Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Irish Tuesday – Connemara – Doo Lough


Today the fly got lost, most fortuitously as it turned out.  Clifden was the destination, and having got to Westport, fly inadvertently misunderstood the directions of The Voice (or was it the Irish signposts, which sometimes do not point in the right direction).  After a series of “recalculating …recalculating….”, The Voice lapsed into perplexed silence and left me to my own devices.  Clifden was eventually reach, but not until 4pm, (it is light until 9pm, so that did not matter).  On the way – the most spectacular countryside of Connemara, along a sometimes hazardous road (?) extravagantly called the R335.  There are no words to describe this country, sometimes so beautiful sometimes so terrible as to bring one to tears.  So no more words.  There are lots of pictures; including two of monuments erected in memory of those who died in the Famine (1845-1849), when the potato blight caused crop failure and thousands of tenant farmers were evicted and died of starvation.  At one of the moments someone had left a container of fruit.  At another, it appeared that passers-by had developed the habit of placing a stone on a now-quite-high cairn at the foot of the monument.  I did likewise.
Paused at a place with no name at the head of the Lough for some lunch.  Mine host at the pub – all the pubs do tea/coffee/food all day – and I had a good chat about the state of affairs in Ireland.  I commented that he lived in the most wondrous place in the world.  He offered to sell me a house – he has one for sale at a give away price. Not upset at my refusal, he demonstrated playing the bogrhain (?) the hand held drum (with goat-skin) used in traditional Irish music.  On the wall were a violin, banjo and guitar, which are taken down each evening for entertainment.  All the pubs have the traditional music most evenings.
Later in the day, still before Clifden was finally located (it turned out to be a bit of an anti-climax after the journey thereto) the Micra and the fly paused at Kylemore Abbey, just near Connemara National Park.  A baronial hall, built by a rich man in the 1850s, set spectacularly on the shores of Kylemore Lough.  Now an Abbey of the Irish Benedictines, who are still there, teaching music, making chocolates and running a thriving tourist enterprise, the site also boasts a miniature Gothic Cathedral and mausoleum which the rich man built for his wife when she died tragically of dysentry while they were on holiday in Egypt.  Not before she had nine children however.  The nuns now have concerts in the Gothic Church, and sing vespers there each day – visitors welcome.
A wonderful bonus was the 6-acre “Secret Victorian walled garden”.  Located more than a mile from the Hall, it provided much of the produce used in the Hall kitchens (including tropical fruits etc coaxed to grow in twenty-one glasshouses with an under-floor system of heating pipes driven by a lime-kiln);  and also a spectacular series of flower gardens and herb gardens, these being discretely walled off by a wild fuscia hedge from the mundane kitchen gardens, so that the gentry did not have to witness gardeners actually at work.  The gardens boast three huge cordylines australis – they are actually pretty ugly, but so old and venerable that they retain their places.  How rich man got them in the 1850s was not explained.
There were several gift shops and tea houses across the estate – the nuns make the best tomato soup!
(Right now, as I write, there is a persistent chicken at my door, demanding access.  The pigs have gone to market. Vale pigs.)

