans while in Dublin (and by the way these boys were Irish).
Since it’s a Sunday, hopefully there won’t be a drunk coming in and making lots of noise at the hostel….of course, I’m planning on going to bed around 10 pm, so I should get plenty of sleep no matter what happens. Well, unless the building burns down. I shouldn’t come up with such ideas. Anyway, there’s the possibility that, since this is Sunday, lots of people will be getting to bed early, and I’ll still have to climb into bed in the dark.
At least the hostel is very clean—that’s the important thing—I’ve read some scary things about Dublin hostels, such as they tend to be dirty, and then there was Karen’s account of having a hole in the middle of the mattress. Compared to that, I have it easy!
Oddly, the Abbey doesn’t allow patrons in till a quarter till 8 (and the performance is scheduled for 8 pm). So I wandered around the building—there are paintings as you go upstairs to the balcony and bar, and there are paintings all around the room upstairs. Some are by John Yeats (W. B.’s dad), such as the portrait of Lady Gregory. (At the National Gallery today, I saw similar portraits, because I went to the Yeats gallery.) I eventually sat down and continued reading the Dublin book Liz lent me, until it was just about time and I went downstairs, bought a program from a cute boy, and sat down: three rows back, dead centre. If I had been in the front row, I would have been at knee level, but I liked where I was, because I got a good look at detail. Costumes, costumes, costumes!
Scenery: a French café at the turn of the century, when Oscar Wilde has gotten out of prison and is living in poverty and experiencing writer’s block. It is a colorful, whimsical, Art Nouveau sort of café, with floral stained glass windows in curving shapes, a stained glass double door with the naked male figure that’s also on the posters and the program. There are lamps with brightly colored, flower-shaped glass shades. Upstage left is a bar counter and plenty of bottles and glasses. Upstage left are café tables and at the back an ivory-colored chaise lounge and matching cushioned chair. There are several circular café tables covered with pale pink cloths and then green satin tablecloths over the pink. Downstage center was one of these tables, along with a couple of café chairs. Oh, yes, I should mention the curving staircase—to the left and above the double doors. And in front of the chaise lounge were two tall lampposts with coat hooks around them (later serving as trees in the garden scene). Downstage right is one of the café tables, which begins with a peacock sculpture atop a matching peacock-feathered tablecloth.
Rather than a normal start to The Importance of Being Earnest, there’s the framework story with Oscar Wilde at this café at the end of his life. Several attractive young men—prostitutes—are hanging out there and Oscar Wilde shows up, aged, wearing purple velvet and knee breeches and shoulder-length hair as when he was young. He has confrontations with men who disapprove of him, and Frank Norris shows up and sits down with him center downstage. Oscar drinks a green beverage—absinthe—and Frank thinks it’s disgusting. They have a conversation about Oscar’s poverty, and that if he’d only write he wouldn’t live in poverty, but Oscar explains that his writing isn’t about misery (but if he had written after prison, it would be about misery—and I think I should add here that he did write and publish a couple essays concerning prison life, and of course “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”). The conversation is reminiscent of Frank Norris’s biography of Oscar Wilde. They talk about his once-popular plays, and after Frank leaves, so does everybody else, and Oscar is the only one onstage, at the center table, reminiscing about The Importance of Being Earnest, and he begins to recite the first few lines, till the voice of Algernon takes over offstage. Algernon calls his butler, Laine, and next thing you know, Oscar gets up and becomes Laine while Algernon comes onstage talking, and The Importance of Being Earnest has begun in earnest. Somewhat later, when Algernon and Earnest are together and Laine announces Lady Bracknell and Gwendolyn, there’s a somewhat “awkward” moment: a Bosie-like young man shows up instead of Gwendolyn, and he runs into another room, while Oscar/Laine frantically looks around, again announcing the two women, and he grabs off the lounge a green peacock-feather appliquéd skirt, which he proceeds to quickly put on. He goes to the peacock tablecloth, grabs the peacock and tablecloth, and runs out the upstage centre double doors. Waiting for the two women, Algernon and Earnest are starting to look bored and perplexed downstage, crossing their arms and such, and finally, “Laine” is heard offstage saying, “Lady Blackwell and Miss Gwendolyn.” In march, center stage, Lady Bracknell (Oscar) wearing a peacock skirt, a peacock shoulder cape, and an enormous hat with a peacock on it, accompanied by a Bosie-like and very blonde Gwendolyn in a beautiful 1890s dress in yellow and turquoise. (I say Bosie-like, but “she” really looked female, the actor was that pretty.) The audience was laughing and applauding loudly!
The dress that Gwendolyn was wearing in “her” first scene was like something out of a Harper’s Bazaar fashion plate. A yellow floral skirt with a turquoise waistcoat, a yellow and turquoise striped necktie over a white shirtwaist, and over the waistcoat and skirt was the open-fronted dress itself, turquoise embroidered in yellow swirly designs, and huge gigot sleeves. Very mid-1890s, and very like something I’d make.
But anyway, the one complaint I came up with is that Cicely had, well, not really five o’clock shadow, but enough that “she” should have had “her” pale face waxed. Gwendolyn, on the other hand, was convincing as a female, with golden hair in a chignon under a spiffy brimmed hat. The actor had very bright blue eyes and pale skin, and a resemblance to Bosie, Lord Alfred Douglas. Oh, yes, they both spoke in falsetto, unlike Lady Bracknell, who is described as having a Wagnerian voice.
The ending of the play has the framework story again, though briefly. Earnest is saying, “…the vital importance…” and Lady Bracknell/Oscar says, “of being earnest,” in a very earnest voice. Normally, it’s a funny line, but here it becomes sad. The lights dim, characters dance around Oscar and he changes out of his gown and hat and it wearing the purple velvet suit, and soon he and the waiter from the first scene are the only ones on stage. Oscar returns to the central table (I think there’s some change in the set first) and asks the waiter for absinthe. The waiter goes behind the counter and picks up the crystal decanter—it’s now empty of the green liquor, and he politely informs Oscar of this, but mentions that there’s white wine. Oscar takes out a cigarette during this, and the play ends with him lighting a match, lifting it, and blowing it out.
A melancholy and haunting, and more or less nonfiction, framework for an otherwise very comic play. Actually, I’m certain that the writer of this framework first read Frank Norris’s bio on Oscar Wilde, because I recall something very similar in it—perhaps even almost the same scene, since it was a bio with tidbits of conversation between Oscar and his biographer.
Oh, yes—I should mention that there was a second Lady Bracknell costume, similar to the first but even more comical a version of 1890s women’s fashion. It was much the same in construction, but the fabric was a metallic gold, orange, and brown material, with three dimensional silk flowers and leaves and vines attached, curving from the side of the skirt and around the cape, and of course big orange flowers on her brimmed hat. The audience clapped and laughed. This is a show in which the costumes—or at least some of them—got ovations.
I’m still at the park, and that’s the second time I’ve seen a group of three Goth young women in Dublin, whether or not they’re the same ones. I’ve seen a few other individuals who definitely looked Goth, but it seems to be only females—at least in a flamboyant sort of way, as opposed to guys with black sleeveless shirts, tattoos, and many piercings.
My last breakfast with the tour group—at the Trinity College breakfast cafeteria (they have another dining hall besides that)—involved lots of chatting, so that we were at the able well after most of us were done eating. But anyway, the reason I mention this is because the party animal Dave told the group about some kids like in their early twenties, who he and Lynn met at a pub the night before. He said that one of them was so outgoing and talkative that he made Bob look quiet, which I found rather amusing given the way Bob talks (but at least he says really interesting things—he teaches a history class at I forget which college). Dave described these “kids” as wild, and finally he said just to give us “an idea of how wild these kids were,” he explained that one of them had tattoos covering his arms and chest and countless piercings, and there were bumps up and down his arms where—I think where he’d inserted needles. These wild kids were delighted that they were Americans and wanted Dave and Lynn to stay with them all night, but they explained that no, they had to return to their friends. The kids didn’t think they should hang out with other Americans while in Dublin (and by the way these boys were Irish).
Since it’s a Sunday, hopefully there won’t be a drunk coming in and making lots of noise at the hostel….of course, I’m planning on going to bed around 10 pm, so I should get plenty of sleep no matter what happens. Well, unless the building burns down. I shouldn’t come up with such ideas. Anyway, there’s the possibility that, since this is Sunday, lots of people will be getting to bed early, and I’ll still have to climb into bed in the dark.
At least the hostel is very clean—that’s the important thing—I’ve read some scary things about Dublin hostels, such as they tend to be dirty, and then there was Karen’s account of having a hole in the middle of the mattress. Compared to that, I have it easy!
George Bernard Shaw's Birthplace
I walked all the way down to the house where George Bernard Shaw grew up.
Here's the message on a plaque on wall of front facade:
Bernard Shaw
Author of Many Plays
Was Born in this House
26 July 1856
Like in London, these oval plaques on the walls are popular.
After getting up at about 9 am—lying in bed at the hostel and wondering how on earth I’d climb down from the top bunk—I went out to the dining room on the ground floor, and it turns out that they stop serving breakfast at 9 am and the place is bare; there’s only the vending machines.
I walked all the way to Shaw’s birthplace—found it—and it turns out the hours I have are incorrect: they don’t open till 2 pm, like 2-5, rather than 11-5 on Sundays. On the bright side, at least I know how to get here (assuming I come back later) and I saw the vegetarian café Juice on my way over, and it opens at 11 am. By the time I get there, it should be open.
Sunday’s not a good day to be in Dublin—they don’t even have plays on Sunday. Even St. Louis has plays on Sunday, and it’s flamingly Catholic.
In hindsight, next time I’m hanging out alone in a foreign city, and the hostels don’t have single rooms, I’ll splurge and stay in a dorm or hotel, at least part of the time. Just have to spend less on books! Well, not get any souvenirs, probably. Easier said than done.
I suspected that if I got a bed in a dorm room with 16 beds, I’d be with 15 college students, making noise and coming in at all hours, but I didn’t anticipate an obnoxious drunk babbling on and on at one am. I got to the hostel a little before 11:30 pm last night (the play was out at 11), and the lights were on in the room, #118, “the Harding Room” and a few people were asleep or at least in bed. I tried to keep quiet, got my stuff to take a shower, but had to ask for help with the door—you have to simultaneously press the “door release” button and push the door open. It’s really quite easy for me now that I know how.
Julia Kavanaugh (1854-1877)—Irish novelist (portrait in National Museum of Ireland)
After finding that Bernard Shaw’s birthplace would be closed till 2 pm, I sat on the steps and rested for a bit, writing in this journal, and then I backtracked till I came to the vegetarian restaurant called Juice, but it wasn’t 11 am yet, so they weren’t open. Fortunately, I was carrying my bottle of tap water. Ireland does not have drinking fountains. If you order ice tea in Ireland, you’ll be laughed at, as Dave or someone on the tour discovered. If you ask for ice, you might be laughed at, though I don’t think that’s the case in such an urban place as Dublin.
Anyway, I wandered up the street and looked at the store fronts and the 18th century architecture. That South Great George St. has a fine selection of ethnic restaurants—there’s even an Indian restaurant right next door to the Chinese restaurant Good Food.
After Juice opened, I had water (went through two glasses), an incredible glass of “apple juice” that was almost a smoothie and surely contained pineapple, and I had a big salad with cooked tofu in a Chinese sauce. While eating, I read more of Liz’s book on Dublin and noted that the National Gallery opens at noon on Sunday, so I decided to go there and stay till about 2. I did just that but stopped at a couple stores in Temple Bar along the way.
I went back to the hostel for the new (daily) password, sunscreen, and my sunglasses.
I’ve finally been through George Bernard Shaw’s birthplace and took a couple of pictures—I figure since Karen has pictures of Oscar Wilde House for me, it’s OK to not take pictures there. Well, at least, I only have one picture left, so I might do that. It was sort of like a time machine, going back and seeing Shaw’s childhood, of which he didn’t have a lot of nice things to say. Hmm. His mom was a singer and had pretensions.
When watching the film A Man of No Importance, I used to think some of the actors, such as Rufus Sewell, were doing English accents rather than Irish, because they couldn’t get it right. But I was very wrong—Rufus Sewell was definitely speaking with a distinctly Dublin accent. There’s a somewhat annoying young man talking with almost the same voice beyond the next tree.
I’m in St. Stephen’s Green, the most popular park in Dublin, and from what little I’ve seen so far, I much prefer Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park in London. There is a band in the distance—I think I’ll put my shoes back on (now that I’ve rested my sore feet) and go try to find this bandstand….
I did find the bandstand, but I didn’t feel like parking myself there—I went back to this lake that I found on the way, ducks, rocks, weeping willows—very pleasant. Though I’m rather dubious about the background sounds—I can still hear the band at the bandstand, but louder than that is drums—like a parade—coming from the opposite direction, possibly from outside the park, because it’s in the direction of the Fusilier’s Arch. The drums remind me of London, particularly the strange procession similar to a Chinese dragon but with mice masks, by the Thames on the way from the Globe. I think I’m in the mood for rather gentler music.
At Shaw’s birthplace, I had a recorded tour guide [now the band is playing Beatles music] and one of the things the tape said was [Oh, baby ducks!] “Imagine living in a house with no privacy,” and went on to mention servants running up the stairs and such. Yeah, you don’t get much privacy staying at a hostel, either! Not to mention going to a park occupied by so many people. But at least this isn’t my permanent home, and now I finally want to go back to my house and cats, even though they’re in Bigotville. Sometimes I’m really a homebody, like Linda.
I’m hearing Italian accents and Japanese—well, in both cases, they’re speaking their native tongues, not just accents. In some ways, Dublin comes off as a smaller and less impressive version of London. Give me the steep hill leading to the Abbey Cultural Centre in Ballyshannon, or the wind and rain of the Dingle Peninsula, rather than this!
Maybe on the way back from the park I might stop at a café or pub and have tea, but I don’t intend to return to the hostel before 9 pm today, maybe ten. I can take a shower and go straight to bed, and then I’ll be prepared to wake up early the next two mornings. I want to get to Oscar Wilde House by 10:15 tomorrow morning, for the first tour, and the following morning I want to get up really early—by 7—to get to the bus station so I can get to the airport in plenty of time. In fact I might want to find the Busaras bus station tomorrow, after Oscar Wilde House, just so I know the way and don’t get lost on the morning that I’m hopping on a plane. Bus stations and airports make me nervous, really—but I’ll be fine once I’m at the correct terminal.
I’ve concluded that Liz had the right idea in hanging out in Dublin alone before the tour—not to mention staying at the Eliza Lodge--not after the tour and staying at a hostel. After all that socializing, and whirlwind tour, and music, and luxurious hotel accommodations, here I am in a metropolis and staying at a hostel where I feel out of place, since I’m neither in my early 20s nor traveling with friends or classmates. On the other hand, I am in Ireland still, for a little longer, and I’m doing sightseeing during the day—and of course there was the play last night at the Abbey Theatre.
Now the strange drums are accompanied by a horn—or maybe that doesn’t go with the drums. Maybe I’ll walk around to the other side of the lake and see if I can get a good look at the performers—perhaps something like the Kodo drummers.
Here's the message on a plaque on wall of front facade:
Bernard Shaw
Author of Many Plays
Was Born in this House
26 July 1856
Like in London, these oval plaques on the walls are popular.
After getting up at about 9 am—lying in bed at the hostel and wondering how on earth I’d climb down from the top bunk—I went out to the dining room on the ground floor, and it turns out that they stop serving breakfast at 9 am and the place is bare; there’s only the vending machines.
I walked all the way to Shaw’s birthplace—found it—and it turns out the hours I have are incorrect: they don’t open till 2 pm, like 2-5, rather than 11-5 on Sundays. On the bright side, at least I know how to get here (assuming I come back later) and I saw the vegetarian café Juice on my way over, and it opens at 11 am. By the time I get there, it should be open.
Sunday’s not a good day to be in Dublin—they don’t even have plays on Sunday. Even St. Louis has plays on Sunday, and it’s flamingly Catholic.
In hindsight, next time I’m hanging out alone in a foreign city, and the hostels don’t have single rooms, I’ll splurge and stay in a dorm or hotel, at least part of the time. Just have to spend less on books! Well, not get any souvenirs, probably. Easier said than done.
