The Fine Art of Feeding Oneself

Or, Rachel loves the English Market, "Cork's Food Emporium"

Here is the English Market!
"The English Market has entrances on Princes Street, Patrick Street and the Grand Parade. It is a covered market for fish, fruit, meat and vegetable. The origins of the market can be traced back to James 1st in 1610, but the present building dates from 1786. In 1980 it was destroyed by fire and was refurbished by Cork Corporation to an award-winning design by the Cork city architect T. F. MacNamara"

It attracts a diverse group of shoppers.

What can you buy here? You can buy olives!

You can buy imported oriental food! (Though I haven't yet.)

You can buy meat! (Though I don't...)

You can buy produce! (I do!)

And virtually anything else...it's a big place.

It's also very pretty.

And you don't necessarily leave the way you came...

One of my primary adjustments has been to the task of shopping and cooking in a surprisingly different shopping and cooking climate. I have mentioned my difficulties coordinating the supplies for the family corn chowder recipe during my first few days here. I like to think I've come some distance since then...with, admittedly, a long way still to go. But places like the English Market make it a little more fun.

I have long preached without practicing the importance of purchasing whole, local foods, avoiding excessive packaging, etc. Living here in Cork has made it easy to finally try to adhere to these principles, even in the case of those who are less conscientious than I am about their environmental impact, or giving their money to corporations.

For example, in Cork and, as far as I know, the rest of Ireland, you are charged for a plastic bag at a store. The hope being that you will reuse the bag you're about to buy, or better yet, have brought along with you a reusable receptacle for your purchases. Cloth and canvas bags are available almost everywhere you turn, and I'm finding they make useful souvenirs. Also, Tesco, the large grocery chain reminiscent of Dillon's, while a stark contrast to the charm and local flavor of the English Market, sells produce, milk and eggs primarily produced in Ireland.

Still, typically I set out to the English Market first, buying what I can there, filling in the holes in my shopping list with a trip to Tesco. I carry my backpack and fill it up, compartment by compartment, as I go. Not only does this save my arms the strain of carrying heavy bags the considerable distance back to my apartment, but it keeps my hands free so I don't have to juggle items from the previous stop while trying to collect and pay for items at the next one. This issue was my primary shopping obstacle when I was first accustoming myself to the routine of buying from small specialty stores instead of all in one place.

Price comparison is also an art at which I'm developing some skill. For example: at Tesco, you pay 35 euro per kilogram of goat cheese. At the cheese stall at the back of the English Market (as opposed to the one right at the Grand Parade entrance) you pay 23 per kilogram, but at the fine foods store off of Oliver Plunkett street, you pay only 18. Also, the fine foods store is all Italian, barely big enough to turn around in, and the Italian staff take your money and thank you with charming Italian accents. (Mom, I can now vouch for the authenticity of your own Italian voice.)

I live primarily off of whatever produce is cheapest (diced fruit with natural yogurt makes equals fruit salad for lunch; diced vegetables sauteed with garlic stuffs tortillas or is tasty over rice) with occasional splurges on seasonings for cooking experiments, which we all know I find hard to resist. I then tend to force my friends to have dinner with me instead of saving the leftovers, so the cost efficiency is completely in question, but I have fun and so do they - or at least, so they say! So far I have successfully created two separate potato curries, and with the availability and low cost of oriental seasonings, hope to do more while I have this kind of access. Next up is quinoa - the miracle grain! - in a supposedly fool-proof pairing with beans and cayenne pepper.

In unrelated news, I have a library card, class only on Mondays and Tuesdays, and flights booked to Belgium, Germany, and Spain, with a Scotland trip in the works. Despite all this, it was a slow pre-class week spent milling around Cork, and I am looking forward to a busy first day of class tomorrow, with - I hope - some time in between to check out the exercise facilities at the university's gym. I had some discipline for physical fitness that I left in the United States, but I'm hoping to muster some up soon, to counterbalance the sad fact of my limited self control and the availability of fresh bread at the English Market for 2 euro per loaf.

Coole Park; Aran Islands; Galway; Cliffs of Moher

Rachel faces writing about places that famous people have already described

We left as a class a week ago today for the Aran Islands, with a four-hour stop at Coole Park, the retreat of Lady Gregory, famous Irish writer, whose guests included Synge, Yeats, Wilde, and nearly every other writer of the period. We then got to the ferry, took it to Innis Meain, and after spending two nights there got back to the mainland, into Galway, and saw the city for a day before taking a bus tour of the Cliffs of Moher. Friday and Saturday nightlife seen in Galway, then back to Cork for the first week of class.

The lead-in is a tipoff: I don't really know what to say about these places that hasn't already been said, much more beautifully and articulately, by dozens of famous writers throughout history. So, just to put everything on the table, I'll borrow their words to start.

Coole Park

'Under my window ledge the waters race,

Otters below and moor-hens on the top,

Run for a mile undimmed in Heaven's face,

Then darkening through 'dark' Raftery's 'cellar' drop,

Run underground, rise in a rocky place

In Coole demesne, and there to finish up

Spread to a lake and drop into a hole.