Irish Monday – Achill Island, County Mayo


This place! This island! This Ireland!
This Monday has been marvellous.  Really.  Full of marvels.  Set out for Castlebar, then on to Newport, Mulranney, and on to Achill Island.  Achill only just makes it to qualify as an island.  There is an almost isthmus connecting it to the mainland, but it is broken by a very small gap, requiring a causeway for access.  Every moment of the place is a miracle.  There is nowhere one can be, no direction to point yourself and then open your eyes, without seeing something that is breathtakingly wonderful.  The ‘scapes – land and sea – are wild, harsh, particularly under a cloud-laden sky, and searingly beautiful.  There are ruins of old stone dwellings everywhere, with their 21st century equivalent often on the other side of the road. There are sheep – more sheep than people, surely. (see pics)  They are multi-coloured.  What can this mean?  It must be a branding, surely.  They all have black faces.  (I asked the shopkeeper in Westport, later, when I bought a calendar featuring the sheep, what breed they were.  “They are sheep”, he replied. “All sheep are the same”. )  But they do have some intelligence.  Along one byway, in search of a deserted village which was never located, I came across a man on a bicycle herding his cattle with a blackthorn stick.  Just prior to this I had been acknowledged and given polite passage by a herd of sheep, shepherdless.  The cattle were stupid, and could not work out which way was whither.  One made love to himself in the lefthand side-mirror of my Micra.  Stopped to chat with the cowhand on the bicycle.  Mentioned that the received wisdom in the family I married into was that sheep were more stupid than cattle, but that did not seem to be the case here.  Ready agreement.  Sheep own Achill Island and know how to deal – even with Australian flies.  But cattle!
There are no fences of course.  Sheep have right-of-way, everywhere, anytime.  But they are so engagingly friendly that one is absolutely delighted to accommodate their meanderings.
Discovered Keel Beach.  The Irish equivalent of Elliott Heads.  I went for a walk, with a mind to discover some sea-glass, TT, but alas, nothing but rotting flip-flops.  Chased back to the Micra by rain.
Driving along the Atlantic Road along Achill Island under a leaden sky which emphasised the harsh beauty of the landscape, the thought occurred that surely this land must sing when the sun shines. Not long to wait for the proof.  The weather changes in a moment, and it does sing!!
(While exploring this wonderland, I hear on an RTE Lyric newsbreak that this quarter, 7% of mortgages are more than 90 days in arrears, up from 6.3% last quarter.  There has been debate on the radio about government initiatives re ‘debt forgiveness’ with reminders that this concept goes right back to the Bible – the Jubilee concept of the Old Testament.  People call in to talk-back radio with stories of having moved out of a house bought before the GFC for an inflated price, and now living in a flat, still having to pay the bank for the difference between what they bought the house for and what it fetched when they had to sell it, no longer able to meet the mortgage repayments.   They are unable to feed their children adequately after paying the residual mortgage on a house they no longer own nor live in.   They are civil servants, teachers, etc.  ( I have seen For Sale signs on houses, with lures such as 'Reduced from 170,000 euros to 100,000.  Where can all this go?).
Peat bogs, I had thought, were a thing of the past.  Not so.  On Achill, there are real, functional peat bogs.  There is a pic of me in one.  As I stopped to look, a local couple were there, and obligingly took it for me.  (see the folder on picasa)  I appreciated having seen the story of the peat bogs in the Museum of Country Life the day before.  Back in the day, the whole family was involved in the business of extracting enough peat for the year.  They did it at the right season (can’t remember when).  Father and big sons dug out the peat ‘bricks’, using an implement which was the same in the early twentieth century as that used in the seventh century (they were side by side in the Museum, the later one not able to improve on the design of the early one).  The mother and young children stacked the bricks of peat, and turned them regularly as they dried ( not-so-dry peat burned smoky).  Once dried, the bricks were loaded into straw-woven baskets and carried by the women and girls back to the home to keep the fires going throughout the year. 
There are few remaining peat bogs being worked in Ireland, so the man in the gift shop in Mulranney told me. On the islands, and around the Roscommon area.  Nonetheless, the European Union is trying to have the activity stopped, saying the bogs take thousands of years to form, and should be left alone and appreciated.  The fact that the Irish have worked the bogs for thousands of years too without running out, as it were, does not prevail.  There is to be a case about this in the coming months.
And today, the moratorium on spending has been broken.  MIGs will be pleased to note that coasters have been acquired  (you will have to wait for details) from a delightful shop in Westport.   And on Achill, a long chat with a Kieran preceded the purchase of some wonderful woollen items being sent back home because I really cannot carry anything more with me. 
Struggling to stay awake to see the No 1 of Stephen Fry’s top gadgets.

