Rostrevor

Another week gone. No blackberry related incidents to report. No legal problems. All cutlery set correctly and toilets sparkling. Smooth Sailing.

So I'll write again when something goes terribly and hopefully comically wrong. But out of keeping with my previous entries, I'm going to actually describe the place I'm living in. You know, like a travel blog. Not a misadventures blog.

It's okay to be disappointed. I am too.

But there is nothing disappointing about Rostrevor. Winding close along the loch, the road from Newry quickly abandons the tiny constellations of apartments and farmhouses and slips into a narrow channel of oak, pine and sea. The fall colors are just beginning to warm the trees, and the sea looks tarnished against a deep gray sky. You begin to wish that the drive would never end, but this is Ireland and no drive is endless. Soon the low spread and steeple of Warrenpoint appears, and just another bend around the road, wrapped in oak and snug against its sea wall, is Rostrevor.

It's a one-steeple town, you might say. The main village is wedged into a comfortable V, skirting the shore and flowing up a small valley into the Mourne Mountains. In the center of the V is Kilbroney Park, a massive swathe of green looming with ancient trees and strewn with winding paths. The town itself is perfectly Irish. Storefronts are boxed together in a short colorful row, and cornered on all sides by pubs - The Corner House, The Kilowene, The Kilbroney. There is a large stone Catholic Church and a large stone Church of Ireland, and an accompanying stony, sainty school for each.

There is a hush about Ireland that is at once ancient and alive - warm, if damp stone and dripping leaves can be warm. The light on the water is bright and sheen and hidden too, as if at times it were a playful thought from the deep. The air is quiet, even as the wind is rushing. The rain does not fall, it reaches from the clouds to play among the trees and tease the windows into crying. There is a profound quiet between things and in the gentleness of the near horizons, all bursting as if with suppressed joy, and laughing.

Gazing out across the sea, hearing the gentle dance of rain along the eaves, I find I am lapsing into wordlessness. It is a silence that fills many dark corners with light and reminds the soul of far off music. It is no wonder so much greatness was birthed in this place.

The Renewal Center has its charms as well. It was the seat of the ruling lord some century past, and is filled with small moss covered courtyards and narrow staircases. It commands a sweeping view of the loch and a fair one of the mountains behind. The wind whines a little in the windows and the floors creak in places, but it is warm and rich and homey. During the week the silence is deafening, but on the weekend it teems with life and laughter from all corners of Ireland. This weekend a group of Dubliners (not like the book) is packed in the tight corridors and up eating all the biscuits until the wee hours of the morning.

In fact, I had better go get some biscuits before they're all gone. Cheers.

My Continuing Misadventures (Braveheart, Blackberries)

So.

My first week being through, I was released from my duties for a day. This remarkable occurrence happens weekly, and is almost guaranteed to be the source of all my misadventures. Duties, you see, are not adventurous. Let's imagine they are for a moment.

Our hero, finding himself in the laundry room, cautiously approached the counter, where he had last seen the bucket. It was still there, exactly as he had left it the day before. He reached for the bucket and took one long step toward the counter in the same motion, sweeping the bucket with him and arriving, unnoticed, at the sink. The bucket slowly filled. The water rushed from the tap like water, rushing from a tap. He added some Flash, a multi-purpose cleaner, and dipped the rag in, slowly. It soaked up the water quickly, without the satisfying little delay he enjoyed in other, thicker rags. It was time for the downstairs toilets...

Not convincing reading, really. I'm sure something will happen, like I'll set a spoon the wrong direction, or I'll wash the windows before I vacuum, or something crazy like that. But let's face it, I can't blog about everything exciting, so I'll stick mostly to my days off.

To begin my first day off, I decided to sleep in. This being accomplished in grand form, I stuffed my pockets with vitals (pb&j, apple) and set out for a hike. Rostrever is conveniently located at the foot of a "mountain" range, so hiking is very possible. I say "mountain," because that's what the Irish call these rather low and graceful hillocks. But not everyone grew up in the Rockies, and not everyone is quite as tall as I am, so for now I'll just go on calling them mountains.

There is a great stone about half-way up, the Cloughmore Stone, thrown there from Scotland by a giant, according to local folklore. It's not very big really, just an average rock, but Ireland isn't home to many boulders. To anything large. But I was determined to at least reach this stone and then see what was possible. Some picture taking was possible, as well as freezing in the wind. It was a beautiful place, and the stone did add something ancient to the mood. It is a rather odd place for a stone of that size and constitutions... there are no other rocks like it in the area. But, notwithstanding another boulder crashing down while one is there, there is nothing particularly thrilling to do once you reach the stone. I mean, let's be realistic, this is no Blarney Stone. Now that's a stone.