What's water but the generated soul?'
W.B. Yeats 'Coole Park and Ballylee, 1931'

Innis Meain

"...the sun is shining with a luminous warmth that makes the whole island glisten with the splendor of a gem, and fills the sea and sky with a radiance of blue light. I have come out to lie on the rocks where I have the black edge of the north island in front of me, Glaway Bay, too blue almost to look at, on my right, the Atlantic on my left, a perpendicular cliff under my ankles, and over me innumerable gulls that chase each other ina white cirrus of wings."

J.M. Synge, The Aran Islands

The Cliffs of Moher

"Look! The Cliffs of Insanity!"

The Princess Bride (probably misquoted; I couldn't find a transcript :) But they're one and the same!)

So, I saw these things, and I couldn't stay in any of these places long enough, and if I was told I could hike around Ireland for the rest of my life without starving to death or being maimed by wolves (foxes, I think, are actually the largest predator here) I would totally do it. Well, I would do it if I could still visit home regularly. Okay, maybe I wouldn't commit the rest of my life to exploring Ireland on any realistic condition, but I know that all I'm seeing now will probably become my most cherished memories, and I'm very grateful.



Coole Park is unequal parts manicured gardens and lawns and wooded trails through a forest so dense it would be difficult to stray from the dirt paths, paths formed and maintained by footsteps alone for hundred of years. Lady Gregory and her contemporaries are world famous as those who revived the Irish literary tradition and made it internationally known, and they communed in this space and composed much of their work in the shade of these trees, in the hush of this solitude. I thought about that when I walked alone down the lake path and almost stumbled into the water. There was a suddeness to the surroundings, a strange silent immediacy. Across the lake, cattle grazed unaware by the ruins of a stone fort. I looked over my shoulder to find the sun producing a visual warmth in the uppermost branches of the impossibly tall trees. Accustomed to prairies and evergreen forests, the height and sprawl of the deciduous trees here often startles me.



It would take days to walk every trail and appreciate every detail, to trace through journals of writers long dead each of their favorite spots to contemplate and write. We had a few hours, so we shed sweatshirts and enjoyed the strangely warm weather, then got back on the bus.



I found myself pensive, a little withdrawn from the company of my classmates but still happy they were there. We boarded the ferry in the chillier air coming off the sound of the Atlantic that separates Galway bay from the three Aran islands. Aran, or Innismor, is the largest and the primary tourist destination, offering the usual comforts of popular Irish areas: restaurants, "authentic" pubs, hotels and hostels. Innisoirr is the smallest, and between then is Innismeain, which translates to "middle island" in Irish (more commonly called Gaelic, but watch what you say over here!). It was too cold to stay on the deck so we retreated below and watched for the island to appear through a crest of mist. We missed it, and then we were confused as to which shore belonged to which island, but we did go up to take some pictures as we approached and docked. My impressions were specific: the contrast of gray rock and vivid grass so common in this country, a silver beach, the elevated center of the island crowned in a ring of rock wall our instructor identified as one of four pre-christian fort ruins.



Struggling with our luggage, we divided into three groups after dismounting the ferry. Aside from our class, there had been two other passengers, residents of the island who worked on the mainland. Some overturned boats were rowed on a rack at the foot of the dock, and I could see a very old unoccupied building with a sign on the wall facing us listing the distance to the nearest hotel - a joke, since the island doesn't have one. What it did have was a narrow paved road clotted in that moment by two cars testing the capacity of its width as they slowly passed one another in opposite directions, side mirrors within inches of the bordering rock walls. Houses also appeared, stucco walls in white or soft pastel, slate roofs, reliably rectangular in their architecture.



With a population of 250 people and a land area spare enough its circumference can be walked in a little more than two hours, the island has only recently emerged from pre-modernity. Some homes still have thatched roofs, literally bunches of grass positioned and then secured by a net attached to the vertical walls by pegs. Electricity was introduced in 1975 but not widely used until a decade later, and the people, like others in rural western Ireland, primarily speak Irish and are awkward in English.



The home myself and the other vegetarians were assigned was nearest the dock, overlooking the beach. We towed our luggage the short distance to its door, greeted by a friendly border collie cross of some kind (naturally I stopped to take her picture). There were bedrooms enough upstairs that we divided into pairs. Our room had one double bed my roommate was kind enough to let me have, a second twin bed, a dresser and closet and a window with a lovely view out over the island and part of the coast. Dinner was immediately, and even though our vegetarianism hadn't been disclosed before our arrival and we wound up eating plain noodles with salt in lieu of the tomato and meat sauce, it tasted great after a long day on the bus.