I suspected that if I got a bed in a dorm room with 16 beds, I’d be with 15 college students, making noise and coming in at all hours, but I didn’t anticipate an obnoxious drunk babbling on and on at one am. I got to the hostel a little before 11:30 pm last night (the play was out at 11), and the lights were on in the room, #118, “the Harding Room” and a few people were asleep or at least in bed. I tried to keep quiet, got my stuff to take a shower, but had to ask for help with the door—you have to simultaneously press the “door release” button and push the door open. It’s really quite easy for me now that I know how.
Julia Kavanaugh (1854-1877)—Irish novelist (portrait in National Museum of Ireland)
After finding that Bernard Shaw’s birthplace would be closed till 2 pm, I sat on the steps and rested for a bit, writing in this journal, and then I backtracked till I came to the vegetarian restaurant called Juice, but it wasn’t 11 am yet, so they weren’t open. Fortunately, I was carrying my bottle of tap water. Ireland does not have drinking fountains. If you order ice tea in Ireland, you’ll be laughed at, as Dave or someone on the tour discovered. If you ask for ice, you might be laughed at, though I don’t think that’s the case in such an urban place as Dublin.
Anyway, I wandered up the street and looked at the store fronts and the 18th century architecture. That South Great George St. has a fine selection of ethnic restaurants—there’s even an Indian restaurant right next door to the Chinese restaurant Good Food.
After Juice opened, I had water (went through two glasses), an incredible glass of “apple juice” that was almost a smoothie and surely contained pineapple, and I had a big salad with cooked tofu in a Chinese sauce. While eating, I read more of Liz’s book on Dublin and noted that the National Gallery opens at noon on Sunday, so I decided to go there and stay till about 2. I did just that but stopped at a couple stores in Temple Bar along the way.
I went back to the hostel for the new (daily) password, sunscreen, and my sunglasses.
I’ve finally been through George Bernard Shaw’s birthplace and took a couple of pictures—I figure since Karen has pictures of Oscar Wilde House for me, it’s OK to not take pictures there. Well, at least, I only have one picture left, so I might do that. It was sort of like a time machine, going back and seeing Shaw’s childhood, of which he didn’t have a lot of nice things to say. Hmm. His mom was a singer and had pretensions.
When watching the film A Man of No Importance, I used to think some of the actors, such as Rufus Sewell, were doing English accents rather than Irish, because they couldn’t get it right. But I was very wrong—Rufus Sewell was definitely speaking with a distinctly Dublin accent. There’s a somewhat annoying young man talking with almost the same voice beyond the next tree.
I’m in St. Stephen’s Green, the most popular park in Dublin, and from what little I’ve seen so far, I much prefer Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park in London. There is a band in the distance—I think I’ll put my shoes back on (now that I’ve rested my sore feet) and go try to find this bandstand….
I did find the bandstand, but I didn’t feel like parking myself there—I went back to this lake that I found on the way, ducks, rocks, weeping willows—very pleasant. Though I’m rather dubious about the background sounds—I can still hear the band at the bandstand, but louder than that is drums—like a parade—coming from the opposite direction, possibly from outside the park, because it’s in the direction of the Fusilier’s Arch. The drums remind me of London, particularly the strange procession similar to a Chinese dragon but with mice masks, by the Thames on the way from the Globe. I think I’m in the mood for rather gentler music.
At Shaw’s birthplace, I had a recorded tour guide [now the band is playing Beatles music] and one of the things the tape said was [Oh, baby ducks!] “Imagine living in a house with no privacy,” and went on to mention servants running up the stairs and such. Yeah, you don’t get much privacy staying at a hostel, either! Not to mention going to a park occupied by so many people. But at least this isn’t my permanent home, and now I finally want to go back to my house and cats, even though they’re in Bigotville. Sometimes I’m really a homebody, like Linda.
I’m hearing Italian accents and Japanese—well, in both cases, they’re speaking their native tongues, not just accents. In some ways, Dublin comes off as a smaller and less impressive version of London. Give me the steep hill leading to the Abbey Cultural Centre in Ballyshannon, or the wind and rain of the Dingle Peninsula, rather than this!
Maybe on the way back from the park I might stop at a café or pub and have tea, but I don’t intend to return to the hostel before 9 pm today, maybe ten. I can take a shower and go straight to bed, and then I’ll be prepared to wake up early the next two mornings. I want to get to Oscar Wilde House by 10:15 tomorrow morning, for the first tour, and the following morning I want to get up really early—by 7—to get to the bus station so I can get to the airport in plenty of time. In fact I might want to find the Busaras bus station tomorrow, after Oscar Wilde House, just so I know the way and don’t get lost on the morning that I’m hopping on a plane. Bus stations and airports make me nervous, really—but I’ll be fine once I’m at the correct terminal.
I’ve concluded that Liz had the right idea in hanging out in Dublin alone before the tour—not to mention staying at the Eliza Lodge--not after the tour and staying at a hostel. After all that socializing, and whirlwind tour, and music, and luxurious hotel accommodations, here I am in a metropolis and staying at a hostel where I feel out of place, since I’m neither in my early 20s nor traveling with friends or classmates. On the other hand, I am in Ireland still, for a little longer, and I’m doing sightseeing during the day—and of course there was the play last night at the Abbey Theatre.
Now the strange drums are accompanied by a horn—or maybe that doesn’t go with the drums. Maybe I’ll walk around to the other side of the lake and see if I can get a good look at the performers—perhaps something like the Kodo drummers.
Saturday, August 6, 2005
Dublin, Ireland
We had breakfast in the cafeteria at Trinity College. Even a cafeteria supplies, of course, tea and the ubiquitous little pitchers of milk. The group really parted, and then I dragged my wheeled suitcase down the sidewalk to the hostel, Kinlay House, to check in--that’s if I can at that early hour. I forget, really.
For the hostel, you have to bring a towel. Sounds like a Douglas Adams joke.
Dublin Authors:
Joseph O’Connor (Sinead’s brother)—writes novels, such as The Star of the Sea. What a talented family.
Jennifer Johnston
John Banville
Nuala O’Faolain—author of Are You Somebody
Clair Kirby
Eavan Boland
Roddy Doyle—The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.
Poetry Ireland: www.poetryireland.ie
I wandered around Dublin Castle and went to the Chester Beatty Library and Museum
(Lots of Asian stuff, and most of the stuff there is manuscripts and such) After looking at the exhibit, I went to the little museum shop and got a Tibetan coloring book (gee, I might make my own thangkas using some of these pictures), a catalog of this museum, and a Buddha magnet.
I saw Raj Kunwar—an old Indian romance novel, about a woman who transforms into a deer.
Plaque on a stone wall around Dublin Castle—on the Chester Beatty side (yes, the library is in the compound of Dublin Castle):
No 7 In Hoey’s Court (now demolished) about 100 ft NW of this spot
It is reputed that Jonathan Swift Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, was born on the 30th day of Nov 1667. He died on the 19th day of Oct, 1745 MCMXII
For the hostel, you have to bring a towel. Sounds like a Douglas Adams joke.
Dublin Authors:
Joseph O’Connor (Sinead’s brother)—writes novels, such as The Star of the Sea. What a talented family.
Jennifer Johnston
John Banville
Nuala O’Faolain—author of Are You Somebody
Clair Kirby
Eavan Boland
Roddy Doyle—The Woman Who Walked Into Doors.
Poetry Ireland: www.poetryireland.ie
I wandered around Dublin Castle and went to the Chester Beatty Library and Museum
(Lots of Asian stuff, and most of the stuff there is manuscripts and such) After looking at the exhibit, I went to the little museum shop and got a Tibetan coloring book (gee, I might make my own thangkas using some of these pictures), a catalog of this museum, and a Buddha magnet.
I saw Raj Kunwar—an old Indian romance novel, about a woman who transforms into a deer.
Plaque on a stone wall around Dublin Castle—on the Chester Beatty side (yes, the library is in the compound of Dublin Castle):
No 7 In Hoey’s Court (now demolished) about 100 ft NW of this spot
It is reputed that Jonathan Swift Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, was born on the 30th day of Nov 1667. He died on the 19th day of Oct, 1745 MCMXII
Friday, August 5, 2005
The Rock of Cashel
Dingle
The music last night was beautiful—a full-size set of Irish pipes, a fiddle, and a 12-string guitar. And we sat really close to the musicians. There was a sort of window, a big one, between our booth and the musicians, and hanging over the stage were various instruments—accordions, violins, a lute or bouzouki, etc.
Today we’re getting on the bus at 8:30, so no messing around.
From the bus, I noticed a sign: Acute Bends Ahead (square yellow sign, very curvy road amid more illegible word—don’t bloody write in longhand on a moving bus.)
Ah, just look at that bend. It’s so cuuuute.
Lambs wag their tails while nursing, like kittens purr. Contentment.
Killarney
We stopped at Killarney, 10 am, for restroom break (and Matthew needed to gas up the bus). Killarney Outlet Centre—looks like an American mall. I bought a wooden Buddha—nontraditional—at a booth in the hallway. After looking at “before and after” photos of Killarney—photos taken around 1900 next to the same place photographed in 2004. Some haven’t changed, but one street scene showed a couple of thatched-roofed cottages between some buildings that look about the same (the cottages have been replaced—or at least altered a great deal).
Cill Airne = Killarney
“165 people killed on Cork roads in the past four years.”
I could make a comment about drinking and driving, but it might sound like I'm stereotyping the Irish, so I'll refrain.
On the way into Mitchellstown, Matthew explained that the wall on our left dates to famine times, when poor people were paid one pound a day to build the stone walls (and 140 pennies equaled a pound then). The wall is between five and seven feet high by the looks of it and doesn’t look very thick, but I could be wrong—it might be two or three rows of stone. This wall would have surrounded a lord’s estate.
Garde = police
The Rock of Cashel
Bru Baru—for lunch—“There is no brew at Bru Baru.” --Dave
Rock of Cashel (pretty much across the street from Bru Baru)
We stopped at the Visitor’s Centre called Bru Baru, where we had a simple lunch of soup, sandwiches, and tea in a room reminiscent of a medieval great hall, particularly in the style of fireplace and the medieval-looking banners hanging overhead. There are long wooden tables and benches and high rafters. There’s also a gift shop down the hall, where I got a Bru na Boyne-inspired necklace for Jill and a toy sheep for Malcolm. That was after I finished lunch and scurried outdoors to take pictures. The Rock of Cashel is way overhead, the mountain overlooking Bru Baru.
When the group was all ready, we headed for the mountain and climbed up to the front gates, where we waited to get in and took pictures. We followed Dave through the gates with a young tour guide named James who led us to a rather worn down Patrick’s cross (actually, a replica of the one indoors, sheltered in a one-room museum). He told us about the history of the Rock of Cashel. The original building was a castle in the forth century, but it was a simple one and built of wood and hasn’t survived. The only surviving buildings are religious, not castle architecture, and date from the 12th, 13th, and 15th centuries. There’s a lot of harsh wind up on that mountain, and that alone has damaged the buildings—there’s a chunk that’s fallen off the big cathedral.
As for the cross of Patrick—if you can wrap your arms all the way around it and your hands touch, you’ll never ever have to [it looks like “chache”, but that doesn’t make any sense—maybe “age.”] and if you hop nine times counterclockwise around the cross, you’ll be married within the year. I was tempted to try the first, but definitely not the latter.
Dublin
In the evening, we arrived in Dublin around 5:30, checked in to the Trinity College dorms and went to a really fancy restaurant for our farewell dinner. I spotted a picture of Johnny Depp and pictures of other actors on wall behind our tables and on other walls. Lots of maroon, lots of mirrors—it’s a theatre-oriented restaurant, like a famous one in New York that I can’t remember the name of (but it’s in a Muppets movie). Phil awarded everyone something different—like Linda’s award had to do with knitting—and the prizes were shamrock tiepins or Irish flag tiepins. I got a shamrock, “I wonder what she’s writing about me in her backward journal”award. (Yes, I was visibly writing in my journal a lot, and I open it right to left because I’m left handed and can.)
The music last night was beautiful—a full-size set of Irish pipes, a fiddle, and a 12-string guitar. And we sat really close to the musicians. There was a sort of window, a big one, between our booth and the musicians, and hanging over the stage were various instruments—accordions, violins, a lute or bouzouki, etc.
Today we’re getting on the bus at 8:30, so no messing around.
From the bus, I noticed a sign: Acute Bends Ahead (square yellow sign, very curvy road amid more illegible word—don’t bloody write in longhand on a moving bus.)
Ah, just look at that bend. It’s so cuuuute.
Lambs wag their tails while nursing, like kittens purr. Contentment.
Killarney
We stopped at Killarney, 10 am, for restroom break (and Matthew needed to gas up the bus). Killarney Outlet Centre—looks like an American mall. I bought a wooden Buddha—nontraditional—at a booth in the hallway. After looking at “before and after” photos of Killarney—photos taken around 1900 next to the same place photographed in 2004. Some haven’t changed, but one street scene showed a couple of thatched-roofed cottages between some buildings that look about the same (the cottages have been replaced—or at least altered a great deal).
Cill Airne = Killarney
“165 people killed on Cork roads in the past four years.”
I could make a comment about drinking and driving, but it might sound like I'm stereotyping the Irish, so I'll refrain.
On the way into Mitchellstown, Matthew explained that the wall on our left dates to famine times, when poor people were paid one pound a day to build the stone walls (and 140 pennies equaled a pound then). The wall is between five and seven feet high by the looks of it and doesn’t look very thick, but I could be wrong—it might be two or three rows of stone. This wall would have surrounded a lord’s estate.
Garde = police
The Rock of Cashel
Bru Baru—for lunch—“There is no brew at Bru Baru.” --Dave
Rock of Cashel (pretty much across the street from Bru Baru)
We stopped at the Visitor’s Centre called Bru Baru, where we had a simple lunch of soup, sandwiches, and tea in a room reminiscent of a medieval great hall, particularly in the style of fireplace and the medieval-looking banners hanging overhead. There are long wooden tables and benches and high rafters. There’s also a gift shop down the hall, where I got a Bru na Boyne-inspired necklace for Jill and a toy sheep for Malcolm. That was after I finished lunch and scurried outdoors to take pictures. The Rock of Cashel is way overhead, the mountain overlooking Bru Baru.
When the group was all ready, we headed for the mountain and climbed up to the front gates, where we waited to get in and took pictures. We followed Dave through the gates with a young tour guide named James who led us to a rather worn down Patrick’s cross (actually, a replica of the one indoors, sheltered in a one-room museum). He told us about the history of the Rock of Cashel. The original building was a castle in the forth century, but it was a simple one and built of wood and hasn’t survived. The only surviving buildings are religious, not castle architecture, and date from the 12th, 13th, and 15th centuries. There’s a lot of harsh wind up on that mountain, and that alone has damaged the buildings—there’s a chunk that’s fallen off the big cathedral.
As for the cross of Patrick—if you can wrap your arms all the way around it and your hands touch, you’ll never ever have to [it looks like “chache”, but that doesn’t make any sense—maybe “age.”] and if you hop nine times counterclockwise around the cross, you’ll be married within the year. I was tempted to try the first, but definitely not the latter.
Dublin
In the evening, we arrived in Dublin around 5:30, checked in to the Trinity College dorms and went to a really fancy restaurant for our farewell dinner. I spotted a picture of Johnny Depp and pictures of other actors on wall behind our tables and on other walls. Lots of maroon, lots of mirrors—it’s a theatre-oriented restaurant, like a famous one in New York that I can’t remember the name of (but it’s in a Muppets movie). Phil awarded everyone something different—like Linda’s award had to do with knitting—and the prizes were shamrock tiepins or Irish flag tiepins. I got a shamrock, “I wonder what she’s writing about me in her backward journal”award. (Yes, I was visibly writing in my journal a lot, and I open it right to left because I’m left handed and can.)
Thursday, August 4, 2005
The Dingle Peninsula
Tim Collins was our tour guide around the Dingle Peninsula, out in the country rather than in the town of Dingle. He was a tall, white-haired guy with bright blue eyes and looked very Irish. I can't help but notice we've never had a female tour guide.
Ring forts—go back 2000 years—connected with fairies in legend—we just passed one, where the land is up several feet, and plants are growing on it. It's a big round stone wall, reminiscent of stone cattle walls. It’s obviously very old and full of atmosphere, perhaps haunted.
Narrow road—1840s-1850s, for carriages and carts.