Fortunately, there was a more attractive option just behind me. Drumbeats began to echo in the hollow cavern of my skull, bagpipes whistled faintly in my knickers - yes, there was a sheep trail. And it led upward, toward to summit of a mountain on an island roughly located in the vicinity of that paramount of mountain-summit-sheep-trail-islands: Scotland. I Without hesitation I clapped my claymore (camera) onto my back, and secured my buckskin pack (small sized freezer baggy complete with twisty-tie and containing one pb&j, sliced) and set off at a brisk trot.

There is something very fundamental in me, and in most of the male species (I hope), which gets the greatest satisfaction in having climbed something, and having attained the summit, to lunch upon it. There is nothing like a sandwich to tell that mountain just how thoroughly it has been climbed. So I at my sandwich and apple, and raced on, for the sake of the tribes.

This lasted for some time, and if you are really interested to hear how I saved Ireland (and by extension, Scotland) from William the Longshanks, you will have to inquire after further details, or rent a recent blockbuster made in my honor, and under my name (with permission), at your local video rental of choice. Meanwhile it is the journey home that is of primary interest here.

You see. I'm fairly sure that William Wallace knew about blackberry brambles, but Lord knows he never told me about them. Oh I knew of their treacherous barbs and brambly nature - I just wasn't aware as to just how extensively they can cover the forest floor. You see, as I was fresh from proving my manhood on the highlands, I was sure that a little detour between the carpark and the lower trail was merely matter-of-course. It was a matter of hours actually, and many bad decisions and stubborn scratches later, I found myself in the middle of the forest surrounded by shoulder high blackberry brambles (and I mean, from ankle to shoulder - solid bramble). My only option (after climbing a tree to ascertain whether continued torture would yield the path) was two large stone walls, a field of blackberries and several pride-notches back to where I had started - the carpark. So, cursing and wincing, I scraped myself back and found the trail and accepted the pedestrian defeat of walking easily back to the main road.

All in all, a wonderful day off. A bath and a nap, and I was right as rain - and several ounces lighter, having left a considerable amount of skin with my friends the blackberries. Tomorrow I shall again brave the laundry room, and perhaps the leaves in the garden, but for that, there's another blog, and another day - cheers,

My Wee Beginnings

Most people are good at beginnings; they're exciting and new and no one is thinking about the details and people are caught up in the wind that swirls around them. Beginnings are often the best part really - the momentum, the pace, the simplicity - all beautiful when you've just met someone new. Unless that someone new is an immigrations official. And unless those details that you weren't thinking about are say, legal issues relating directly to immigrating all the way from the stuffy, grey, airport side of the queue, to the other, glorious, Irish side of the queue where you know for certain that everyone is drinking Guinness and playing a fiddle and eating little potatoes.

I'm not good at beginnings. For example, when travelling, one thinks of a few details needed to begin afresh at one's destination. Let's see how I fared.

-Passport: check
-Clothes: check
-Multiple Journals and Books of Poetry: check
-Money: ___
-Address of Destination: ___
-Telephone # of Destination: ___
-Proof of My Reason for Visiting, all necessary for entry into the country: ___

"You realize how serious this is James?" she says. "You could be rejected for this."

The thought of remaining in an airport and paying more hundreds just to turn around and fly 12 hours back to California and completely forfeit my stay in Ireland because of simple forgetfulness gently settled over my brain like the simultaneous collapse of several thousand small galaxies. There was nothing I could do - no salvific piece of paper stuffed in a pocket to prove anything. Just my very honest admission that I was planning on staying for three months without any money, and volunteering at a place I didn't know the address or phone number of, or anyone's full name that worked there.

"Do you think if I showed up in America with nothing on me and just asked to be let in, I could just walk in?" She says. It's always worked for me, I think, hardly remembering in time that immigration officials are highly trained to explode at the least sign of humor.

"How do you plan on getting there?"
"The bus?" stupid! stupid!
"But how will you find it?"

Luckily, I was able to explain that I had studied google maps and was confident in my ability to reach the center. You see, I explained, there are two roads in Rostrevor. The one that goes away from the sea, and the one that goes along it. The center was on Shore Road, I knew that much, so I'm bound to find it eventually, I told her.

"It's your lucky day James" she says finally, writing my date of expulsion carefully, and tilting her head with a surprisingly motherly look of disapproval coming from such a young, bonny immigration official. "I've made a note of you in the system though, and you'll have to do better next time."

So there you have it. Ireland's Most Daft Travellers list.

But eventually, with more help from google maps and friendly bus station workers, I made my way in a half sleep to Rostrevor. That lovely official didn't know what she was talking about; when I asked the driver of the public bus how to get to the center, he wouldn't hear of me walking and promptly took the bus off course to drop me off at the door - after he stopped for a wee cup of tea of course.

And so my first week has passed as most first weeks in foreign countries do: a little drama, a little jet lag, a little settling in, and inhumane amounts of tea.

And now for my list of things to do in Ireland.

- Have Guinness on tap from a tiny Irish pub among jolly drunk cursing locals: check!

My work here is done.