Instead of visiting the island's one pub, we fell asleep after showers and woke up for breakfast the next morning. Non-vegetarians had a full Irish breakfast - this includes blood sausage, regular sausage, ham and bacon - and the rest of us drank fresh hot tea, ate fresh brown bread with marmelade, with an optional bowl of rice crispies. The overcast weather of the day before had burnt off to a beautiful clear blue sky. Every islander appeared to be outdoors to enjoy the sunshine, and several of them mentioned the unusual warmth of the day. Deb, Hailey, Meg and I donned short sleeves and flip flops and rolled up our pants to wade in the gentle waves off the metallic beach. Then we napped, read or wrote alternately the rest of the morning on the warm sand. After lunch - also provided by our hostesses - we walked some trails and went to the Aran Knitwear factory, where we avoided the regularly priced cable sweaters - up to 1000 euro! - and found some good deals in the clearance bins. For a world-famous clothing store, the place was modest. We had to go to the factory entrance and ask for the store to be unlocked, since there aren't visitors enough to keep it staffed all the time.



That evening we did make it to the pub, trying not to associate too closely with our 20 plus classmates in an effort to experience the day to day ambience of the place. By the time 11 pm hit we were ready for bed, as we'd made plans to get up early enough to see the sun rise.



It was pretty cold at 5:30 am, and we wanted to get up to the apex of the island - the fort we'd seen on the ferry coming in - for the best view of the eastern sky. However, we couldn't see the signs well in the penetrating dark of the unlit island, and after a few wrong turns and dead ends, finally went near the eastern shore on a platform of rock to look out over the dock at the horizon. It wound up being a good vantage point, and the way the light interacted with the water and the silhouette of the neighboring Innismor was breathtaking. We waited until the full spectrum of pinks and blues had layered themselves before walking back for a nap before breakfast. (It's difficult, here, to convince any Irish person breakfast should be eaten before 10 am.)



We packed our things and hiked up the uninhabited northern shore, where the true island shows its face. Settlers thousands of years ago on the east coast stacked rock into intricate networks of fences, walls of barns and sheds, in an effort not only to produce necessary construction but also to expose the rock-choked soil for some degree of agricultural utilization. They still farm these patches by hand, with scythes, and only the occasional ancient Massey-Ferguson tractor barely larger than a stationwagon. Anyway, to the north traversing the landscape literally involves walking from one large rock to the next, avoiding the unstable smaller rocks that will cave under one's weight. It's worth it, though, to find the cliffshore along the northeast edge. It was slippery there with a neon-bright green moss, and a more troubled day - clouds, a stiff wind - produced pearls of waves below us. The day before had been wonderful, but finding the island today in a typical, and more characteristic mood also felt good.



Too soon, it was time to leave. The ferry rocked violently as it turned its longside against the waves in order to dock. Girls were dispensing dramamine in large numbers, but I've never been seasick, and thought I would be okay. The passage wound up being very exciting, though the ferry staff never seemed alarmed. We learned from a classmate that we were aboard the only ferry company never to have a vessel sink in an attempt to reach Innis Meain. I suppose that was meant to be reasurring. I thought of the journal we read for class, by JM Synge, author of Riders to the Sea and Playboy of the Western World. He wrote dispassionately of the island of his age, when lightweight boats composed largely of canvas were the main mode of reaching the Galway bay, and the drowning of husbands and sons was an understood element of life on the island. I could easily see how this was so, as our large, heavy modern craft was pitched carelessly about by the modest activity of the water.



Back on land, we reloaded our bus for the return trip to Cork, though almost all of us had asked to be dropped off in Galway. The city was beautiful, but I was still daydreaming about islands and all of their literal and symbolic solitude, so it took me a bit to warm up to it. We met other friends there, and some of us went out that night while others of us (me included!) recovered with a modest dinner out and familiarization with our hostel, a small 40 bed operation with naked women painted artfully on its stairwell walls.



The next day we wandered Galway and bought supplies for some hostel cooking. Meg chopped and then I sauteed a stir fry while they readied themselves for our much-anticipated Galway night out hosted by our one and only native acquaintance, Bryan, who tolerates us en masse because he's smitten with Megan. (Who can blame him? So am I!)



Anyway, while I was heating up the wok I met a beautiful couple from Israel, part of a group of four visiting Ireland for one month. He spoke excellent English and I'm pretty sure she did not; that or she wasn't interested in talking to me, though she seemed friendly. They were preparing a kosher meal for their Jewish passover, to be eaten at sunset, complete with wine and candles. Their table setting inspired me to organize a sit-down meal with my friends, and it was interesting to talk to them about their experience of Ireland and thoughts about the US presidential election.



After dinner, which was large but delicious, we went out. There were twelve of us staying in two hostels, and Bryan had only assembled four friends. I scolded him halfheartedly for this, secretly glad he hadn't managed to get together the matching number promised. On a roof in a beer garden is the prime place for a fun night out, and I was amazed as always by how much I genuinely like every girl in this enormous pack of "biddies," as we've come to call ourselves. We stayed until shooed out by management, collapsed at the hostel, and woke up at 9 am for the Cliffs of Moher tour bus the next day.