Ring of Kearay—another peninsula, about 100 miles around
Beehive huts (several in a stone wall) 2000 years old. Pretty when they’re intact, though even the ones we walked around, with just the foundation left, were really cool looking. I really like old stone buildings.
We went to a 6th century foundation of a monastic settlement (I took lots of photos, despite "oh the dreadful wind and rain"), which included a stone wall circling around beehive cells. Also inside the wall was a small rectangular church, or rather the foundation of one. In front of the church foundations, on the left side of the door, was the simple tombstone of the abbot, and about a foot or two in front of that is a little circle of stones indicating where he died.
It was very windy and wet, and there we were trudging along paths and climbing slick stone walls to look at really old architecture. I’m so glad I got this raincoat for the trip.
We took another stop at the Visitor’s Centre for a 7th century oratory. We went into the registrar’s gift shop, where those of us who wanted to walk through the rain to the oratory went to one side of the room, and those who wanted to be relatively dry and just go to the film presentation and coffee shop went to the other side. I of course went to see the oratory.
Dave bought our tickets, and off we went back into the rain and wind, and the wind seemed, if anything, stronger. We walked the several meters along a path in a field, and oh my it was worthwhile. The oratory, a place for worship and meditation, is the only one of its kind still intact. It's a beautiful little grey stone building. The stones are piled up till they form a point at the top, and before that the ceiling is slightly curved. A small window is at the back where there would have been an altar beneath it (a bouquet of orange flowers leaned against the wall instead of an altar), and a low door at the front. We gathered inside, and it was perfectly dry—I wanted to stay in there longer. The floor, in the 7th century, would have been covered with straw or reeds. It lasted so long in part because in medieval times, it was kept as a shed—a wood shed or something, but it’s still a bit surprising that it is still intact, so perfect. Next to it are a couple of stones with crosses carved on them, and there’s a low stone fence around them.
Next—and by now we were thoroughly wet; my pants and jacket were soaked, but my hiking boots are so good that my feet were quite dry—we stopped at the ruins of a 15th-century church. It had worn down, simple gargoyles, and there were two rooms. At the back of the church, in the center back wall, there’s a long narrow window called the eye of the needle. It’s been worn down, widened somewhat, because people climb through that window; they believe it will bring salvation.
Oh, yes, in front of the church, we stopped to take a look at a large stone cross that’s 2/3 underground. And a few steps beyond that is a tall, skinny stone with ancient language marked on it—I think it’s 4th century Ogham—where there’s a perpendicular line with slanting marks along it. At the top is a hole through which people standing on either side can reach and give a sort of handshake, like making a pledge. Actually, before we reached either of those, there’s a simple sundial that, according to Tim Collins, the tour guide, tells the right time two days out of the year. It’s not properly lined up with the West.
32,000 ring forts on this island
Population five million (one million in Dublin)
Ring forts—go back 2000 years—connected with fairies in legend—we just passed one, where the land is up several feet, and plants are growing on it. It's a big round stone wall, reminiscent of stone cattle walls. It’s obviously very old and full of atmosphere, perhaps haunted.
Narrow road—1840s-1850s, for carriages and carts.
Ring of Kearay—another peninsula, about 100 miles around
Beehive huts (several in a stone wall) 2000 years old. Pretty when they’re intact, though even the ones we walked around, with just the foundation left, were really cool looking. I really like old stone buildings.
We went to a 6th century foundation of a monastic settlement (I took lots of photos, despite "oh the dreadful wind and rain"), which included a stone wall circling around beehive cells. Also inside the wall was a small rectangular church, or rather the foundation of one. In front of the church foundations, on the left side of the door, was the simple tombstone of the abbot, and about a foot or two in front of that is a little circle of stones indicating where he died.
It was very windy and wet, and there we were trudging along paths and climbing slick stone walls to look at really old architecture. I’m so glad I got this raincoat for the trip.
We took another stop at the Visitor’s Centre for a 7th century oratory. We went into the registrar’s gift shop, where those of us who wanted to walk through the rain to the oratory went to one side of the room, and those who wanted to be relatively dry and just go to the film presentation and coffee shop went to the other side. I of course went to see the oratory.
Dave bought our tickets, and off we went back into the rain and wind, and the wind seemed, if anything, stronger. We walked the several meters along a path in a field, and oh my it was worthwhile. The oratory, a place for worship and meditation, is the only one of its kind still intact. It's a beautiful little grey stone building. The stones are piled up till they form a point at the top, and before that the ceiling is slightly curved. A small window is at the back where there would have been an altar beneath it (a bouquet of orange flowers leaned against the wall instead of an altar), and a low door at the front. We gathered inside, and it was perfectly dry—I wanted to stay in there longer. The floor, in the 7th century, would have been covered with straw or reeds. It lasted so long in part because in medieval times, it was kept as a shed—a wood shed or something, but it’s still a bit surprising that it is still intact, so perfect. Next to it are a couple of stones with crosses carved on them, and there’s a low stone fence around them.
Next—and by now we were thoroughly wet; my pants and jacket were soaked, but my hiking boots are so good that my feet were quite dry—we stopped at the ruins of a 15th-century church. It had worn down, simple gargoyles, and there were two rooms. At the back of the church, in the center back wall, there’s a long narrow window called the eye of the needle. It’s been worn down, widened somewhat, because people climb through that window; they believe it will bring salvation.
Oh, yes, in front of the church, we stopped to take a look at a large stone cross that’s 2/3 underground. And a few steps beyond that is a tall, skinny stone with ancient language marked on it—I think it’s 4th century Ogham—where there’s a perpendicular line with slanting marks along it. At the top is a hole through which people standing on either side can reach and give a sort of handshake, like making a pledge. Actually, before we reached either of those, there’s a simple sundial that, according to Tim Collins, the tour guide, tells the right time two days out of the year. It’s not properly lined up with the West.
32,000 ring forts on this island
Population five million (one million in Dublin)
Wednesday, August 3, 2005
From Kinvara to Dingle, Ireland
Kinvara
In the countryside outside Ennis, there’s a fairy bush, and in order to not tear the bush down, the highway was curved away from it. It is reputed that most fairies live under the bushes (white thorn bushes)—always standing alone in the middle of the field.
Rafery (Raferty)—poet, local to Kinvara (was mentioned at the Banquet)
32 counties in Ireland—traditionally, Irish harps have 32 strings.
Hookers—such as in Kinvara—are boats. Dave the tour guide led us to believe that there were prostitutes in Kinvara—he kept saying “hookers” and at some point as the bus was about to cross a bridge, he said that there were some up ahead, and the judge Matthew started to say something about not judging someone by their profession (a little surprising, judging by his profession)…and Dave said, “There are a couple on our left!” And yes, they were boats. With hooks.
“75 People Killed on Limerick Roads in Last 4 Years.”
(Sign—no jokes about Irish drunks please.)
Adare
We just passed a golf course with big old oak trees and with a large castle ruin.
We shortly afterwards passed:
Lots of thatched roofs
I took pictures of a park—trees, a brook with a quaint bridge, and of course palm trees—you can get used to seeing them, even though it’s not what I would have expected to see in Ireland.
I shopped at the Black Abbey Shop across the road from the park.
"Off-license" means it's where you can buy your liquor and bring it home (instead of drinking it there, like at a pub)
Listowell
We stopped in Listowell for lunch, in Kerry County. It's reputedly a very literary location, although judging by the books I saw in the bookstore at the place where we had lunch, it specializes in Dead White Male authors. Really, just because the words "pen" and "penis" are similar, doesn't mean you have to have both in order to write.
I had lunch and was going to the Visitor’s Center Museum but was short on time, so I wandered around and took two pictures of the colorful buildings. Given how much we eat on this tour, it would make sense if I skipped lunch altogether; that's the meal that we have to pay for ourselves.
Dingle
Alpine House—Bed and Breakfast in Dingle
We had dinner at Fenton’s Restaurant, and they made me a really special dish, with many broiled vegetables mixed with couscous and spices and topped with slabs of grilled cheese, perhaps goat cheese. They specialize in seafood, and although three other people on the tour call themselves vegetarians, I'm the only real vegetarian; in other words, I don't eat any kind of meat, including fish.
Afterwards, we went to St. John’s Church and attended a folk music concert. An American, Harris Moore, played the dulcimer (which is not native to Ireland, but it works well with Irish music). He also praised public radio and played beautifully.
After pigging out so much, I had an upset stomach (resulting in diarrhea back at the B&B), so I didn’t go pub hopping like most of the group; Liz and I walked back to the B&B and agreed that it’s good to have a quiet evening off. (The concert was early, like 7 pm). If I had been feeling better, I might have picked up the CD of the singer—I would have liked to have heard what she sounds like when she doesn’t have a cold.
In the countryside outside Ennis, there’s a fairy bush, and in order to not tear the bush down, the highway was curved away from it. It is reputed that most fairies live under the bushes (white thorn bushes)—always standing alone in the middle of the field.
Rafery (Raferty)—poet, local to Kinvara (was mentioned at the Banquet)
32 counties in Ireland—traditionally, Irish harps have 32 strings.
Hookers—such as in Kinvara—are boats. Dave the tour guide led us to believe that there were prostitutes in Kinvara—he kept saying “hookers” and at some point as the bus was about to cross a bridge, he said that there were some up ahead, and the judge Matthew started to say something about not judging someone by their profession (a little surprising, judging by his profession)…and Dave said, “There are a couple on our left!” And yes, they were boats. With hooks.
“75 People Killed on Limerick Roads in Last 4 Years.”
(Sign—no jokes about Irish drunks please.)
Adare
We just passed a golf course with big old oak trees and with a large castle ruin.
We shortly afterwards passed:
Lots of thatched roofs
I took pictures of a park—trees, a brook with a quaint bridge, and of course palm trees—you can get used to seeing them, even though it’s not what I would have expected to see in Ireland.
I shopped at the Black Abbey Shop across the road from the park.
"Off-license" means it's where you can buy your liquor and bring it home (instead of drinking it there, like at a pub)
Listowell
We stopped in Listowell for lunch, in Kerry County. It's reputedly a very literary location, although judging by the books I saw in the bookstore at the place where we had lunch, it specializes in Dead White Male authors. Really, just because the words "pen" and "penis" are similar, doesn't mean you have to have both in order to write.
I had lunch and was going to the Visitor’s Center Museum but was short on time, so I wandered around and took two pictures of the colorful buildings. Given how much we eat on this tour, it would make sense if I skipped lunch altogether; that's the meal that we have to pay for ourselves.
Dingle
Alpine House—Bed and Breakfast in Dingle
We had dinner at Fenton’s Restaurant, and they made me a really special dish, with many broiled vegetables mixed with couscous and spices and topped with slabs of grilled cheese, perhaps goat cheese. They specialize in seafood, and although three other people on the tour call themselves vegetarians, I'm the only real vegetarian; in other words, I don't eat any kind of meat, including fish.
Afterwards, we went to St. John’s Church and attended a folk music concert. An American, Harris Moore, played the dulcimer (which is not native to Ireland, but it works well with Irish music). He also praised public radio and played beautifully.
After pigging out so much, I had an upset stomach (resulting in diarrhea back at the B&B), so I didn’t go pub hopping like most of the group; Liz and I walked back to the B&B and agreed that it’s good to have a quiet evening off. (The concert was early, like 7 pm). If I had been feeling better, I might have picked up the CD of the singer—I would have liked to have heard what she sounds like when she doesn’t have a cold.
Tuesday, August 2, 2005
Exploring Ireland
Westport
We are staying at the Westport Inn Hotel, in the little town of Westport, in the Republic of Ireland, and the hotel is really impressive. I have a room with two beds (one double and one single) and the bathroom has a big tub—I took a hot bath last night. At 6:30 pm we went to a party in Dave’s room—Irish crackers and four types of Irish cheese and alcoholic beverages such as the Bailey’s Irish Cream that I sipped—and he actually has a four-poster bed that’s elaborately carved. Even the head of my beds have elaborate carving, and everything done in natural wood. Breakfast starts at 8, so I’ll be going down in les than ½ hour.
Last night, we went down to Matt Malloy’s—the red-painted pub (well, the front façade is red)—the bar owned by one of the Chieftain’s and we went to a back room where there was an empty stage but a bunch of our group gathered around a table in a corner. When the music finally did come, around 10 pm, it was in the tiny room before this one, so we couldn’t really hear it, but we sat around drinking and talking for a while anyway. When Dave and I turned to leave, the tiny room was blocked off with people and we finally got a glimpse of the musicians, all seated at a booth. We turned around and found another exit, escaping out into an alley with trash receptacles.
Oh, yes, before that, I did some shopping around town with Linda and bought a souvenir for my mom and a Tara brooch for myself, although it was a great deal smaller and simpler than the real one that we saw at the museum in Ireland. And we went to a bookstore and I bought four books—all centered around Ireland, at least. We took our books to the hotel, and after putting mine into my luggage, I went up to the party in Dave’s room. Bailey's really warms you up. It's no wonder it's popular in Ireland, but this is summertime and I was getting hot drinking that stuff. It was quite yummy, though.
After the party, I went with Liz and Phil to a little Indian restaurant in the basement of a building—and it was really great food. Also great conversation. Phil and Liz are extremely liberal, and Liz like me isn’t a christian (I do remember earlier on the trip she said she has lots of books on Newgrange, so maybe she’s Pagan). We had a wonderful conversation about our dysfunctional families and about the dysfunctional families of people we know. I talked about my aunts, not to mention my brother and x-sister-in-law and her crazy parents.
Types of Irish tunes/dances:
Reel: 4-4 time
Hornpipe: 4-4 time plus a couple notes tacked at end (more swinging)
Jig: 6-6 time
Slip jig: more stuff thrown in
Oscar's—name of the hotel bar, and the ad copy includes a little portrait of Oscar Wilde in an oval. We had to walk through the bar to get to the restaurant for breakfast.
I unfortunately didn’t get to meditating this morning—all the more reason to be sure to do it tonight, no matter how late I’m out.
Limericks
While driving around and looking at breathtaking scenery—mountains and lakes-a couple people on the bus, namely Esther and Matt (the judge, not the bus driver) came up with limericks on the spot and spoke them into the microphone at the front of the bus.
The sheep in Ireland are lively
They like to stand in the driveway.
When the tour bus comes ‘round the corner,
They make a mad dash and flounder
And move aside without having a mourner.
That totally sucks. Someone asked me to do a limerick, and I said, “I write free verse.” The limerick I did write isn’t fit to share, although that certainly doesn’t stop Matt.
I just saw a spotted grey and white donkey in the same field as a brown horse and a brown baby horse.
“It’s not like they go to Bombs are Us,” Phil just said, in response to something about terrorists. (Someone’s reading a newspaper.)
Today we’ve passed several ruined churches (probably thanks to Cromwell) and a couple of castle ruins (also probably thanks to Cromwell). One of them was close to the road, and it was the simple kind that’s just a square tower. It’s overgrown with ivy and only has, at most, two storeys left. The other one, which we just passed, was only one wall covered with ivy, and it might have been another church, really, since there wasn’t much left and it was further from the road, it was hard to tell.
It’s a grey and rainy morning, although yesterday in Westport it was clear out, with a bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Really cute town with lots of storefronts painted in bright colors. Before we left this morning, I took a picture of the town centre with the clock tower.
Galway City
Trolley bay—the framework for parking grocery carts in the parking lot
Modern shopping centers--this town looks too American.
Salt Hill, holiday resort area, hotels double as student housing in winter.
Cladaugh ring, associated with this area--facing away from you=looking for companionship. Toward you=not interested or already have husband/boy friend
Heart of the city: much more quaint-looking architecture, reminiscent of Westport.
After Galway
We came to some more farmland and later stopped for a potty break at a cafeteria-style restaurant. After the restrooms some of us (including me) got drinks and snacks, and I was at the register behind the funny Dave. He jokingly asked the cashier if he could see her supervisor, because of something a server said. He had said, “Don’t confuse me, I’m groggy.” And she had replied, “What’s wrong? Too much sex and beer last night?”
Ennis
We are staying at the Westport Inn Hotel, in the little town of Westport, in the Republic of Ireland, and the hotel is really impressive. I have a room with two beds (one double and one single) and the bathroom has a big tub—I took a hot bath last night. At 6:30 pm we went to a party in Dave’s room—Irish crackers and four types of Irish cheese and alcoholic beverages such as the Bailey’s Irish Cream that I sipped—and he actually has a four-poster bed that’s elaborately carved. Even the head of my beds have elaborate carving, and everything done in natural wood. Breakfast starts at 8, so I’ll be going down in les than ½ hour.
