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.
Showing posts with label Ballyshannon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ballyshannon. Show all posts
Sunday, July 31, 2005
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).
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