I know what I said about never getting on a tour bus again, but I do have a history of issuing second chances despite my best instincts. Anyway, this one was not so bad, although the leadup drive through the Burren en route to the Cliffs easily lost my interest. I fell asleep a few times but when we stopped in Doolin, the little city just by the Cliffs themselves, I took a walk to refresh myself while the others ate their lunch. I was ashamed to enjoy so much finally being alone. In my brief Doolin stroll I took in a tiny record store that only sold music produced in Ireland, several fair trade coffee shops, and a spot for horseback rides along the beach and minor cliffs below those of Moher. I made some mental notes and mentally planned a solo trip to this little place on the walk back. Blackberries sprung up from the roadside in such multitude I barely had to slow my step to pick them as I walked by. There's something to be said for a free lunch.



At the parking lot off the Cliffs of Moher there wasn't much to see except a disappointing abundance of fellow tourists and a walled cement walkway along the edge of the earth along which the cliffs presumably ran, but the angle was wrong to actually see anything but the point at which the grass ended and the sky began. A few cement stairs later and they came into view, as vast and breathtaking as anything can be, stretching up a colossal 700 feet from the turbulent ocean at an almost perfectly vertical incline. It was hard to hear the water, but that might have been less because of physical distance and more because of the presence of several tour bus loads of people. Even in this kind of company, barred from reaching the actual edge by the newly constructed wall, the experience was powerful.

Of course, then we climbed over the wall and went to the physical edge, but I won't write too much about that, since I expect aunts, a mother and a grandmother to read this. :)

Now I'm home - in Cork! at home in Cork! - and tired and going to my introductory English class Wednesday with nothing else to do all week except laundry and some cooking...and blog posting! Sorry about how long this one got, but there was much to say and probably more I could have said that I avoided saying precisely to prevent myself from writing a novel-length blogpost. And now my mind is exhausted; the evidence is in the previous sentence, which is grammatically convoluted, a direction this sentence seems to be heading, too. Love to all!

The Vacation Continues

Um, I said vacation, but definitely meant LEARNING EXPERIENCE.

Things continue to be generally wonderful in Ireland, rain aside. On Friday we saw Riverdance, and it actually met all the expectations I had, which were nonspecific and not particularly grand - but even if they had been heftier, I would not have been disappointed. I don't know what to say about Riverdance that some reviewer hasn't already said; the athleticism was outstanding, and they made an effort to involve some humor in surprising ways. Supposedly there is a storyline involved in the performance - "the history of Ireland" - but I believe those that claim this to be so are mistaken. There was an ominous sounding narrator who said poetic things about rivers flowing into the ocean and people living in the face of harsh environmental conditions, but his voice intervened infrequently and with no real attention to cohesiveness with the actual dancing, so I began ignoring him after the first act.

Killarney has been a popular tourist destination for hundreds of years. Wealthy English persons write about vacationing there well back into history, and nothing has really changed today. No wonder: the town is beautifully situated, and flourishing under a historically healthy economy. We didn't spend much time in Killarney itself, anyway, but did have a pleasant two nights at our hostel there, where we had Swiss and Polish roommates, all very nice, and an affordable breakfast each morning before heading out.

Saturday we went to Dingle, on the Dingle peninsula, for horseback riding. It was raining in the morning with hints of sun, but though we kept our fingers crossed, the bus ride to Dingle seemed to take us into rather than out of the rain. The scenery was breathtaking, though. You could literally take stunning pictures out the bus window. The rain had an effect on the light, actually, that intensified the gradient of green, but its accompanying fog insisted on veiling the most panoramic views off and on.

In lovely Dingle we took a taxi to the stable, met the management, and were showed to an equipment room to gear up in helmets and boots. The horses were tied outside, already saddled and waiting, many of them with the coarse heads and furred feet characteristic of draft crosses. They were, Katy our hostess informed me, mostly made up of Irish Draught crosses, with some hunter influence. We identified outselves according to experience, and I was assigned Charlie, a very harmless looking bay gelding of about 14.2 hands that liked to take advantage of an inexperienced rider and stop and graze on the trail. I introduced myself to him and mounted up, hoping I didn't make a fool out of myself in the English saddle, and after every one else did the same, we were off.

I would have needed at least one of the other girls to do the longer ride with me, and none of them met the experience requirements, so the six of us went together on the basic hour and a half ride for beginners. This was fine; we didn't break out of a walk until the last leg of the ride, but it was still a fairly intense journey up a mountainside slippery with rain. The horses were supremely sure-footed - Charlie only took a single misstep - despite an incline dense with rocks, water runoff streaming past on all sides so that at times we were moving through narrow cut-away points like miniature canyons. It had been, Katy said, an unusually wet summer. I wound up right behind her in our head-to-tail line, so we chatted about her job, the horses, and some of the differences between American and Irish philosophies with regard to horse training and riding. This came up after she mentioned the pretty mare she rode had been started under saddle that spring, and was four years old.