Last night, we went down to Matt Malloy’s—the red-painted pub (well, the front façade is red)—the bar owned by one of the Chieftain’s and we went to a back room where there was an empty stage but a bunch of our group gathered around a table in a corner. When the music finally did come, around 10 pm, it was in the tiny room before this one, so we couldn’t really hear it, but we sat around drinking and talking for a while anyway. When Dave and I turned to leave, the tiny room was blocked off with people and we finally got a glimpse of the musicians, all seated at a booth. We turned around and found another exit, escaping out into an alley with trash receptacles.
Oh, yes, before that, I did some shopping around town with Linda and bought a souvenir for my mom and a Tara brooch for myself, although it was a great deal smaller and simpler than the real one that we saw at the museum in Ireland. And we went to a bookstore and I bought four books—all centered around Ireland, at least. We took our books to the hotel, and after putting mine into my luggage, I went up to the party in Dave’s room. Bailey's really warms you up. It's no wonder it's popular in Ireland, but this is summertime and I was getting hot drinking that stuff. It was quite yummy, though.
After the party, I went with Liz and Phil to a little Indian restaurant in the basement of a building—and it was really great food. Also great conversation. Phil and Liz are extremely liberal, and Liz like me isn’t a christian (I do remember earlier on the trip she said she has lots of books on Newgrange, so maybe she’s Pagan). We had a wonderful conversation about our dysfunctional families and about the dysfunctional families of people we know. I talked about my aunts, not to mention my brother and x-sister-in-law and her crazy parents.
Types of Irish tunes/dances:
Reel: 4-4 time
Hornpipe: 4-4 time plus a couple notes tacked at end (more swinging)
Jig: 6-6 time
Slip jig: more stuff thrown in
Oscar's—name of the hotel bar, and the ad copy includes a little portrait of Oscar Wilde in an oval. We had to walk through the bar to get to the restaurant for breakfast.
I unfortunately didn’t get to meditating this morning—all the more reason to be sure to do it tonight, no matter how late I’m out.
Limericks
While driving around and looking at breathtaking scenery—mountains and lakes-a couple people on the bus, namely Esther and Matt (the judge, not the bus driver) came up with limericks on the spot and spoke them into the microphone at the front of the bus.
The sheep in Ireland are lively
They like to stand in the driveway.
When the tour bus comes ‘round the corner,
They make a mad dash and flounder
And move aside without having a mourner.
That totally sucks. Someone asked me to do a limerick, and I said, “I write free verse.” The limerick I did write isn’t fit to share, although that certainly doesn’t stop Matt.
I just saw a spotted grey and white donkey in the same field as a brown horse and a brown baby horse.
“It’s not like they go to Bombs are Us,” Phil just said, in response to something about terrorists. (Someone’s reading a newspaper.)
Today we’ve passed several ruined churches (probably thanks to Cromwell) and a couple of castle ruins (also probably thanks to Cromwell). One of them was close to the road, and it was the simple kind that’s just a square tower. It’s overgrown with ivy and only has, at most, two storeys left. The other one, which we just passed, was only one wall covered with ivy, and it might have been another church, really, since there wasn’t much left and it was further from the road, it was hard to tell.
It’s a grey and rainy morning, although yesterday in Westport it was clear out, with a bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Really cute town with lots of storefronts painted in bright colors. Before we left this morning, I took a picture of the town centre with the clock tower.
Galway City
Trolley bay—the framework for parking grocery carts in the parking lot
Modern shopping centers--this town looks too American.
Salt Hill, holiday resort area, hotels double as student housing in winter.
Cladaugh ring, associated with this area--facing away from you=looking for companionship. Toward you=not interested or already have husband/boy friend
Heart of the city: much more quaint-looking architecture, reminiscent of Westport.
After Galway
We came to some more farmland and later stopped for a potty break at a cafeteria-style restaurant. After the restrooms some of us (including me) got drinks and snacks, and I was at the register behind the funny Dave. He jokingly asked the cashier if he could see her supervisor, because of something a server said. He had said, “Don’t confuse me, I’m groggy.” And she had replied, “What’s wrong? Too much sex and beer last night?”
Ennis
We stopped in Ennis for lunch.
Matthew told us about a strange group of gypsy-like people who travel in expensive modern trailers that include satellite discs and flush toilets and four-wheel drive. Travelers—that’s what they’re called, or tinkers. These people are extremely Catholic, but they overlook “thou shall not steal.” These travelers are legally allowed to drive onto people’s property if the gate is open (that is, in Ireland every house is surrounded by a stone or brick or otherwise fence with a gate). The girls marry when they’re fourteen, fifteen, sixteen (legal age is 16, and driving age is 17). They get their own trailer-caravan when they marry. They also tend to marry second cousins. Weddings can be quite violent—if there’s an argument, they’ll grab sticks and beat each other. It sounds to me like they need to attend Marshall Rosenberg’s nonviolent communication seminars. Some of their kids go to school, but not all, for instead they’re taught how to steal. If someone lets them stay in a house for the winter, they’ll stay for a week or 10 days and sell everything, and they go off to another county. The laws protect them, even though they’re thieves.
Ennis—Lynn just said that she and Dave just ate at a restaurant where the couple beside them was from Emporia, Kansas. Small world!
Cliffs of Moher
On the way to Moher, we just passed a faerie bush. It was tallish and slender and leaned dramatically from the center and had a couple red flowers. (I drew lines indicating the slant—an idea for a sculpture would be to make a faerie that’s pretending to be a faerie bush, based on that one.)We just passed another castle that was less than a whole wall. It had an arrow slit, which is more than I can say for the one we saw a few minutes ago. Lots of castle ruins and cathedral ruins.
Aran Islands (known for Aran sweaters)—three islands, small, medium, large
We had a limited amount of time to look at the Cliffs of Moher, but I absorbed a lot of scenery during that short time. We climbed a steep path, climbing and climbing, and came to an eighteenth-century gothic folly that was being used as a tourist shop on the first floor; you could also pay a small fee to climb up the winding staircase and view the cliffs from above in the tower, but I didn't feel like paying the fee for that, though I would have if we had had a couple hours rather than only forty-five minutes to spend there.
The Cliffs of Moher are probably about the most beautiful scenery I've ever seen. I mention this even though I've been to Colorado a few times, and I've been to continental Europe, to four German-speaking countries. The cliffs are very tall and steep, and you can look down close to the edge and see some big rocks surrounded by splashing waves.
The Burren
The perp Sean at the Burren had Noel taste a berry with a bizarre bitter taste that she said was the weirdest thing she’d ever tasted and made her tongue numb, and the perp said, “It makes girls stop talking.” I said somewhat quietly, “It should make boys stop talking.” Goddess knows, misogynist pricks like him are the ones who need to shut the fuck up, I thought, whereas women need to speak up.
As if that weren’t enough, he made many misogynistic comments throughout our tour, including a snide-ass remark that Irish “girls” will club their husbands with a stick. (If anyone made the mistake of marrying him, she’d have plenty of reason to do so.) Liz asked if people use the berries (or something) to make jelly, and he said no, “Irish girls don’t make jelly anymore,” and they’d beat a man over the had for suggesting it, and they have other things on their minds, and they wouldn’t want to break their nails.
We had walking sticks, since we were walking around on slick limestone with lots of holes and dips of earth between the sheets of limestone, and I kept looking at my walking stick and feeling really tempted to use it as a weapon. I rather think that Caroline at least would have joined in, since she was the one who said, “Do you get the feeling he doesn’t like women?” and I replied something like, “Oh, yeah, big time.” I was in a fuming rage most by that point. Dave the tour guide explained that he’s a bachelor farmer, as if that were an excuse—as if there were any such thing as an excuse. No wonder he’s single—not even the most clueless woman would marry such a pile of stinking excrement. Here's an ironic thing about misogyny: if a woman hadn’t given birth to the misogynist asshole, his worthless ass wouldn’t exist.
The stupid prick kept making these ignorant misogynist comments, and it really pissed me off, even though I had suspected I’d encounter a lot of misogynistic bullshit in Ireland. Lovely scenery, but get rid of the men. Either evolve or become extinct. (Of course, that’s my opinion of 80% of the male population in general, not just in Ireland.) Last night, when I went to bed, I tucked Yeats away in my purse and got back to reading some of the book that I brought with me to Ireland, The Serpent and the Goddess: Women, Religion, and Power in Celtic Ireland, to cleanse myself. Just gotta do it, probably tonight also.
Kinvara is the name of the town that has the hotel with thatched roof, Merriman Hotel. It's the largest thatched roof in Europe.
Dunhaugh Castle
The medieval banquet at Dunhaugh Castle last night was a delight. We first drank mead while listening to a harpist, and the actors (two woman and one man—and also the female harpist) introduced themselves as their characters and gave some historic background about the castle. A king Goya lived there in the 7th century. As everyone was filing toward the staircase, after having finished a cup of 15 proof mead, Minnie was pouring mead out of the pitcher and offering some, so I giggled and held out my cup, and she filled it. We went up a narrow spiral staircase—it may have been two floors, and I said, “It’s the Tower of London all over again.” We got to the Grand Hall, where there was a pavilion-like stage on one end for the actors, and the rest of the room was full of the long tables and benches. Dave and Lynn sat in the far center seats under a window and facing the stage so they were crowned king and queen. This resulted in Dave making some ornery proclamations and such, being the outgoing ham that he is. The food was good, and it took me a long time to finish the mead and switch to white wine, which I don’t think I ever finished, and I had to drink some water. Some of us didn’t want to start with salmon and had melon instead, and they made stir-fry for me and I think a few others—there are about three other people who don’t eat meat, though two make the exception for fish. Afterwards, we had apple tart with crème. There was acting and singing between the serving of courses and after the dinner. Basically, it was a dinner theater in a very old castle. I would have liked a tour, but they only do that in daytime. There’s a crafts workshop up above, closed in the evening.
In the gift shop, I bought a little tiny bottle of mead. Someone else bought six little tiny bottles of mead, even though full size bottles were available. Of course, the small ones are easier to pack.
Monday, August 1, 2005
Yeat's Grave
On the bus:
There’s a castle off in the distance, on a hill. According to Dave the tour guide says it’s probably an 18th or 19th century English castle, not fortified and Irish—Cromwell would have torn it down.
Countess Markovitz lived there—late Georgian, 1830s—first woman elected to Irish House of Commons. Yeats was a regular visitor, and we’re visiting his grave today.
This morning, from my bay window, I saw a beautiful short-haired white cat patrolling the BB grounds.
At dinner last night, Matthew the bus driver talked about his family. He’s the fifth of 8 children and his father is reluctant to pass the farm on—people from his generation want to hold onto the land for themselves, and Matthew was the only one interested in the farm. But even after getting married and having kids, he still didn’t have the farm, so he left and got jobs elsewhere (including bus driving). Ever since 1999, all his siblings have been giving him the silent treatment. One of his daughters (he has three kids) goes to high school and is in the same class as one of her cousins, and if she speaks to the cousin, she turns away. It’s not like they wanted the farm in the first place.
Drumcliffe
This is the site of Yeats’s grave, in an old churchyard, and the site of 9th century monastery.
A ninth century high cross stands at the same cemetery as Yeats’s grave, though it’s up on a wall. There's also the ruins of another round tower.
I stood over W. B. Yeats’s grave with the Cranberries song “Yeats’s Grave” appropriately running through my head, even though I don’t have many of the lyrics memorized. The atmosphere, the setting and all, got me feeling rather melancholy. Soon everyone gathered around Yeats’s grave, and Jim, the Yeats expert, recited one of his poems, “The Hosts of the Air.”
O’Driscoll drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O’Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
Even without knowing a huge amount about Yeats, I found it moving, and he did it entirely from memory. He afterwards said he was inspired by one of the Clancy brothers, who recited it at a concert. At the grave, a lump formed in my throat and tears in my eyes, but I didn’t want anyone to notice—I didn’t think anyone else was about to cry, and it struck me as silly. I’m not usually so sentimental. I got really in the mood to read some Yeats so I bought The Collected Poems of Yeats in the gift shop (and a metal cat sculpture based on a cat picture in the Book of Kells).
La Sola—has performed in Chicago and KC, and is from this area, Sligo.
Crough Patrick—pyramid-shaped mountain where Catholic pilgrims take off their shoes and climb or crawl (yesterday would have had a crowd—blood on the rocks from bare feet). As it was, a lot of people were climbing.
Killary Harbor
Killary Harbor is the only fjord in Ireland. So basically it's this big curving piece of bright blue water, and there are very green hills surrounding it. Lynn asked me if I wanted my picture taken standing in front of the fjord, and I said yes. Dave the kidder offered to stand next to me in the picture so that I could tell my mother this is a guy I met in Ireland.
1921—England wanted it, Ireland kept it.
At the Museum for Wool and Sheep, a guide demonstrated spinning, antoher stopped by and weaved and we went out and I petted sheep. Two cute lambs, one Welsh black sheep, large range of sheep. Three-horned sheep was supposed to have four horns, but one was broken; vaguely reminiscent of a unicorn.
Delphi Lodge is a country estate that got its name because a friend of Lord Byron’s saw it and was reminded of Delphi (having been on the Grand Tour of Europe). The bus just passed it in the woods—long path with signs and gateposts flanking it, and it’s a big big house, painted grey with white trim.
During the famine, forty poor starving people walked a great distance to the Delphi Lodge to beg for food, but the English landlord refused, and they all died of starvation. On the landscape nearby, with a lake and mountains and grassland but not trees, a cross was put up by an African group, during the tail end of Apartheid (photo). 12 miles down the road from Delphi, but at that time there was no road—it was like trying to do a marathon when you’re starving to death in harsh weather.
Louisburgh
A grant from the EU is promoting forestation—conifers from Scandinavian countries. Could plant evergreen, or deciduous trees but they don’t grow as fast. 25 years after planting, you own the plantation.
A disadvantage of these deciduous plants is that they have an acidic coating that’s getting into the lakes and rivers, polluting them. Like, duh, so what if they’re faster?! Plant the trees that are compatible with the island’s ecology! Why do people have to be so stupid about ecology?
The European Union (EU) is really helping the Irish economy. Evidence includes all the house building we see.
Mirrisk Millennium Park (I’m not sure I spelled that right—messy handwriting)—photos:
Famine Memorial (ship with skeletons)
Ducks in pond
Lake and islands in distance
The park is across the road from the path leading to the pilgrimage mountain.
I’ve decided that I like sheep. They’re cute, they’re friendly, and they make funny noises. Baa-baa—it really is loud and comical close up.
So far I’ve seen four black sheep, and I think they’re the prettiest, probably in part because they stand out amid all the paler sheep. They’re actually a very dark brown, maybe a little black, but more brown. Being a black sheep is cool.
At the Wool and Sheep Museum, when we went outside to see the sheep, the guide called the old dog, Shep, and eventually he came jogging up. But after she let him in through the gate, he ignored the sheep and headed for a wooden fence near some people from the tour group, and he squeezed between two wooden planks in the fence, escaping to the sidewalk.
At one point early in the trip, we saw about four sheep running downward on a mountain—that was a sight. They can actually run pretty fast, when they want to. Today I saw a pair running side by side, as if racing the bus. And around the lake, some of them are down low on the bank, even on sort of cliffs.
Grada—Irish band (Bob said they’re really good—there was a poster advertising a concert in the window of a pub, but unfortunately we won’t be here to see them)
There’s a castle off in the distance, on a hill. According to Dave the tour guide says it’s probably an 18th or 19th century English castle, not fortified and Irish—Cromwell would have torn it down.
Countess Markovitz lived there—late Georgian, 1830s—first woman elected to Irish House of Commons. Yeats was a regular visitor, and we’re visiting his grave today.
This morning, from my bay window, I saw a beautiful short-haired white cat patrolling the BB grounds.
At dinner last night, Matthew the bus driver talked about his family. He’s the fifth of 8 children and his father is reluctant to pass the farm on—people from his generation want to hold onto the land for themselves, and Matthew was the only one interested in the farm. But even after getting married and having kids, he still didn’t have the farm, so he left and got jobs elsewhere (including bus driving). Ever since 1999, all his siblings have been giving him the silent treatment. One of his daughters (he has three kids) goes to high school and is in the same class as one of her cousins, and if she speaks to the cousin, she turns away. It’s not like they wanted the farm in the first place.