Irish Sunday


Slept until 12.30pm.  Probably everyone else went to Church, but this was the jet-lag recovery.  Time then to check out Mayo Abbey.  Found the 7th century ruins of the monastery established by the saint.  Columban?  In the cemetery, a 21st century funeral was in full swing.  The whole district was there, having a high old time.  I wondered if they have funerals on a Sunday so that everyone can come;  as everyone certainly was there.  Picnic in the cemetery, surrounded by brand new graves and headstones centuries old.  (Something I had noticed yesterday – a wedding.  One car with   white ribbons on the bonnet passed going in the opposite direction – a bride!  But then, over the next 15 minutes or so, about twenty more cars with white ribbons.  Obviously all the guests deck out their cars for the wedding.  How nice!  How celebratory!  How participatory!
Moved on in the little Micra towards Castlebar, (emphasis on the bar), the county seat for Mayo (emphasis on the o).  Travelling in the Micra is reasonably OK, except for road noise, as it is quite a small car really.  This is balanced out by the infusion of the sound of RTE Lyric  -  RTE being the Irish National Broadcaster, and Lyric being the rather undemanding equivalent to ABC Classic FM.  Undemanding because you never get to hear the full symphony, only the well-known and loved Adagio movement, or the whole concerto, just the energetic Presto at the end etc.  Still it is very good driving music, and better that the alternative, which offers the traffic report for the whole nation in about five sentences.  I think Ireland is actually not much bigger than Tasmania – must check that out. Certainly it takes about as long to drive across it.
(Diversion – Stephen Fry’s 50 favourite gadgets is on the BBC.  Worth watching)
Castlebar pretty, with what I now recognise as the typical downtown for Irish towns, charming facades and family businesses.  It was the hometown of Mary Robinson, the first female PM of Ireland. 
Next, Ballina.  (There are not many towns in Ireland which do not have a namesake in Australia, I am realising).  Here I spent many more hours than intended at the Museum of Country Life.  It is part of the National Museum, which is spread over several locations across Ireland – good idea that.  A new multi-level building has been constructed in the grounds of Turlough House, a former residence of some English gentry, and it is really compelling it the rawness of its depiction of what it was to be Irish and struggling to get by in the harshness of the conditions caused by climate and British rule,focussing on the 18th and 19th centuries.  A feature was the use of contemporaneous, romanticised depictions of idyllic bucolic living in glorious countryside, set against warts-and-all descriptions of what it was really like. 
Most interesting for the fly was the story of one John Feeney and his skill in rope making.  Ropes were woven into all sorts of items for everyday use – chairs, saddles, bridles, horse collars, whatever.  A  series of old photos showed a John Feeney in the process of making a rope horse-collar.  Fly remembered that Feeney ancestor (Patrick) who came to Oz in the 1860s was the son of a John. And that on the 1861 marriage certificate of Patrick his occupation is recorded as ‘rope-maker’.  Flight of fancy really, but a thought. 
There were life-size figures of people dressed in the clothing worn by the people of the Aran Isles right up until the 1930s-1940s.   The Aran sweater being a feature of course.  But also garments made from handwoven wool.  There were duplicates of these garments on a rack, with an invitation to try them on.  Rough woollen petticoats and vests and shawls (hug-me-tights), and shoes (pampooties) made from a single piece of cowhide with lacing to hold them on.  Tried them on, of course, and wondered how ever did they cope with the itch.  Needs must, no doubt.
Spent much longer there than planned and only had time for a quick look at Turlough House.  But saw a musical instrument never before spotted – a clavierlyre.  A cross between a clavier and a harp really.  There is a pic in the folder on picasa.  My fingers itched to try it, but a red rope, and more importantly a portly guard, kept me in my place. 
Time for home.  But how to get there.  Gaelic signs are not helpful to the fly.  The Voice and the fly are establishing a stronger bond by the hour.  The fly was irritated by The Voice’s insistence on a specific address for a town.  Not good enough to put in ‘Balla’, no, The Voice wants a Street and a Street Number.  But The Voice and the fly have come to a mutual recognition that every town in Ireland has a Street called either Church or Churchview.  So No 1, Church…,  TownName,  The Voice is happy, and off we go.