The rain was steady and the fog a complete seal on any view we might have had from the mountain, which was pretty disappointing, but the misty effect on the rugged rockiness, the contrast of the slick silver of wet rock, the black of rich mud, the blaze of lush grass, were all captivating in and of themselves. Sheep grazed on the mountain unrestrained, part of an Irish system of public land use for agriculture, swaths of colored paint over their backs identifying to whose flock they belonged, though they socialized freely with others of the same species without regard to human ownership. They scattered around us but weren't truly afraid.

Our anticlimactic arrival at the top of the mountain was short-lived. The fog stewed and didn't lift, leaving us blind to the "view for miles" Katy had promised when we set off on the ride. No one seemed to really mind. The horses were responsive and quiet and everyone seemed to be enjoying them at this point. We descended, snapped a group photo or two, and headed back to the stable. I gave Charlie a good bye rub and we called the taxi again, went back to the bus station, and shipped ourselves back to Killarney.

After splurging on dinner out, we went to the first pub with some activity and had barely sat down when a middle-aged Irish guy came up to our table holding a shot of whiskey in one hand and a Guinness in the other. "Are you Shamrockers?" he asked.

We had no idea what he was talking about. "No," someone said.

"Well, that's no bother, there's entertainment upstairs if you're interested. One of you can go ahead, have a listen, and then signal back to the others that it's good." He appeared very drunk, but studied us shrewdly for a response to this suggestion. We all stood up and told him we'd take his word for it.

As it turned out, he was the performer, and the Shamrockers were a group of mostly British tourists; some sort of tour bus hybrid. There were probably twenty of them, listening to the aforementioned man tell bawdy jokes and sing songs. He played a guitar and the bodhran, and drank three of the whiskey/Guinness pairs in about an hour just while we watched, having apparently been at it an hour beforehand. He could barely stand by the end of it, but it was good. And we didn't have to pay for it!

The apparent leader of the tour group asked us what our plans were for the rest of the night. We weren't sure. He told us we could slip into the Killarney Grand without paying the cover if we wanted to be adopted by the group. We had actually foregone the popular Grand because the cover was high, so naturally we leapt at this opportunity. A few more drinks and some random disco dancing ensued.

Somehow we slept sufficiently to roll out of bed the next morning in time to get ready and make our 10:30 tour bus of the Ring of Kerry. I have no use for tour busses, I learned, after our first stop at a walled "historic thatched village" required a five euro admission fee to walk through and look at the buildings and the resident obese bog pony. We milled around the otherwise barren roadstop, its restaurant/pub selling typical Irish souvenirs and 5 euro Irish coffees in tiny styrofoam cups.

Before I could truly turn on the tour bus concept, however, our driver announced a unique opportunity to stop and watch a working dog show - border collies and sheep! - put on by a local breeder who also had examples of the breeds of sheep farmed in Ireland. This time I willingly surrendered my 5 euro for a great half hour or so of nuanced demonstration with two brilliant dogs and about six authentic Irish sheep. The shepherd worked the dogs with a whistle and voice, and their obedience was absolutely incredible, as was their intense focus. I have been comitted to my Ibizan Hound idea, but it's hard not to be in love with Border Collies at the moment! This experience will receive more attention in a later post, but for the sake of today...

We also stopped for photos a few times in the Killarney National Park, an area where much of Far and Away was filmed, and the scenery out the window was, of course, stunning. On the other hand, the fog and rain never left, and the winding road made me tense and ill.

So, maybe not going to go on a tour bus again. I guess I needed to learn the lesson at some point!

We got home Sunday, did our best to recover, and then had class today. This afternoon we went shopping for things we wished we'd had while in the Killarney hostel, leaving time enough to get ready for dinner and the performance in Cork City of Beckett's Waiting for Godot. It was a great meal and a great show, but leaves me drowsy and reluctant to pack! So, I blog.

Tomorrow we are leaving for the Aran Islands, specifically Innismain, an isolated place where Gaelic is still the primary language and fishing is the sole source of income. This difficult lifestyle has been the subject of much literary and anthropological fascination over the years, so the opportunity to stay in the home of a native family, with no assignment but to wander, photograph, think, read and write, is amazing. We will be there Tuesday evening, and will stay Wednesday and much of Thursday before catching the ferry back to the mainland and being deposited in Galway around 7 pm. We have a hostel booked for Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights in this most popular of Irish cities - second only to Dublin - and nothing on the agenda except catching a NON-TOUR bus into Conemara to see the Cliffs of Moher and possibly take a horse ride on the beach, now that we have a mountain trek under our belts.

I use "we" loosely; it's not possible everyone in our troop of 12 will do the exact same thing. I am referring to my expectations of the trip, whether or not anyone else has the same idea, I don't know.

So, I apologize for the subpar quality of this post, but I wanted to get an update on here before I take off again, rather than letting the blog idle for another five days! I should be able to check my email in the hostel, and if I come across some free time I might get a post up, but it's best not to expect to hear from me until next Monday! After which, I'll be staying in Cork for awhile, as classes begin that week.

My Weekend Away

Disclaimer: don't expect blog updates until Monday!