Drumcliffe
This is the site of Yeats’s grave, in an old churchyard, and the site of 9th century monastery.
A ninth century high cross stands at the same cemetery as Yeats’s grave, though it’s up on a wall. There's also the ruins of another round tower.
I stood over W. B. Yeats’s grave with the Cranberries song “Yeats’s Grave” appropriately running through my head, even though I don’t have many of the lyrics memorized. The atmosphere, the setting and all, got me feeling rather melancholy. Soon everyone gathered around Yeats’s grave, and Jim, the Yeats expert, recited one of his poems, “The Hosts of the Air.”
O’Driscoll drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night-tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O’Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
Even without knowing a huge amount about Yeats, I found it moving, and he did it entirely from memory. He afterwards said he was inspired by one of the Clancy brothers, who recited it at a concert. At the grave, a lump formed in my throat and tears in my eyes, but I didn’t want anyone to notice—I didn’t think anyone else was about to cry, and it struck me as silly. I’m not usually so sentimental. I got really in the mood to read some Yeats so I bought The Collected Poems of Yeats in the gift shop (and a metal cat sculpture based on a cat picture in the Book of Kells).
La Sola—has performed in Chicago and KC, and is from this area, Sligo.
Crough Patrick—pyramid-shaped mountain where Catholic pilgrims take off their shoes and climb or crawl (yesterday would have had a crowd—blood on the rocks from bare feet). As it was, a lot of people were climbing.
Killary Harbor
Killary Harbor is the only fjord in Ireland. So basically it's this big curving piece of bright blue water, and there are very green hills surrounding it. Lynn asked me if I wanted my picture taken standing in front of the fjord, and I said yes. Dave the kidder offered to stand next to me in the picture so that I could tell my mother this is a guy I met in Ireland.
1921—England wanted it, Ireland kept it.
At the Museum for Wool and Sheep, a guide demonstrated spinning, antoher stopped by and weaved and we went out and I petted sheep. Two cute lambs, one Welsh black sheep, large range of sheep. Three-horned sheep was supposed to have four horns, but one was broken; vaguely reminiscent of a unicorn.
Delphi Lodge is a country estate that got its name because a friend of Lord Byron’s saw it and was reminded of Delphi (having been on the Grand Tour of Europe). The bus just passed it in the woods—long path with signs and gateposts flanking it, and it’s a big big house, painted grey with white trim.
During the famine, forty poor starving people walked a great distance to the Delphi Lodge to beg for food, but the English landlord refused, and they all died of starvation. On the landscape nearby, with a lake and mountains and grassland but not trees, a cross was put up by an African group, during the tail end of Apartheid (photo). 12 miles down the road from Delphi, but at that time there was no road—it was like trying to do a marathon when you’re starving to death in harsh weather.
Louisburgh
A grant from the EU is promoting forestation—conifers from Scandinavian countries. Could plant evergreen, or deciduous trees but they don’t grow as fast. 25 years after planting, you own the plantation.
A disadvantage of these deciduous plants is that they have an acidic coating that’s getting into the lakes and rivers, polluting them. Like, duh, so what if they’re faster?! Plant the trees that are compatible with the island’s ecology! Why do people have to be so stupid about ecology?
The European Union (EU) is really helping the Irish economy. Evidence includes all the house building we see.
Mirrisk Millennium Park (I’m not sure I spelled that right—messy handwriting)—photos:
Famine Memorial (ship with skeletons)
Ducks in pond
Lake and islands in distance
The park is across the road from the path leading to the pilgrimage mountain.
I’ve decided that I like sheep. They’re cute, they’re friendly, and they make funny noises. Baa-baa—it really is loud and comical close up.
So far I’ve seen four black sheep, and I think they’re the prettiest, probably in part because they stand out amid all the paler sheep. They’re actually a very dark brown, maybe a little black, but more brown. Being a black sheep is cool.
At the Wool and Sheep Museum, when we went outside to see the sheep, the guide called the old dog, Shep, and eventually he came jogging up. But after she let him in through the gate, he ignored the sheep and headed for a wooden fence near some people from the tour group, and he squeezed between two wooden planks in the fence, escaping to the sidewalk.
At one point early in the trip, we saw about four sheep running downward on a mountain—that was a sight. They can actually run pretty fast, when they want to. Today I saw a pair running side by side, as if racing the bus. And around the lake, some of them are down low on the bank, even on sort of cliffs.
Grada—Irish band (Bob said they’re really good—there was a poster advertising a concert in the window of a pub, but unfortunately we won’t be here to see them)
Sunday, July 31, 2005
The Beleek Pottery Mill, Northern Ireland
1pm Sunday: Baleek (porcelain factory and tea room). Bus @ B&B 12:30pm
Belleek Pottery
In most of Ireland, the city centre is called a Square, but in Donegal County it’s called a diamond.
At the pottery factory, I got a Celtic knotwork vase, inspired by the Book of Kells. Afterwards, the bus ride was a sort of guided tour by a little kid named Jeff, John’s son (the guy who owns and built the B&B), and he did a good job for a little kid. Caroline, Liz and I got dropped off downtown (the diamond pretty much) and we shopped at a dollar store and a supermarket. Among other things, I bought two boxes of Bentley’s loose tea.
Back in Ballyshannon, we wandered into Dicey O’Reilley’s, where the hurling was going on a wide flat TV screen. That is, it’s a sport with sticks, not people throwing up. I had coke and sesame sticks, but soon I came to the conclusion that everyone was more interested in the game than in conversation, and I soon got tired of the game. The sesame sticks weren’t enough, and after wandering down the street, I came to the fast food place Abracadabra and had a pita sandwich and crisps covered in curry sauce; not bad for fast food, although it’s the only time I’ve had iceberg lettuce in this part of the world—in both England and Ireland they generally use stuff like romaine lettuce the way Americans use iceberg lettuce.
According to Matthew, the bus driver, Ireland has fox, badgers, weasels, no wild cats and not many deer.
Belleek Pottery
In most of Ireland, the city centre is called a Square, but in Donegal County it’s called a diamond.
At the pottery factory, I got a Celtic knotwork vase, inspired by the Book of Kells. Afterwards, the bus ride was a sort of guided tour by a little kid named Jeff, John’s son (the guy who owns and built the B&B), and he did a good job for a little kid. Caroline, Liz and I got dropped off downtown (the diamond pretty much) and we shopped at a dollar store and a supermarket. Among other things, I bought two boxes of Bentley’s loose tea.
Back in Ballyshannon, we wandered into Dicey O’Reilley’s, where the hurling was going on a wide flat TV screen. That is, it’s a sport with sticks, not people throwing up. I had coke and sesame sticks, but soon I came to the conclusion that everyone was more interested in the game than in conversation, and I soon got tired of the game. The sesame sticks weren’t enough, and after wandering down the street, I came to the fast food place Abracadabra and had a pita sandwich and crisps covered in curry sauce; not bad for fast food, although it’s the only time I’ve had iceberg lettuce in this part of the world—in both England and Ireland they generally use stuff like romaine lettuce the way Americans use iceberg lettuce.
According to Matthew, the bus driver, Ireland has fox, badgers, weasels, no wild cats and not many deer.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Ballyshannon, Ireland
We have arrived in Ballyshannon, in the Republic of Ireland, to attend the annual Ballyshannon Folk Festival, in addition to touring during the day.
“Did you order sunlight today?”
“His account is overdue, so he didn’t get it.”
(That’s a bit of dialogue I just overheard.)
Last night, we had dinner at the Horse’s Head, a pub (not to be confused with the horse’s other end), and I ordered one half pint of Guinness. I sipped very slowly, had a fun conversation, which is a good idea, since it took forever for our table to be served. After that big lunch at Kells, I wasn’t hungry when we showed up, so I just ordered a side dish of steamed vegetables—potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, but I was hungry by the time it arrived.
Afterwards, we went straight to the Ballyshannon Folk Fest, at the Abbey Centre, and saw three bands—North Clegg (and now I want all their CDs!) Joe Burke and Anne Conroy, and Altan (I’m much more familiar with Altan—they’re on the radio frequently).
I bought the Ballyshannon poster and the Altan CD. North Clegg didn’t bring CDs, but you can order them from their website (or perhaps get them at the Trad Irish music store at Temple Bar).
The tour group is spread between three Bed and Breakfasts, and I’m at the one that’s a one-mile walk away. So we walked to it last night, after the fest, and the weather was lovely and not raining. Chilly, but when you’re walking this is a good thing.
When we came to the Bed and Breakfast and crossed the street, I was really impressed—it looked like a big white mansion with a slightly winding drive flanked by landscaping. We came in through the front door, and I have room #2, which is in the front of the ground floor and has a big bay window, a very soft double bed, a bathroom (really, there’s a shower stall rather than a tub), tea things and even chocolate biscuits with the tea. It’s quite luxurious.
We’re on the tour bus, and we just passed a couple of donkeys in a field, grazing. Quite a few stone walls in this area too—we’re outside of Ballyshannon in County Donegal.
Earlier, while in town, we passed a pack of about five dogs, mostly black, and one was black and white. Border collie. That’s apparently a typical coloring. Someone on the bus said, “Maybe they’re looking for sheep.” And another, I think Phil, said, “They can herd tourists.”
Yesterday, I saw sheep on the bank ravenously tearing into grass, and I was tempted to yell, “Hey, watch out! Leave the roots!”
Dunkineeley. Town we drove through.
Peat—stacked in long piles, and also leaning in big plastic bags.
Places where you see black “earth” on the side of ridges forming a [_] (that’s an upside-down version of the shape I drew in my notebook)—that’s where they’ve been digging peat. Otherwise it looks like turf bog.
Stacked to dry—brick-like pieces
Labor-intensive work—the people in the area have the rights to the peat, so you shouldn’t grab a brick as a souvenir.
Rocky hills, sheep. Some of these sheep have long tails, like eight inches.
Glencolmcille=folk village
Markelt Towers, which we see on the banks overlooking the ocean, were built by the British because they thought Napoleon would invade. They were built from Donegal to Galway. People at the towers could signal with fire to different towers (like in Lord of the Rings).
Going around a curve, we saw two sheep standing in the middle of the narrow road—suddenly a car came along and the sheep ran to the side of the road.
The Irish still make rock walls.
Dolman—Burial ground, 3000 BCE—nobody knows who built this—may have been slave labor. Side stone, capital stone, roof stone, standing stone by entrance.
Earthquakes have made roof stones slide off.
Four dolmans in field with stone walls, one big chunk of quartz in wall—Patty (tour guide) says it was probably taken from a dolman.
As we walked back down the dirt path between fields, heading toward the bus, we stopped at a shed where we heard doggy whines. A member of the tour explained that she had opened the door earlier, and there was a sheepdog puppy in the shed. Apparently it was put in there because it isn't trained yet and would disturb the sheep. I took a picture of its nose sticking out of a crack.
Colum Kell—born in the year 521. Colum--Latin for “dove” Kell—Gaelic for “church”
Hung out at monasteries, copied for himself the Bible, secretly at night, got in trouble. High born, high king of Ireland, O’Connor took him to court. Colum banished to island of Iona—not allowed on Ireland.
561—resulted in a slaughter of this area.
O’Connell left Ireland in 1500—flight of the earls.
After tour, shopping in Donegal Town.
La Bella Donna=restaurant where we met up.
Tour bus—a car that just went by had a bar across the top that said “Doctor” instead of “Taxi,” and it had glowing green lights on either side of the bar.
Ash, oak, sycamore—indiginous trees are deciduous. Firs imported from Scandanavia and aren’t exactly compatible with the environment.
At the B&B--Heather, clover, lots of bright flowers (John planted dandelions just for his kid’s guinea pig).
Dunasi—the name of the B&B, means Forest of Fairies (there’s a fairy ring of trees in the front yard).
Famine graveyard—big hole to fill up with bodies, no tombstones. Don’t know who’s buried there, just know bodies were found (we passed a brown landmark sign that said “Famine Graveyard.”)
Kil=church
Bally=town
Stone walls—the Irish would rather starve than take charity form the Brits, so the Brits paid them a penny a day to build stone walls.
Below 3.5% unemployment now.
Most university grads employed here and high % go on to third level education.
Dicey Reilly’s Pub—extremely crowded pub with a big Buddha over fireplace (but all the pubs were crowded; Saturday night during Bank Holiday and the Festival—people out in front of the pubs and wall-to-wall indoors. We squeezed through the crowd, ordered drinks, and went up a staircase to the upstairs area, where there was the big Buddha that I took a picture of (and it turned out really dark—disposable camera).
“Did you order sunlight today?”
“His account is overdue, so he didn’t get it.”
(That’s a bit of dialogue I just overheard.)
Last night, we had dinner at the Horse’s Head, a pub (not to be confused with the horse’s other end), and I ordered one half pint of Guinness. I sipped very slowly, had a fun conversation, which is a good idea, since it took forever for our table to be served. After that big lunch at Kells, I wasn’t hungry when we showed up, so I just ordered a side dish of steamed vegetables—potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, but I was hungry by the time it arrived.
Afterwards, we went straight to the Ballyshannon Folk Fest, at the Abbey Centre, and saw three bands—North Clegg (and now I want all their CDs!) Joe Burke and Anne Conroy, and Altan (I’m much more familiar with Altan—they’re on the radio frequently).
I bought the Ballyshannon poster and the Altan CD. North Clegg didn’t bring CDs, but you can order them from their website (or perhaps get them at the Trad Irish music store at Temple Bar).
The tour group is spread between three Bed and Breakfasts, and I’m at the one that’s a one-mile walk away. So we walked to it last night, after the fest, and the weather was lovely and not raining. Chilly, but when you’re walking this is a good thing.
When we came to the Bed and Breakfast and crossed the street, I was really impressed—it looked like a big white mansion with a slightly winding drive flanked by landscaping. We came in through the front door, and I have room #2, which is in the front of the ground floor and has a big bay window, a very soft double bed, a bathroom (really, there’s a shower stall rather than a tub), tea things and even chocolate biscuits with the tea. It’s quite luxurious.
We’re on the tour bus, and we just passed a couple of donkeys in a field, grazing. Quite a few stone walls in this area too—we’re outside of Ballyshannon in County Donegal.
Earlier, while in town, we passed a pack of about five dogs, mostly black, and one was black and white. Border collie. That’s apparently a typical coloring. Someone on the bus said, “Maybe they’re looking for sheep.” And another, I think Phil, said, “They can herd tourists.”
Yesterday, I saw sheep on the bank ravenously tearing into grass, and I was tempted to yell, “Hey, watch out! Leave the roots!”
Dunkineeley. Town we drove through.
Peat—stacked in long piles, and also leaning in big plastic bags.
Places where you see black “earth” on the side of ridges forming a [_] (that’s an upside-down version of the shape I drew in my notebook)—that’s where they’ve been digging peat. Otherwise it looks like turf bog.
Stacked to dry—brick-like pieces
Labor-intensive work—the people in the area have the rights to the peat, so you shouldn’t grab a brick as a souvenir.
Rocky hills, sheep. Some of these sheep have long tails, like eight inches.
Glencolmcille=folk village
Markelt Towers, which we see on the banks overlooking the ocean, were built by the British because they thought Napoleon would invade. They were built from Donegal to Galway. People at the towers could signal with fire to different towers (like in Lord of the Rings).
Going around a curve, we saw two sheep standing in the middle of the narrow road—suddenly a car came along and the sheep ran to the side of the road.
The Irish still make rock walls.
Dolman—Burial ground, 3000 BCE—nobody knows who built this—may have been slave labor. Side stone, capital stone, roof stone, standing stone by entrance.
Earthquakes have made roof stones slide off.
Four dolmans in field with stone walls, one big chunk of quartz in wall—Patty (tour guide) says it was probably taken from a dolman.
As we walked back down the dirt path between fields, heading toward the bus, we stopped at a shed where we heard doggy whines. A member of the tour explained that she had opened the door earlier, and there was a sheepdog puppy in the shed. Apparently it was put in there because it isn't trained yet and would disturb the sheep. I took a picture of its nose sticking out of a crack.