Fly on a Farm - Rinn Duin


In the little Avis Micra, fly set off from Dublin airport to find Mayo Abbey, somewhere in County Mayo.  Google Maps had refused to acknowledge its existence, but fly is full of certainty, as some saint got there in 612 and set up an abbey.  Read about it. Must be true.  Richmond Residents’ sat nav however did get me to Balla (called Bael by the locals, I have been informed already) and luck did the rest. There were a couple of spats along the way with the sat nav, The Voice going silent and sulky when its directions were not slavishly followed -  Fly occasionally got distracted.  After a suitable silence, an exasperated “Recalculating”, and we were friends again.
One distraction was, at a pub lunch, (barmaid had been to Brisbane of course),  a local parish map showing a nearby thirteenth century ruined castle and church, on the shores of the lough.  Forty minute walk to check it out was the assurance. The gateway advised that this was private property, farming land, no responsibility taken, and beware of the bull.  Fly was nonchalant.  Flies can deal with bulls.
…. There was a slight altercation.  Bull was sprawled across the walking track to the ruins, sitting chewing contentedly.  I asked if he intended to remain thus, and his uninterested stare seemed to signify a yes.  So fly decided on discretion and picked a way around (through the cow pats.)  Ruins and nearby chapel observed and obsessively photographed¸ the trail back posed some challenges.  Rain of course, but it is Ireland.  Friendly trees helped there, and also afforded a toilet break.  Then a stile – there were several, mostly stone ones, in the stone fences – but this one was a modern one, a metal ladder-like structure. It was firmly guarded by three un-hospitable cows, who simply would not budge.  So fly had to climb a side wall into a sheep field.  Sheep are much less stubborn, though more stupid, and a clutch of them readily moved away from a gate to let me through.  Another field, this time full of cattle.  I am well off the designated circuit to the ruins by now. Finally a lowering in the stone wall offered escape, and on the other side – a cemetery, very old.  What else?  With another ruined chapel. 
Eventually got back to the Micra, and found The Voice quite comforting.
The Hayloft is super.  I am full of contentment.  Sitting at the table writing this, I look to my right and through the four-light timbered windows I see very fat turkeys, chickens, ducks and pigs. The turkeys are gobbling contentedly – they have a long term future – Christmas.  The pigs go to market tomorrow. The chickens are so grateful they can lay eggs.
The hosts are an English couple who came here three years ago.  An “Irish-change” I suppose, like our “tree-change” or “sea-change” cultures.  They have converted the derelict hay loft of Plough House Farm into a wonderful cosy refuge.  The walls are bagged stone, about two feet thick (at least, that’s how deep the window casement is).  But all appointments are very convenient and comfortable.  As a bonus, the TV is tuned to BBC 1 and BBC 2, (courtesy of a satellite dish), and the radio can access BBC Classic FM.  I might just sit here for a week and not go anywhere.

Ireland!


It was very good to touch down in Dublin.  5am Thursday was when I left Montreal, and it is now 8pm Friday.  Train, bus, plane, taxi, train stations and airports.  This is the part of travelling that you gotta love.  The eight hour flight from Toronto to Frankfurt was enhanced by the odour of the shed joggers of the 14 year old boy sitting next to me.  On the other hand, the eight hours at Frankfurt airport passed surprisingly quickly.  It is a microcosm, ticking over with admirable German efficiency.  People coming from and going to all parts of the world.  One only need sit and watch the parade.
But Ireland! At the airport, the customs line for “goods to declare” – red markings on floor and red office etc – was simply closed.  No-one there.  The line for those with nothing to declare was open, staffed by a weary looking chap who glanced at the passport and waved us all through.  This after the US, where even when just in transit at LA, one was photographed and had all fingerprints taken (three years ago it was only the right thumb).
 The driver of the taxi to the hotel apologised that he had to drive on past the hotel and do a U-turn at the next intersection, as he could not turn across the traffic into the entrance.  I asked what signified that, - I have to pick up the car and drive tomorrow, so was interested – as there was no double line on the road.  Well, he said, there would be if the paint had not worn off.  Reassuring, that.
Mine host at the hotel is, I am sure, Dylan Moran’s older brother.  He looks like him and acts like him and the place is the accommodation equivalent of the Black Books bookstore. He knew nothing of the facial expression called smiling.  Half way through checking me in he took a phone call, and took off announcing he was off to the airport but would be back. Some time later, ( half an hour), a side-kick appeared, who finished checking me into my room.  He had been finishing a repair job on my room, which reeked of glue, so I had to sleep with all windows wide open. (6 degrees overnight). The mattress had one thin layer of ticking stretched thinly across the springs.  Sleep did not come easy, even after thirty hours of travel. I awoke with circular imprints all over me.  Irish radio, in my earbuds to pass the night hours, did not help at all!  How do I find these places?  One thing – it is more interesting than the Comfort Inn at Toronto – we have them at home.