The pace is beginning to pick up around here; the lazy atmosphere of the early start semester has been replaced by the hustle and bustle of a city gearing up for the arrival of 17,000 Irish students. Our apartment building, where we American students here for the early start have been the only tenants, is suddenly saturated with regular semester American students and Irish students as well. Moving things in, adjusting to the area, touring the campus and main streets of Cork with maps in hand. It's a nice feeling to have a head start on someone, for once, and I've even been able to give a few other Americans directions to buildings on campus or the essentials of the town: post office, la Guarda (to register with immigration), and of course the pubs most frequented by students.

Mostly, though, I am still out of my element. I use facebook frequently to communicate with the other American students here - mass messages and wall posts are a good way to let one another know about evening or weekend plans without using our costly Irish cell phones - but sometimes reading there about the activity of the semester's beginning at home is difficult. I miss the excitement of starting a class with a professor I love, hearing about friends' progress in their majors, watching freshmen new to K-State stumbling to early morning classes with hangovers, the first club meetings of the semester with newcomers spilling out of the room and sitting on the floor. (Of course, most of them never come back, but there's always that initial sense of possibility.)

Soon I won't have time for homesickness. We are going to Killarney, as I mentioned, this weekend, and we will get back on Sunday. Then, Monday we are attending Ireland's longest-running and most famous production of Beckett's Waiting for Godot Monday night, before leaving Tuesday for our stay on Ennismain, an experience I've been anticipating, now, for more than a year. Friends and I are staying in Galway the following week, from there to see Connemara and the Cliffs of Moher in addition to experiencing the city. The following week is the first of our regular classes, during which we've been instructed to attend as many classes as possible in order to ferret out the most interesting teaching styles and content. The weekend following we are tentatively planning a trip to London, the following weekend to Belgium, with our early-start exam the next Friday and the first of several weekends we'll actually stay in Cork. From there, my other "continent" must-sees are Spain and Germany, and I WILL go to Scotland AT LEAST once, though I'm still not sure when. Throw a visit from my dear dad somewhere into the mix, and I expect these three plus months to speed by at a pace I can't begin to imagine.

So, really, when I'm not here in my room wide awake at midnight (sleep schedules are ridiculous, ingrained things, and my mental clock STILL resists manipulation...it is on US time) there's not space or time enough for homesickness. When it hits during daylight, like it did yesterday, I spend the afternoon walking around the city despite the rain, amazed by the way the river intensifies the already vivid colors of this atmosphere in its reflections, ever-charmed by the way streets here so effortlessly combine the modern and historic. At la Guarda yesterday, where I went with my friend so she could register with immigration, the old stone barrack still stood, a walled fortress, around the rennovated interior building. It was like very confused time travel. I spent a moment pressing my thumb into the space between two stones, a faint seam in the adhesive binding them the only signal of deterioration.

There are so many things I want to write about in-depth, including the amazing role dogs seem to play, if not in all of Ireland, at least this area. Dogs are everywhere. I've been trying to photograph some of them in action, but I don't have a good sampling yet. I am slow to struggle out of my bag of school things and ready the camera, and usually by the time I do the opportunity has passed. I'm trying now to be more vigilant, camera at the ready on every walk, but it's a hard habit to form. No one seems to use leashes here, and there's none of that, "Oh, what a cute dog, can I pet it" business from passers-by. A friend of mine said that her friend who did this program a year ago instructed her to, I quote, "leave the dogs alone!"

Dogs roam the sidewalks unattended and uninterested in we strangers, doing their business boldly in the center of others' yards or the walk itself, wearing collars and licenses and more skilled than I at navigating the busy traffic. In the middle of a busy street, I watched a gray-muzzled black dog sitting at the intersection just beneath the left hand of his master, occupied with a stroller. When the light turned the dog trotted off in perfect pace with his family, reaching over at one point to brush the baby's fist with his tongue.

Westies are popular here, and I admit it's hard for me not to run over to them and scoop them up each time I see one. I've resisted so far, partially because they remind me of Jessie only in appearance. We all know her off-lead ways, but in two instances I watched these strangely reprogrammed terriers laying patiently at the feet of an owner occupied in conversation with a group of people, and sitting on the curb after jumping out of a taxi cab while the owner collected his baggage from the back seat.

Cork takes "dog friendly" to new heights, really, but I think it might be a characteristic of Europe that dogs are more savvy themselves and more readily embraced by society at large, without being fussed over. I see advertisements for dog walking services, and I'm thinking of offering myself up as free labor. The dog withdrawal is remarkable - it exists not only for Jessie and Joey personally, but the species as a whole.

I don't find the same longing for horses, which surprises me, since I expected it most of all. I am excited when I see them, and can't wait to ride tomorrow, but I feel also a degree of relief. Obviously my responsibility to my 1.5 head still exists, but there's an illusion of dissolution in the distance, I suppose, and I feel freer to it. The worry, the guilt about not riding more regularly, and the ever-present shackle of the monetary expense was taking a greater toll than I really knew. The daydream of coming home to no horses is bittersweet, but seems more appealing than upsetting, in truth. There seems to be in my future a better place to include horses in the long list of things occupying my attention and time.