Colum Kell—born in the year 521. Colum--Latin for “dove” Kell—Gaelic for “church”
Hung out at monasteries, copied for himself the Bible, secretly at night, got in trouble. High born, high king of Ireland, O’Connor took him to court. Colum banished to island of Iona—not allowed on Ireland.
561—resulted in a slaughter of this area.
O’Connell left Ireland in 1500—flight of the earls.
After tour, shopping in Donegal Town.
La Bella Donna=restaurant where we met up.
Tour bus—a car that just went by had a bar across the top that said “Doctor” instead of “Taxi,” and it had glowing green lights on either side of the bar.
Ash, oak, sycamore—indiginous trees are deciduous. Firs imported from Scandanavia and aren’t exactly compatible with the environment.
At the B&B--Heather, clover, lots of bright flowers (John planted dandelions just for his kid’s guinea pig).
Dunasi—the name of the B&B, means Forest of Fairies (there’s a fairy ring of trees in the front yard).
Famine graveyard—big hole to fill up with bodies, no tombstones. Don’t know who’s buried there, just know bodies were found (we passed a brown landmark sign that said “Famine Graveyard.”)
Kil=church
Bally=town
Stone walls—the Irish would rather starve than take charity form the Brits, so the Brits paid them a penny a day to build stone walls.
Below 3.5% unemployment now.
Most university grads employed here and high % go on to third level education.
Dicey Reilly’s Pub—extremely crowded pub with a big Buddha over fireplace (but all the pubs were crowded; Saturday night during Bank Holiday and the Festival—people out in front of the pubs and wall-to-wall indoors. We squeezed through the crowd, ordered drinks, and went up a staircase to the upstairs area, where there was the big Buddha that I took a picture of (and it turned out really dark—disposable camera).
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wandering Around Ireland
Kilmainham Gaol
Kilmainham is a big old stone historic prison in Dublin. Over the front door is a fascinating carved design of a five-headed serpent or dragon. (I have so got to make a sculpture based on it).
The old jail (gaol) is close to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so we got to drive around this beautiful 18th century building, which was recently fixed up according to the bus driver, Matthew. Behind the museum, we saw a very beautiful French garden, with statues and carefully trimmed shrubs that form geometric pattern, very symmetrical set up. Toward back are two mazes made from shrubs. Front gates—just enough room to get the bus through, dark grey, have upper part of armor on posts on either side of gate. But there wasn’t room for the bus to get to the prison through there, so we had to turn around and use a different route.
In one jail yard, like a courtyard, stones were pulled up, body placed under, and quicklime poured to dissolve the body—make room for more bodies.
Great Famine—jail was crowded, because people committed crimes (stealing) to get in jail so they’d be guaranteed one meal a day. Before it was two a day, but they wanted to discourage people from committing crimes just to get in prison. Didn’t work.
The cells were build for one prisoner each, but sometimes it was overcrowded, like five in one cell during the Famine. 170 cells total.
1921—Three prisoners tried to break out, didn’t work first and second nights. On the third night, one (Mike Mahoney?) decided not to participate because 1) it didn’t work before and 2) he was innocent of the crime and expected he’d be set free after his trial, which was coming up soon. But the breakout was a success the third day, and the guy who decided not to escape was falsely accused by a false witness and hanged.
West Wing—oldest remaining part of Kilmainham Gaol, built in the 1700s, and that’s where DeValera’s cell is—or down the hall.
Room with green fireplace: Charles Parnell’s cell, furniture from his house, fire every day, visitors and his own family. Special because he was politician, wealthy and famous. He was allowed to leave his cell, walk around, even take a walk to the park. When his nephew died in Paris, he was allowed to go out for two weeks, as long as he promised to return. He went for the funeral in Paris, and kept his promise: returned in two weeks.
He attempted to gain independence through nonviolent means, through communicating with the English parliament. His speeches, however, inspired some people to rebel not so peacefully, and that resulted in his going to jail.
East Wing—Victorian, open and airy (looks like Reading Gaol, in the film Wilde). Glass ceiling, like a conservatory. Inside painted white, archways, natural light. Some of the cells have artwork you can see through the peephole—it’s all relevant to the prison’s history (particularly as a political prison—all the rebels of 1916, 97 men, were executed there). One painting was called “When Love Dies” and had as the background full-size white bricks that blended with the wall, and grey, black—that at some point I thought looked like a penis and at some point I thought looked like a chain that was breaking. “Woman weeping” was abstract-ish—face with a hand on the cheek, I think, and mostly in red—and a cloth was draped over half the canvas.
“The Prison Cell”—messy ball of rusty wire/metal, about three feet tall and six feet wide, reminiscent of a nest. Also, in the big open center space, there are metal walkways for each of the three levels, and metal stairs. Spiral metal staircase leading to top level and used for feeding time. With this set up, one guard could keep an eye on many cells at once. Also rolled out a carpet as he moved along so he cold sneak up on prisoners. Some prisoners carved messages over the outside of the cell door, such as the town they came from. One said “To let” and another gave the name of a hotel.
Graffiti decorates many of the cell walls. Steps are generally very worn, some even slanting downward. It took 26 years to renovate starting in the 1940s, but there are still some unsafe places, and some walls in corridors have a derelict, crumbly look. ("I do not like yon Cascius. He hath a derelict and crumbly look." OK, that's not quite Shakespeare.)
Kells
We took a one-hour drive to the town of Kells, where some of us had lunch at the Heritage Centre (tea, potatoes with Mediterranean vegetables). Liz mentioned at lunch: Americans for the Arts has a website that gives statistics on stuff like how many artists in a town.
After lunch, I lost track of where everyone was and wandered up the road. I saw a really old—medieval—round tower in the distance, so I went for it. It was at St. Colum’s Church, build in 1805 and the yard is full of extremely old tombstones, a few of which are high crosses, as in Celtic knotwork. Also, there’s a round tower in ruins (missing the pointed roof) and I drew a quick sketch, since I forgot to put a new disposable camera in my purse and don’t want to ask Matthew (the driver) to open the luggage compartment just so I can get a camera out of my bag. I was concerned about time, because it was an hour by the time we left the Heritage Centre, so I only had one half hour to wander through the town. I met up with a couple more people-Dave & Lynn—and we walked back to the Centre, where they went in for brochures and I sketched the medieval high cross in front of the Centre.
Something I didn’t get around to writing in Dublin: not all Irish people have red or blonde hair. Some have brown or black hair. Some have pink, or maroon and black, or yellow and black. I saw one guy with butt-length blonde dreadlocks. Also, there are Asians and Africans, some English or Japanese tourists, and people speaking what sounds like Slavic languages. Bosnian refugees? This of course all applies to Dublin, not the rest of Ireland.
I just saw a stone hawk with a horse’s head. It was in front of someone’s house.
Here I am writing on a moving bus, tricky as it is, and we’re listening to pretty Irish music. Bob McWilliams, being the radio announcer, bought some CDs in Dublin and is sharing them with us. Later they will no doubt be on the air, and I might even turn on the radio and recognize them. Dave joked that he could do his radio show right here on the b us. Bob also mentioned that he’s already recorded Sunday’s show in Kansas.
Bush=Terror
(Graffitti on back of highway sign—I had to smile, glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Shrubco is the most dangerous terrorist organization on the planet.)
The Iron Mountains—visible from the bus, not as high as the Rockies, but beautiful. A big one is flattish.
Enneskellin
We’re in Northern Ireland! Duck! Just kidding. No wonder I saw a British flag on top of a tower down the highway; that sort of weirded me out. Dave didn’t announce that we’re in Northern Ireland (by the way) until after we’d passed that flag.
Royalist flag: white background, red cross, white star in center with red hand, British crown above star and small British flag in upper right corner. These flags and British flags fluttering on many street light poles—every bloody pole. Showing off loyalty to England. Enneskellin is very Protestant and Royalist, but Dave said this isn’t as militant about it as other towns in Northern Ireland.
It’s just as well that we’re just passing through on our way to Ballyshannon, because this place gives me the creeps. To think my psycho relatives make such a big deal about our Irish ancestry, when this is where my Scotch-Irish ancestors came from! But then, that’s the side of the family that I am utterly disenchanted with—weird that I could have been brainwashed about relatives for all these years. For that matter, it’s gotten so anymore it’s hard not to be ashamed of being white. Sure, I know we’re all a part of this planet and everyone is part of the human family, but this attitude I've recently developed is thanks to Shrubco, Bigotville, and my Evil Stepfamily.
Ballyshannon
Last night, still in Dublin, we arrived at the Cultural Center—a beautiful yellow Georgian house—and went downstairs, through a room, upstairs, etc, like it was a maze, till we were in the balcony of an auditorium. When we went through what looked like a living room, there was a lovely fireplace and I could smell a peat fire (and see it) for the first time. Strange, smoky/earthy scent. (Actually, later Dave explained that that was a particular type of wood fire, not peat. So much for that.)
We just arrived in County Donegal—a yellow house had green words painted on the facade: “Welcome to Donegal.”
“79 people killed on Donegal roads in 2004”—sign we just passed, right after talking about the perilous road.
Stuck in traffic just outside of Ballyshannon--street sign ahead:
Beal atha Seanaidh
Ballyshannon
The first person to use the bus toilet was Matt the judge, and at least one person took a picture of him opening the door, amidst much giggling. We’ve been on the bus a bit too long. Noel took a picture, and Dave (not the guide, the other Dave) said, “We know what you really want to take a picture of!”
Ballyshannon is the oldest town in Ireland (according to the welcome sign).
Kilmainham is a big old stone historic prison in Dublin. Over the front door is a fascinating carved design of a five-headed serpent or dragon. (I have so got to make a sculpture based on it).
The old jail (gaol) is close to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so we got to drive around this beautiful 18th century building, which was recently fixed up according to the bus driver, Matthew. Behind the museum, we saw a very beautiful French garden, with statues and carefully trimmed shrubs that form geometric pattern, very symmetrical set up. Toward back are two mazes made from shrubs. Front gates—just enough room to get the bus through, dark grey, have upper part of armor on posts on either side of gate. But there wasn’t room for the bus to get to the prison through there, so we had to turn around and use a different route.
In one jail yard, like a courtyard, stones were pulled up, body placed under, and quicklime poured to dissolve the body—make room for more bodies.
Great Famine—jail was crowded, because people committed crimes (stealing) to get in jail so they’d be guaranteed one meal a day. Before it was two a day, but they wanted to discourage people from committing crimes just to get in prison. Didn’t work.
The cells were build for one prisoner each, but sometimes it was overcrowded, like five in one cell during the Famine. 170 cells total.
1921—Three prisoners tried to break out, didn’t work first and second nights. On the third night, one (Mike Mahoney?) decided not to participate because 1) it didn’t work before and 2) he was innocent of the crime and expected he’d be set free after his trial, which was coming up soon. But the breakout was a success the third day, and the guy who decided not to escape was falsely accused by a false witness and hanged.
West Wing—oldest remaining part of Kilmainham Gaol, built in the 1700s, and that’s where DeValera’s cell is—or down the hall.
Room with green fireplace: Charles Parnell’s cell, furniture from his house, fire every day, visitors and his own family. Special because he was politician, wealthy and famous. He was allowed to leave his cell, walk around, even take a walk to the park. When his nephew died in Paris, he was allowed to go out for two weeks, as long as he promised to return. He went for the funeral in Paris, and kept his promise: returned in two weeks.
He attempted to gain independence through nonviolent means, through communicating with the English parliament. His speeches, however, inspired some people to rebel not so peacefully, and that resulted in his going to jail.
East Wing—Victorian, open and airy (looks like Reading Gaol, in the film Wilde). Glass ceiling, like a conservatory. Inside painted white, archways, natural light. Some of the cells have artwork you can see through the peephole—it’s all relevant to the prison’s history (particularly as a political prison—all the rebels of 1916, 97 men, were executed there). One painting was called “When Love Dies” and had as the background full-size white bricks that blended with the wall, and grey, black—that at some point I thought looked like a penis and at some point I thought looked like a chain that was breaking. “Woman weeping” was abstract-ish—face with a hand on the cheek, I think, and mostly in red—and a cloth was draped over half the canvas.
“The Prison Cell”—messy ball of rusty wire/metal, about three feet tall and six feet wide, reminiscent of a nest. Also, in the big open center space, there are metal walkways for each of the three levels, and metal stairs. Spiral metal staircase leading to top level and used for feeding time. With this set up, one guard could keep an eye on many cells at once. Also rolled out a carpet as he moved along so he cold sneak up on prisoners. Some prisoners carved messages over the outside of the cell door, such as the town they came from. One said “To let” and another gave the name of a hotel.
Graffiti decorates many of the cell walls. Steps are generally very worn, some even slanting downward. It took 26 years to renovate starting in the 1940s, but there are still some unsafe places, and some walls in corridors have a derelict, crumbly look. ("I do not like yon Cascius. He hath a derelict and crumbly look." OK, that's not quite Shakespeare.)
Kells
We took a one-hour drive to the town of Kells, where some of us had lunch at the Heritage Centre (tea, potatoes with Mediterranean vegetables). Liz mentioned at lunch: Americans for the Arts has a website that gives statistics on stuff like how many artists in a town.
After lunch, I lost track of where everyone was and wandered up the road. I saw a really old—medieval—round tower in the distance, so I went for it. It was at St. Colum’s Church, build in 1805 and the yard is full of extremely old tombstones, a few of which are high crosses, as in Celtic knotwork. Also, there’s a round tower in ruins (missing the pointed roof) and I drew a quick sketch, since I forgot to put a new disposable camera in my purse and don’t want to ask Matthew (the driver) to open the luggage compartment just so I can get a camera out of my bag. I was concerned about time, because it was an hour by the time we left the Heritage Centre, so I only had one half hour to wander through the town. I met up with a couple more people-Dave & Lynn—and we walked back to the Centre, where they went in for brochures and I sketched the medieval high cross in front of the Centre.
Something I didn’t get around to writing in Dublin: not all Irish people have red or blonde hair. Some have brown or black hair. Some have pink, or maroon and black, or yellow and black. I saw one guy with butt-length blonde dreadlocks. Also, there are Asians and Africans, some English or Japanese tourists, and people speaking what sounds like Slavic languages. Bosnian refugees? This of course all applies to Dublin, not the rest of Ireland.
I just saw a stone hawk with a horse’s head. It was in front of someone’s house.
Here I am writing on a moving bus, tricky as it is, and we’re listening to pretty Irish music. Bob McWilliams, being the radio announcer, bought some CDs in Dublin and is sharing them with us. Later they will no doubt be on the air, and I might even turn on the radio and recognize them. Dave joked that he could do his radio show right here on the b us. Bob also mentioned that he’s already recorded Sunday’s show in Kansas.
Bush=Terror
(Graffitti on back of highway sign—I had to smile, glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Shrubco is the most dangerous terrorist organization on the planet.)
The Iron Mountains—visible from the bus, not as high as the Rockies, but beautiful. A big one is flattish.
Enneskellin
We’re in Northern Ireland! Duck! Just kidding. No wonder I saw a British flag on top of a tower down the highway; that sort of weirded me out. Dave didn’t announce that we’re in Northern Ireland (by the way) until after we’d passed that flag.
Royalist flag: white background, red cross, white star in center with red hand, British crown above star and small British flag in upper right corner. These flags and British flags fluttering on many street light poles—every bloody pole. Showing off loyalty to England. Enneskellin is very Protestant and Royalist, but Dave said this isn’t as militant about it as other towns in Northern Ireland.
It’s just as well that we’re just passing through on our way to Ballyshannon, because this place gives me the creeps. To think my psycho relatives make such a big deal about our Irish ancestry, when this is where my Scotch-Irish ancestors came from! But then, that’s the side of the family that I am utterly disenchanted with—weird that I could have been brainwashed about relatives for all these years. For that matter, it’s gotten so anymore it’s hard not to be ashamed of being white. Sure, I know we’re all a part of this planet and everyone is part of the human family, but this attitude I've recently developed is thanks to Shrubco, Bigotville, and my Evil Stepfamily.
Ballyshannon
Last night, still in Dublin, we arrived at the Cultural Center—a beautiful yellow Georgian house—and went downstairs, through a room, upstairs, etc, like it was a maze, till we were in the balcony of an auditorium. When we went through what looked like a living room, there was a lovely fireplace and I could smell a peat fire (and see it) for the first time. Strange, smoky/earthy scent. (Actually, later Dave explained that that was a particular type of wood fire, not peat. So much for that.)
We just arrived in County Donegal—a yellow house had green words painted on the facade: “Welcome to Donegal.”
“79 people killed on Donegal roads in 2004”—sign we just passed, right after talking about the perilous road.
Stuck in traffic just outside of Ballyshannon--street sign ahead:
Beal atha Seanaidh
Ballyshannon
The first person to use the bus toilet was Matt the judge, and at least one person took a picture of him opening the door, amidst much giggling. We’ve been on the bus a bit too long. Noel took a picture, and Dave (not the guide, the other Dave) said, “We know what you really want to take a picture of!”
Ballyshannon is the oldest town in Ireland (according to the welcome sign).
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Bru Na Boigne, Ireland
Dublin
I can hear seagulls from my hotel room. There are casement windows, and after I put on sunscreen I heard rain and took a peak out the window. Raining steadily. What a waste of sunscreen.
On the drive back from Knowth, I just saw five beehive cabins of stone…but they looked really small and like they were built recently, not a thousand years ago. Touristy, I guess.
One hour drive from Dublin to Knowth (I enjoyed the scenery from the bus, like old churches with round towers and very old graveyards).
Bru na Boigne
On the way to Bru na Boigne, we passed, just outside Dublin, an old church with a round tower and a beautiful cemetery. I particularly noticed a white marble effigy with a darker stone surrounding it, as a platform and roof with many columns surrounding the white figure. There was a small mausoleum by it. It occurred to me that Tim Burton should use this scene in a film. Really, he’d have a great time filming in Ireland. Maybe I should send him an e-mail. Mmm, maybe not.
Being at Knowth, drizzle and all, was like being home at last. Neolithic passage graves that predate the pyramids, actually some of them are more than just graves. More like temples, same as Newgrange (which we drove right past—I saw it up on a hill on my left! I was so tempted to yell, “Stop the bus!” and pull out my camera—of course, I figured I’d get postcards at the visitors center that would be better pictures than I’d take).
At the Bru na Boigne visitors center, we had a little time in the shop, where I grabbed a whole bunch of books about Newgrange, Knowth, one on Dowth (the other passage grave at Bru na Boigne, and the least popular since it hasn’t been restored), and Neolithic Ireland in general. I also got a book on Sheela-na-gigs, and a clay necklace with Newgrange swirleys on it.
After the tour, we went back to the visitors center and had lunch. I had a rich piece of chocolate cake. And of course tea.
We also went into a big round room where we watched a film about Newgrange and then went through a door into a tunnel and room that are a recreation of the main chamber of Newgrange, where we got to witness a simulation of what happens on Winter Solstice at Newgrange, when the sunlight goes through the little window over the front door. That was sublime.
Back in Dublin
Dublin: Museum of Ireland—gold torques and such, Tara brooch
Trinity College: Book of Kells and library
Walk with Linda to Hard Rock Café and wool mill—the latter turned out to be closed, but down the street was an African art shop—statues and boxes and beads, oh my, and I had to dash in and bought a purple and white stone cat.
No trouble understanding tour guides—and they’re experts in the field, archeologists. Kieran, the tour guide at the Museum, was a cute Irish boy with curly black hair, big black eyes and long lashes.
Jackdaw—birds that I thought were part crow/ part pigeon (lots of them were at Trinity College, and a guard at the doorway to the Book of Kells explained what they are).
Evening—going to a concert (after dinner at the Eliza Lodge). Pretty eighteenth century building (most of the buildings in Dublin seem to be 18th century), concert in an auditorium where we sat in the balcony, the performers mostly looked like they were about twenty years old. One set of bagpipes, plenty of fiddles and drums and an accordion. Afterward, we went into a basement area, where there was more music and dance in front of a fireplace and we had tea. It was a much more intimate setting.
I can hear seagulls from my hotel room. There are casement windows, and after I put on sunscreen I heard rain and took a peak out the window. Raining steadily. What a waste of sunscreen.
On the drive back from Knowth, I just saw five beehive cabins of stone…but they looked really small and like they were built recently, not a thousand years ago. Touristy, I guess.
One hour drive from Dublin to Knowth (I enjoyed the scenery from the bus, like old churches with round towers and very old graveyards).
Bru na Boigne
On the way to Bru na Boigne, we passed, just outside Dublin, an old church with a round tower and a beautiful cemetery. I particularly noticed a white marble effigy with a darker stone surrounding it, as a platform and roof with many columns surrounding the white figure. There was a small mausoleum by it. It occurred to me that Tim Burton should use this scene in a film. Really, he’d have a great time filming in Ireland. Maybe I should send him an e-mail. Mmm, maybe not.
Being at Knowth, drizzle and all, was like being home at last. Neolithic passage graves that predate the pyramids, actually some of them are more than just graves. More like temples, same as Newgrange (which we drove right past—I saw it up on a hill on my left! I was so tempted to yell, “Stop the bus!” and pull out my camera—of course, I figured I’d get postcards at the visitors center that would be better pictures than I’d take).
At the Bru na Boigne visitors center, we had a little time in the shop, where I grabbed a whole bunch of books about Newgrange, Knowth, one on Dowth (the other passage grave at Bru na Boigne, and the least popular since it hasn’t been restored), and Neolithic Ireland in general. I also got a book on Sheela-na-gigs, and a clay necklace with Newgrange swirleys on it.
After the tour, we went back to the visitors center and had lunch. I had a rich piece of chocolate cake. And of course tea.
We also went into a big round room where we watched a film about Newgrange and then went through a door into a tunnel and room that are a recreation of the main chamber of Newgrange, where we got to witness a simulation of what happens on Winter Solstice at Newgrange, when the sunlight goes through the little window over the front door. That was sublime.
Back in Dublin
Dublin: Museum of Ireland—gold torques and such, Tara brooch
Trinity College: Book of Kells and library
Walk with Linda to Hard Rock Café and wool mill—the latter turned out to be closed, but down the street was an African art shop—statues and boxes and beads, oh my, and I had to dash in and bought a purple and white stone cat.
No trouble understanding tour guides—and they’re experts in the field, archeologists. Kieran, the tour guide at the Museum, was a cute Irish boy with curly black hair, big black eyes and long lashes.
Jackdaw—birds that I thought were part crow/ part pigeon (lots of them were at Trinity College, and a guard at the doorway to the Book of Kells explained what they are).
Evening—going to a concert (after dinner at the Eliza Lodge). Pretty eighteenth century building (most of the buildings in Dublin seem to be 18th century), concert in an auditorium where we sat in the balcony, the performers mostly looked like they were about twenty years old. One set of bagpipes, plenty of fiddles and drums and an accordion. Afterward, we went into a basement area, where there was more music and dance in front of a fireplace and we had tea. It was a much more intimate setting.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Dublin and Oscar Wilde
I just saw a bird that at first I thought was a pigeon, but it crowed. Wow, I never thought I’d hear a noise like that out of a pigeon. I took another look, and it appears to be a cross between a crow and a pigeon—it has the white, blue and grey wings of a pigeon but otherwise is a black crow. Weird. (Later I saw more of these birds and learned that they're jackdaws.)
I’ve returned to the Archbishop Ryan Park after going over and taking pictures of 1 Merrion Square, the house where Oscar Wilde grew up. It’s only down the street from the house where he was born, which is much more modest, just a tall rectangle that appears to be part of an apartment building—meaning, the buildings are identical (18th century Georgian) and right up against each other, no space at all. But anyway, I’m at this sort of patio in the park. You go up cobblestone steps to a cobblestone surface with park benches (green with black ends and with graffiti), and a stone mausoleum-like structure with three bricked-in archways and urns on top.
Just down the walkway is the Oscar Wilde Memorial, otherwise known as the Fag on the Crag—a sculpture of him on a rock—where tourists from different countries are continually flocking. A student sat down and started sketching him. Across the path from him are two rectangular, glossy dark stone pillars with numerous quotes, on all four sides; in his handwriting. On top of each is a statue representing beauty—one a male torso and the other a nude female, both in Greek style, very Oscar Wilde.
Some of the Oscar Wilde quotes on columns:
There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it but molds it to its purpose.
Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.
Being natural is only a pose.
It seems to me all look at nature too much and live with it too little.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.
I have slightly more than an hour before I have to be back at the lodge (Eliza Lodge) to meet up with the rest of the tour group—but actually check-in is 1 pm, in less than an hour, since it’s 12:15. Birds are trilling, the weather is beautiful (very below 100 degrees), and beautiful plants surround me. There are a few people around, but it’s not a big crowd like around Temple Bar and the Quay.
I feel like I’ve wandered all over Central Dublin—maybe I have. I found my way to the Abbey Theatre, but the box office opens at 10:30 am, and I was an hour early (gee, at the Symphony it was 9 am). So I walked around to get to know the neighborhood, like O’Connor Street I saw a pretty building, Neoclassical with columns and statues on the roof—in the distance and decided to find out what it was. It turned out to be the Post Office, and right there in the front window is the famous statue of Cuchulain commemorating the rebellion of 1916. After that, I wandered my way back across the river (the Halfpenny Bridge is cute, and I’ve crossed it about three times now) and I more or less circled the Temple Bar areas, looking at what shops are there. Boots is one of them, and a juice/sandwich shop called O’Brien’s is about three locations that I’ve seen so far. After that, I went back to the Abbey Theatre and got a ticket for The Importance of Being Earnest. Then I headed back across the bridge and found the birthplace of Oscar Wilde (21 Westland Row), and the house where he grew up (1 Merrion Square, now the College of Dublin), and the Oscar Wilde Monument. Quite a communing with Oscar Wilde.
Dub-lin (Black Pool)—Viking settlement is now under Dublin Corporate Offices (government office—ugly building)
Later—9:10 pm—
When I was done hanging out with Oscar, I got back to the Eliza Lodge, when I heard a cheerful male voice call, “Susan!” I turned and there was Phil Wilke, a representative of Kansas Public Radio, which is responsible for this tour. He was accompanied by our guide, Dave. I commented on how startling it was that I’d only been in the country for a few hours, and someone called my name. So we had jokes about “Who do you know in Ireland” along with greetings. It turned out that most of the tour group had arrived and my room wasn’t ready yet. Maid service was working on it, but I could hang out in the first floor lounge (one floor up). So I went up there and chatted with other members of the tour. Eventually my room was done and I got my luggage in it and it wasn’t long after we had a meeting in the lounge, re-introducing ourselves and whatnot.
Dave gave us a walking tour and sort of history lesson on Viking Dublin. Next to Christ Church Cathedral is a mosaic of the floor plan of a Viking house, the foundations of which are now a few feet away under a butt-ugly new office building. On the site of this building, archeologists found a treasure trove of Viking stuff, and they had a limited time to unearth it because the jerks wouldn’t change their plans to start building the ugly box on a specific date. Ugly, plain, grey concrete block, and there’s still an ancient treasure trove under it, though what they did excavate is in a local museum, the Dublin History Museum.
We also walked around the façade of Christ Church Cathedral, where Dave said they have vespers, I think it’s called, a choir singing something quiet and soothing, and it’s supposed to be at 6 pm—he even double-checked. And we walked to Trinity College—which is gorgeous—and before that we went to a piece of the original Dublin Wall, dating to 1180 and in excellent shape—even the metal gate, in an archway, has survived. It leads to an old church called St. Aul’s or something. Before Trinity, we went to Dublin Castle and looked at the lovely eighteenth century courtyard. At Trinity College, we admired the architecture and went in to a building with a café where some of us got drinks, and some used the restroom. (I got a raspberry-cranberry fruit juice that was yum yum.)
Afterwards, some of us went to a pub near the lodge—Fitzsimmons—for tea and to socialize, and I ordered a snack in addition to tea, since I skipped lunch—it was grilled French bread topped with cheese. It turned out to be a big slice accompanied by a salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and dressing. The tea was great—I asked for cream, and there was a lump of real cream in the bottom of my cup, in addition to a small porcelain pitcher of milk.
When we went to hear the music at Christ Church Cathedral, the doors were locked, so we waited around for someone to open the doors (there are benches just outside) and talked. I chatted with Liz, who volunteers with the Lawrence Public Library, and we talked library talk and also about my sculpting with sculpey, she told me about how she dies it off and on—though not in the past five years—and she’s taught kids to sculpt. Actually, she’s a professor in the Design department at KU in Lawrence.
Since the music wasn’t happening after all, we went to another pub near the Lodge, the Farriday or something like that (it’s painted bright red and the other is brown) and it just had still water (my snack had been filling enough) while the others had meals—and most had Guinness. I’ll probably try it tomorrow, or certainly at some point during the trip, since I haven’t tasted it since college…and didn’t like it then.
I afterwards went to the Internet café—the keyboard is like in England, so I grope around the keyboard looking for the right shift key. And AOL long distance has gotten weirder—apparently I can’t just click on addresses and send—I have to type up all the addresses.
I’ve returned to the Archbishop Ryan Park after going over and taking pictures of 1 Merrion Square, the house where Oscar Wilde grew up. It’s only down the street from the house where he was born, which is much more modest, just a tall rectangle that appears to be part of an apartment building—meaning, the buildings are identical (18th century Georgian) and right up against each other, no space at all. But anyway, I’m at this sort of patio in the park. You go up cobblestone steps to a cobblestone surface with park benches (green with black ends and with graffiti), and a stone mausoleum-like structure with three bricked-in archways and urns on top.
Just down the walkway is the Oscar Wilde Memorial, otherwise known as the Fag on the Crag—a sculpture of him on a rock—where tourists from different countries are continually flocking. A student sat down and started sketching him. Across the path from him are two rectangular, glossy dark stone pillars with numerous quotes, on all four sides; in his handwriting. On top of each is a statue representing beauty—one a male torso and the other a nude female, both in Greek style, very Oscar Wilde.
Some of the Oscar Wilde quotes on columns:
There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it but molds it to its purpose.
Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.
Being natural is only a pose.
It seems to me all look at nature too much and live with it too little.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.
I have slightly more than an hour before I have to be back at the lodge (Eliza Lodge) to meet up with the rest of the tour group—but actually check-in is 1 pm, in less than an hour, since it’s 12:15. Birds are trilling, the weather is beautiful (very below 100 degrees), and beautiful plants surround me. There are a few people around, but it’s not a big crowd like around Temple Bar and the Quay.
I feel like I’ve wandered all over Central Dublin—maybe I have. I found my way to the Abbey Theatre, but the box office opens at 10:30 am, and I was an hour early (gee, at the Symphony it was 9 am). So I walked around to get to know the neighborhood, like O’Connor Street I saw a pretty building, Neoclassical with columns and statues on the roof—in the distance and decided to find out what it was. It turned out to be the Post Office, and right there in the front window is the famous statue of Cuchulain commemorating the rebellion of 1916. After that, I wandered my way back across the river (the Halfpenny Bridge is cute, and I’ve crossed it about three times now) and I more or less circled the Temple Bar areas, looking at what shops are there. Boots is one of them, and a juice/sandwich shop called O’Brien’s is about three locations that I’ve seen so far. After that, I went back to the Abbey Theatre and got a ticket for The Importance of Being Earnest. Then I headed back across the bridge and found the birthplace of Oscar Wilde (21 Westland Row), and the house where he grew up (1 Merrion Square, now the College of Dublin), and the Oscar Wilde Monument. Quite a communing with Oscar Wilde.
Dub-lin (Black Pool)—Viking settlement is now under Dublin Corporate Offices (government office—ugly building)
Later—9:10 pm—
When I was done hanging out with Oscar, I got back to the Eliza Lodge, when I heard a cheerful male voice call, “Susan!” I turned and there was Phil Wilke, a representative of Kansas Public Radio, which is responsible for this tour. He was accompanied by our guide, Dave. I commented on how startling it was that I’d only been in the country for a few hours, and someone called my name. So we had jokes about “Who do you know in Ireland” along with greetings. It turned out that most of the tour group had arrived and my room wasn’t ready yet. Maid service was working on it, but I could hang out in the first floor lounge (one floor up). So I went up there and chatted with other members of the tour. Eventually my room was done and I got my luggage in it and it wasn’t long after we had a meeting in the lounge, re-introducing ourselves and whatnot.