Now that I've aggravated my sister, I think I'll go pack. This evening I see Riverdance! Tomorrow beach and mountain horseback ride in beautiful Dingle! Sunday the famous Ring of Kerry! Monday Waiting for Godot! Tuesday Ennismain!

Waterford Crystal

Photographs brought to you with Spanish captions by Kansas State University's beginning Spanish program

cosas con ese caballo de la aqua son muy, muy caros

Me gusta Hailey, mi amiga y companero de clase

Aqui estan Emma y Deb

Una flora

Busses and Hurling and Crystal, Oh My!

Our unconventional day trip to Waterford started out with no one waking up on time to leave on the earliest bus. Instead, Sunday morning came and went in a flurry of activity and we boarded the 12:40 bus to Waterford. When the drive got underway, it became clear that none of us actually knew how long the ride would be. Some thought one hour. We were awkwardly quiet; was it really the case that no one had even checked the bus schedule, let alone the procedures for getting around Waterford - let alone where the factory itself might be?

Well, one of us had checked the Waterford Crystal Factory website the night before. The last tour was scheduled at 5:40. We were relieved but still uneasy, especially as the ride stretched to two hours and beyond. Finally Emma asked the driver how much further it was to Waterford, while we all held our breath, half expecting him to glance over his shoulder at us in surprise and say, "Why, that was two stops ago!"

Instead, to our relief, he said, "Five minutes." So, after a two and a half hour ride, we were unloaded at the microscopic bus station, and exhaled a collectively held breath when we found there were return busses to Cork scheduled until 7:30.

We were, however, in for a few more surprises. On the way in, we'd noticed signs wishing the Waterford hurlers good luck, and leagues of citizens sporting the blue and white colors of the County. We called a taxi (surprise: tourism center's free shuttles to the factory don't operate on Sundays!) and leaned up against buildings eating the Irish Soda Bread I'd proudly brought along as a snack during the fifteen minute wait.

On the way, our taxi driver told us all about the match. Apparently it was between Kilkenny and Waterford, the former having won the last two consecutive All-Ireland championships, while Waterford hadn't participated in something like forty years. Are you sure, our driver asked, the factory is going to be open? We said nothing, but again, there was a noticeable dissipation of tension when we pulled up to the big building and saw the doors opened - welcomingly, it seemed.

Or not so much. At reception we were regrettably informed that, due to the match, the tours were concluding early that day. In fact, the last one - 3:30 - had just left. They would, however, like to offer us a voucher for a free coffee and scone in the restaurant, as well as 10 percent off any crystal we might purchase in the gallery.

We were determined to be cheerful, so we ate our scones and drank our coffee and filed down to the gallery - which was beautiful. I can't say I wouldn't have enjoyed seeing how crystal is produced and learning about the history of the company, but seeing the finished products was very nice, too. I have been saying my Irish souvenir would be something from Waterford, but when it came down to it I couldn't stomach even the cheaper sets of shot glasses, which ran at 100 euro for four. I took pictures of them instead!

There was a bus stop within walking distance, we were informed, so we left with plenty of time to walk. It was sunny, at least, but the Waterford fans were beginning to look grim. It was difficult to understand the terse Irish accents of radio commentators, but maybe that has more to do with my lack of knowledge of hurling terminology as it does with the pitch of an Irishman's voice in high excitement.

A nap on the bus ride home made the whole thing tolerable, if a little costly - 18 euro bus ticket - considering the limited intellectual stimulation of, in effect, some window browsing. I did learn that there's nothing more beautiful than a crystal martini glass.

Monday we had a session with our international academic advisor about class selection. As far as I can tell, with early start completed, I only need to have another two classes here to fulfill the equivalent of a 12 credit hour fall semester in the States. But, at the same time, there are classes here I will never have another opportunity to take, so that weighs in. It's hard to believe that next week I will be 25 percent finished with my time here! Unreal.

This Friday we are going to see Riverdance as a class in Killarney. The southwest of Ireland is arguably the most beautiful, from what I've been told, so I'm really excited. We hope to get a hostel Friday and Saturday nights instead of taking the class bus back, which should mean we can go to the Dingal peninsula Saturday and then do a guided tour of the Ring of Kerry on Sunday. It will be an expensive trip for not actually leaving Ireland, but that's why I'm being frugal now - to blow cash on unforgettable experiences later! The highlight of the trip could be the acclaimed Dingal Riding Stable's guided treks - which include riding rough trails with gorgeous scenery in the mountains, and beach gallops, all in a couple hours. Horse Illustrated calls it the most exhilerating experience on horseback in the world.

I'll take pictures!

The Fota Hunting Lodge

The greenhouse...
View from the Arboretum...

The house...the family's summer hunting/vacation property, built in the mid nineteenth century

Arboretum at Fota House

Tree hugging

stunning oak

Can a person be in love with a tree? Here's another view of the object of my earlier hug.

What makes branches bend?