Dave gave us a walking tour and sort of history lesson on Viking Dublin. Next to Christ Church Cathedral is a mosaic of the floor plan of a Viking house, the foundations of which are now a few feet away under a butt-ugly new office building. On the site of this building, archeologists found a treasure trove of Viking stuff, and they had a limited time to unearth it because the jerks wouldn’t change their plans to start building the ugly box on a specific date. Ugly, plain, grey concrete block, and there’s still an ancient treasure trove under it, though what they did excavate is in a local museum, the Dublin History Museum.
We also walked around the façade of Christ Church Cathedral, where Dave said they have vespers, I think it’s called, a choir singing something quiet and soothing, and it’s supposed to be at 6 pm—he even double-checked. And we walked to Trinity College—which is gorgeous—and before that we went to a piece of the original Dublin Wall, dating to 1180 and in excellent shape—even the metal gate, in an archway, has survived. It leads to an old church called St. Aul’s or something. Before Trinity, we went to Dublin Castle and looked at the lovely eighteenth century courtyard. At Trinity College, we admired the architecture and went in to a building with a café where some of us got drinks, and some used the restroom. (I got a raspberry-cranberry fruit juice that was yum yum.)
Afterwards, some of us went to a pub near the lodge—Fitzsimmons—for tea and to socialize, and I ordered a snack in addition to tea, since I skipped lunch—it was grilled French bread topped with cheese. It turned out to be a big slice accompanied by a salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and dressing. The tea was great—I asked for cream, and there was a lump of real cream in the bottom of my cup, in addition to a small porcelain pitcher of milk.
When we went to hear the music at Christ Church Cathedral, the doors were locked, so we waited around for someone to open the doors (there are benches just outside) and talked. I chatted with Liz, who volunteers with the Lawrence Public Library, and we talked library talk and also about my sculpting with sculpey, she told me about how she dies it off and on—though not in the past five years—and she’s taught kids to sculpt. Actually, she’s a professor in the Design department at KU in Lawrence.
Since the music wasn’t happening after all, we went to another pub near the Lodge, the Farriday or something like that (it’s painted bright red and the other is brown) and it just had still water (my snack had been filling enough) while the others had meals—and most had Guinness. I’ll probably try it tomorrow, or certainly at some point during the trip, since I haven’t tasted it since college…and didn’t like it then.
I afterwards went to the Internet café—the keyboard is like in England, so I grope around the keyboard looking for the right shift key. And AOL long distance has gotten weirder—apparently I can’t just click on addresses and send—I have to type up all the addresses.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
On the Rocky Road to Dublin
Kansas City Airport
Before waking up to my alarm, I was having a dream in which I was at a Tibetan Buddhist temple in North America, at least I’m pretty sure it was this continent. The room was painted dark red and was large, and there was a stage-like section at the front of the room where lamas were dressed in brilliantly colored brocade robes. I sat in the front row center, about six feet back from the lamas, at a dark wood table that was long and had a somewhat rough surface, full of grooves and texture.
With me sat several young Westerners, white and in their twenties. Meanwhile, there was a ritual, or almost a sort of lecture, that the lamas (or two of them—there were about four) spoke entirely in Tibetan, and I had no idea what they were saying. When they were finished, I didn’t remember whether they moved away, but the young people I sat with got into a conversation. While they spoke, I noticed at some point a small, rectangular dark brown tray sitting on the table in front of me, about a foot away from the edge I sat at. The kids got interested in it, and I suddenly realized what the contents were, and I said, “Oh, it’s for making sand mandalas.” They didn’t comment and turned to something else, while I looked at the sand—a mess of colorful sand that looked like it was left over from a sand mandala, and the colors were now mixed together, discarded, looking forgotten, dingy, and rejected. There were reds and yellow, but they were dark and dingy, not bright and happy.
Next I noticed that those young people were giving away some sort of paper—or list perhaps—and they were signing up for something, perhaps for attendance to this event. They had little white pieces of paper, like handwritten receipt, and I waited for my turn to sign up. I said something, and finally after everyone else had written on the paper, they scooted a little brown tray (clay, matching the tray that contained the sand) and on it was one of the slips of paper. I looked down at it, and it was blank except for the lines, and suddenly I was the only one at the table-the kids had left me. Actually, I had made attempts to be in their conversation, and the second time I did so was just as they pushed the piece of paper toward me—like they left right after I opened my big mouth.
The most noticeable theme—or themes--in this dream were:
1) MATERIAL THINGS—I was fascinated by the beautiful brocade robes the lamas wore, the patterns and colors, in a “oh, how pretty!” sort of way, like a child, rather than feeling particularly spiritual. I stroked the bumpy texture of the table. I picked up a table scarf made of red brocade and inspected it, discovering that the yellow silk – had been sewn on somewhat sloppily by machine, and I told myself that if they’d gone around the corners by hand, it would have turned out better. It was mostly a rectangular shape except for a circular center and therefore had sharp curves. Also, the sand was dingy and left-over, no longer of spiritual significance. In short, I was gazing at this temple all wrong, in a visual and materialist rather than spiritual sort of way. (Nonetheless, aesthetic, and aesthetics can be very spiritual.)
2) FEELING OUT OF PLACE, SOCIALLY INEPT—I didn’t understand what the lamas were saying and wasn’t paying much attention to the words or gestures, just to their pretty clothing. I felt extremely awkward and out of place, concerned about what this group of young people would think of me, a visitor—an outsider. I made my inept attempt at participating in their conversation, only making a fool of myself and chasing them away—I’ve had countless such experiences when I’ve attempted small talk or attempted to mingle, so it’s really no wonder I’m so asocial and have sort of given up socializing for the most part. And when they all disappeared at the end of the dream, I felt rejected and alienated. The only people I even attempted to interact with were young Westerners with American accents, probably college students (and college is the only long-term atmosphere where I was really at home); I didn’t get into conversation with the lamas or with any Buddhist nuns, or anyone from the east.
It was, in short, not an auspicious dream, and all too reminiscent of Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. Like, am I really more fascinated by the showy stuff of Buddhism than serious about cultivating lovingkindness, detachment, and wisdom?
I’m at a café in the airport—I want to use the restroom before I go into the, oh, terminal waiting room, since you have to go through the security check point every time.
Yesterday, Aunt Heinrich Himmler dropped by in the evening to bid me farewell, and I showed her the canned cat food for Cheetah and all that. I did show her my new tall cabinet, and she looked at some of the statues I’ve made lately. I think she’s not only going deaf but totally losing her short term memory. Last time she visited me, I was working on my statue “The Snakes Return to Ireland,” a woman in traditional Irish dress and draped with snakes—or rather, a Celtic version of the Snake Goddess. This time, my aunt looked at the statue and asked, “Is this St. Patrick?” I did not snort, but simply explained (again, and uncomfortably) the name of the statue. It’s rather anti-St. Patrick, the Goddess-rejecting pompous ass. So there.
I have a bunch of my Pagan art upstairs, where she’s not likely to see them. It’s very fortunate that conservative relatives who are old and have bad knees are not crazy about climbing the stairs, and in some cases would rather sleep on the couch. But of course the statues are downstairs while I’m making them in the dining room and living room, and now what with the display cabinet downstairs. I’ve noticed with Aunt H.H. that she can look at such statues as “The Snakes Return to Ireland” and not see them for what they really are, Goddess art, and fortunately she’s not, so far as I can tell, suspicious. (If she were suspicious, I figure she wouldn’t have said anything about St. Patrick, and she probably wouldn’t talk about being Christian when she’s sitting at my dining room table in front of Goddesses, Buddhas and fairies-- or who knows, maybe she would.)
Another sculpture was Death—I took that statue and put her on top of the TV in order to take her photo in front of the bright blue wall. Ethel didn’t ask what her name is, though I was ready to say that she’s Death, even to mention that she’s based on a character in a comic book series. My statue of Death has one hand up in the Peace sign. Aunt H.H. thought it was a “victory” sign, of all things! That weirded me out, really, since I thought everyone on this planet is familiar with the peace sign—even Nixon was. I let her know that no, it’s a peace sign, and I made the sign with my left hand. H.H. explained that after WWII it was a “victory” sign and she added that “That was the beginning of peace,” displaying her total ignorance of what peace really is, far more than the opposite of war. In a country where 700,000 women are raped daily, peace does not thrive. It is so annoying and trying to be surrounded by people who assume patriarchy is the only way (even if they simultaneously don’t know what patriarchy is).
On the First Plane
Midwest Airlines seats are big, cushy, and brown. There are metal foot racks that fold in and out, and the trays are big and have a section for a cup or for resting glasses. I think I might want to keep this in mind. Airplanes for fat people. (Actually, I’d like to lose weight, but easier said than done. Fortunately, I’m not too fat for other airlines and hope I never shall be.)
I’ve decided that I prefer puffy clouds to streaking clouds or vague, shapeless mist. Puffy rolling clouds, even puffy clouds with somewhat circular holes, similar to whirlpools. Except I don’t think they were spinning—no, that would be a tornado.
As the plane was coming in to land in Milwaukee (one short stop), I looked down and thought the scene looked like mountains, models rather than the real thing. There were modern and not-so-modern suburban houses, many with swimming pools in the back yard forming b right blue circles, occasionally bright blue ovals. The only thing to suggest that it wasn’t a model was the tiny moving cars on the roads.
When the plane takes off again, it will head for Boston, where I’ll be getting on another plane…to Dublin.
Boston Airport
I had no idea Bostonians talk like gangsters—or should I say “gaingstas.” Actually, their accents remind me of 1940s movie comedies, and various characters from films. Now I’m hearing Irish accents. I could swoon.
Before waking up to my alarm, I was having a dream in which I was at a Tibetan Buddhist temple in North America, at least I’m pretty sure it was this continent. The room was painted dark red and was large, and there was a stage-like section at the front of the room where lamas were dressed in brilliantly colored brocade robes. I sat in the front row center, about six feet back from the lamas, at a dark wood table that was long and had a somewhat rough surface, full of grooves and texture.
With me sat several young Westerners, white and in their twenties. Meanwhile, there was a ritual, or almost a sort of lecture, that the lamas (or two of them—there were about four) spoke entirely in Tibetan, and I had no idea what they were saying. When they were finished, I didn’t remember whether they moved away, but the young people I sat with got into a conversation. While they spoke, I noticed at some point a small, rectangular dark brown tray sitting on the table in front of me, about a foot away from the edge I sat at. The kids got interested in it, and I suddenly realized what the contents were, and I said, “Oh, it’s for making sand mandalas.” They didn’t comment and turned to something else, while I looked at the sand—a mess of colorful sand that looked like it was left over from a sand mandala, and the colors were now mixed together, discarded, looking forgotten, dingy, and rejected. There were reds and yellow, but they were dark and dingy, not bright and happy.
Next I noticed that those young people were giving away some sort of paper—or list perhaps—and they were signing up for something, perhaps for attendance to this event. They had little white pieces of paper, like handwritten receipt, and I waited for my turn to sign up. I said something, and finally after everyone else had written on the paper, they scooted a little brown tray (clay, matching the tray that contained the sand) and on it was one of the slips of paper. I looked down at it, and it was blank except for the lines, and suddenly I was the only one at the table-the kids had left me. Actually, I had made attempts to be in their conversation, and the second time I did so was just as they pushed the piece of paper toward me—like they left right after I opened my big mouth.
The most noticeable theme—or themes--in this dream were:
1) MATERIAL THINGS—I was fascinated by the beautiful brocade robes the lamas wore, the patterns and colors, in a “oh, how pretty!” sort of way, like a child, rather than feeling particularly spiritual. I stroked the bumpy texture of the table. I picked up a table scarf made of red brocade and inspected it, discovering that the yellow silk – had been sewn on somewhat sloppily by machine, and I told myself that if they’d gone around the corners by hand, it would have turned out better. It was mostly a rectangular shape except for a circular center and therefore had sharp curves. Also, the sand was dingy and left-over, no longer of spiritual significance. In short, I was gazing at this temple all wrong, in a visual and materialist rather than spiritual sort of way. (Nonetheless, aesthetic, and aesthetics can be very spiritual.)
2) FEELING OUT OF PLACE, SOCIALLY INEPT—I didn’t understand what the lamas were saying and wasn’t paying much attention to the words or gestures, just to their pretty clothing. I felt extremely awkward and out of place, concerned about what this group of young people would think of me, a visitor—an outsider. I made my inept attempt at participating in their conversation, only making a fool of myself and chasing them away—I’ve had countless such experiences when I’ve attempted small talk or attempted to mingle, so it’s really no wonder I’m so asocial and have sort of given up socializing for the most part. And when they all disappeared at the end of the dream, I felt rejected and alienated. The only people I even attempted to interact with were young Westerners with American accents, probably college students (and college is the only long-term atmosphere where I was really at home); I didn’t get into conversation with the lamas or with any Buddhist nuns, or anyone from the east.
It was, in short, not an auspicious dream, and all too reminiscent of Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. Like, am I really more fascinated by the showy stuff of Buddhism than serious about cultivating lovingkindness, detachment, and wisdom?
I’m at a café in the airport—I want to use the restroom before I go into the, oh, terminal waiting room, since you have to go through the security check point every time.
Yesterday, Aunt Heinrich Himmler dropped by in the evening to bid me farewell, and I showed her the canned cat food for Cheetah and all that. I did show her my new tall cabinet, and she looked at some of the statues I’ve made lately. I think she’s not only going deaf but totally losing her short term memory. Last time she visited me, I was working on my statue “The Snakes Return to Ireland,” a woman in traditional Irish dress and draped with snakes—or rather, a Celtic version of the Snake Goddess. This time, my aunt looked at the statue and asked, “Is this St. Patrick?” I did not snort, but simply explained (again, and uncomfortably) the name of the statue. It’s rather anti-St. Patrick, the Goddess-rejecting pompous ass. So there.
I have a bunch of my Pagan art upstairs, where she’s not likely to see them. It’s very fortunate that conservative relatives who are old and have bad knees are not crazy about climbing the stairs, and in some cases would rather sleep on the couch. But of course the statues are downstairs while I’m making them in the dining room and living room, and now what with the display cabinet downstairs. I’ve noticed with Aunt H.H. that she can look at such statues as “The Snakes Return to Ireland” and not see them for what they really are, Goddess art, and fortunately she’s not, so far as I can tell, suspicious. (If she were suspicious, I figure she wouldn’t have said anything about St. Patrick, and she probably wouldn’t talk about being Christian when she’s sitting at my dining room table in front of Goddesses, Buddhas and fairies-- or who knows, maybe she would.)
Another sculpture was Death—I took that statue and put her on top of the TV in order to take her photo in front of the bright blue wall. Ethel didn’t ask what her name is, though I was ready to say that she’s Death, even to mention that she’s based on a character in a comic book series. My statue of Death has one hand up in the Peace sign. Aunt H.H. thought it was a “victory” sign, of all things! That weirded me out, really, since I thought everyone on this planet is familiar with the peace sign—even Nixon was. I let her know that no, it’s a peace sign, and I made the sign with my left hand. H.H. explained that after WWII it was a “victory” sign and she added that “That was the beginning of peace,” displaying her total ignorance of what peace really is, far more than the opposite of war. In a country where 700,000 women are raped daily, peace does not thrive. It is so annoying and trying to be surrounded by people who assume patriarchy is the only way (even if they simultaneously don’t know what patriarchy is).
On the First Plane
Midwest Airlines seats are big, cushy, and brown. There are metal foot racks that fold in and out, and the trays are big and have a section for a cup or for resting glasses. I think I might want to keep this in mind. Airplanes for fat people. (Actually, I’d like to lose weight, but easier said than done. Fortunately, I’m not too fat for other airlines and hope I never shall be.)
I’ve decided that I prefer puffy clouds to streaking clouds or vague, shapeless mist. Puffy rolling clouds, even puffy clouds with somewhat circular holes, similar to whirlpools. Except I don’t think they were spinning—no, that would be a tornado.
As the plane was coming in to land in Milwaukee (one short stop), I looked down and thought the scene looked like mountains, models rather than the real thing. There were modern and not-so-modern suburban houses, many with swimming pools in the back yard forming b right blue circles, occasionally bright blue ovals. The only thing to suggest that it wasn’t a model was the tiny moving cars on the roads.
When the plane takes off again, it will head for Boston, where I’ll be getting on another plane…to Dublin.
Boston Airport
I had no idea Bostonians talk like gangsters—or should I say “gaingstas.” Actually, their accents remind me of 1940s movie comedies, and various characters from films. Now I’m hearing Irish accents. I could swoon.
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