For all the Arboretum photos, look me up on facebook.com! *It does require an account.*

Barry Castle

Somehow I failed to take any pictures of the actual castle! Imagine rock like this forming a very bleak looking perfect rectangle. Here in the wall I did try to show the big concave place - which is the result of cannonfire! The castle's remains are about 500 years old.
This is a little view of the remaining courtyard, which was mainly the kitchen garden.

There was a neat archy thing in the orchard that Deb and I posed by.

It would be nice if I knew what this flower was, but anyway, here it is with the unrestored great hall wall behind it.

The Blog Doesn't Like More than Four Photos Per Post

Oh, well; just means you'll see a few at a time.

Pictures!

There's a footpath running on the inner side of the river that forms part of the campus's boundary. Here is a friendly gentleman fishing on one of the handful of really sunny days there's been since our arrival.
New friends Hailey and Meg by one of many beautiful buildings.

A horse! I just wish the light had been a little more cooperative.

We call this "the castle," but I'm sure it has a real name, too. I'll look into it.

I apologize for not having updated the blog at the regular two day interval this time. I talked to mom on the phone and was very politely reminded that there are expectations attached to that time frame! My roommate and several of our mutual friends are in Dublin for a long weekend, and being alone in the apartment is strange, so I've been spending time wandering around the city and hanging out with the girls downstairs. I have successfully made two loaves of Irish Soda Bread to take on our daytrip to Waterford tomorrow. I expect to be very impressed by crystal!

I meant to mention in the last post, but got frustrated by photograph uploading failure and did not, that I received my first mail the other day. Aunt Patty, Mimi and Poppy sent me a lovely letter complete with photographs of all of us. I immediately attached it to the wall Isee most, right by my desk, and it makes me smile every day.

Despite missing everyone desperately, I have really settled in. My class requires about a book a week in reading, which kills some time, and I have become pretty invested in buying whole foods that are locally produced and trying to feed myself that way, which is time consuming, but, I'm finding, really rewarding. Vegetarianism is inexpensive, but as I adjust to the differences in diet (e.g. needing to replace the protein, etc, normally obtained through meat) I'm finding that it takes some creativity and research to put together balanced meals. I'm glad I like to cook so much!

I did have my first dinner guests - fellow Americans, all - we had potato curry over rice, and every one seemed to enjoy it. Cooking for myself has been satisfying, but I still prefer to feed others!

I hope my sister is at a horse show at this moment. I hear Joey is doing well, and also verifiably misses me, which makes me selfishly glad. I get a little melancholy when I read facebook updates from friends who are starting their K-State semesters, but I am excited about the academic portion of this trip, too. I hope to take a Contemporary Irish Literature Class, and a Visiting Students Irish Culture class; the latter includes trips to hear live music as well as study of literature and film.

Next weekend I see Riverdance! The following weekend is the trip to the island for contemplative walks and journal entries! The following Monday the semester begins, and every weekend through October "the group" and I plan to journey to other parts of Europe. We figure it won't be as doable when classes pick up and become more demanding mid-end of the semester.

Sorry to deliver only the bare bones - I hope to have a more in-depth Waterford post tomorrow or Monday, and a close study of food acquisition in Cork City, Ireland, in the near future. The latter is far more complicated than one might guess, and I think it might interest my wonderful dedicated readers.

Must rest! More WITHIN TWO DAYS, I promise!

Life In Leeside

It never won any beauty contests, but it's home - for a semester

Here's the building from the street. It's not done justice by the typical overcast Irish sky. It's waaay more pink than this.

As is most likely clear, I have discovered how to put photos on the blog. I hate to admit that the little picture-shaped symbol was hovering right in the middle of the screen all along. (Hiding - well - in plain sight!)

The apartment building is a convenient ten minute walk to campus, and about a five minute walk to the city center. It is entirely student housing, and while as far as I know only early-start American students are here now, Irish students and visiting students of other nationalities will be moving in for the regular semester next month.



Here's the neighborhood! The "other side" of the river is a little more residential immediately, and after that involves some extremely steep roads that go up the "bowl." Barely visible is the Franciscan Well, which is one of the most accessible pubs, so to speak, and already a favorite of the girls I know in Leeside.

I have been more than a little spoiled by the Colonial Gardens luxury to which I am accustomed. The interior of the building is a little mazelike, and untrustworthy elevators mean I use the stairs every time. Of course, I should be glad for all the inadvertent exercise. I'll be ready to walk a few consecutive marathons by the time I get back to the States!

The colors of buildings here are so surprising. Pastels are popular, and on complexes, individual properties in one building are often painted different colors. This is sort of an example of what I mean, even though it's hard to see from this zoom. The traffic was heavy when I took these pictures, but it's always best to find a legal crosswalk and wait for the pedestrian green light before trying to cross the street. I have always assumed that American driving is the most treacherous for those navigating the streets on foot, but like just about every other assumption I had about Europe, I'm reevaluating that one now.

It doesn't want to put more pictures in this post. Hold for a second one.