In which I remember that I have a blog, and post.
(The fact is, I don't really like blogging. I like talking (read: hearing myself talk) and as most of my talking is done to computer screens and thin air, you would think that it would be a natural transition to blogging. As far as the joy of articulating my internal monologue into open space, it is quite natural, and I take great pleasure in reading myself type. The trouble is content. Most of my talk is completely void of meaningful content, and that just doesn't blog well. But this is not an introduction to a meaningless post, merely an excuse for inconsistency.)
My style of adventuring has changed since the first tumultuous week, and this is in part due to a higher work-load, and in part to an instinctual desire for survival. They keep me steadily busy painting and cleaning and cooking at the Center, and when it comes to my day off, I most often relish the chance to watch the clouds change color for two or three hours and read a good book. (current book: Anna Karenina - progress: 70% - status: excellentovich).
But occasionally, I badminton.
That is to say, I badminton-ed once, and was so utterly humiliated that I had trouble returning. (the real reason, not the 2-15 score, was my very stiff and painful wrist the following day...). My opponent was vastly superior, and soon discovered that aiming the shuttle directly at my chest rendered me completely useless, and proceeded to place every single serve, return and recovery exactly there. My spasmodic attempts to parry these well-aimed shots were mostly elbow, with a little bruising and occasional grunts. But on the off chance that I did connect racket to shuttle, my furious racket/shuttle coalition would smart bomb the hell out of my opponent's racket, making it impossible to avoid returning my every blow. But my sweaty, smart-bombing, elbow and grunt approach to badminton was not the chief source of my humiliation, it was my opponent.
My illustrious opponent was a lovely, kindly, 83 year-old woman, recovering from a heart-attack earlier in the year, and "not on top of her game."
Hey! I am an artist, ok? I paint pictures and make pretty music and DO NOT excel in badminton. (which I previously ventured to ridicule as not a real sport - I have updated my opinion to "no comment"). But my convenient wrist injury excused me from further tearful humiliation, and I decided that I would engage is Ireland's other national sport - the Pub Crawl. I am excelling, thank you very much, and have the victory (loosened) belt to prove it.
Speaking of pubs, I must mention the Corner House for it's excellent folk music night. It hosts a casual jam session every Friday night, ranging from just a few guitars and a fiddle, to full Uillean pipes, whistles, banjos, bodhran, mandolin and an excellent irish tenor. The Rooney family, which supply the whistle, bodhran (the drum, said: BO-run) and guitar/banjo are an amazing group of teenagers, especially the several-time national champion drummer. I attend regularly, and it is one of the highlights of the village.
And that's it for sports news at ten, I believe there is also an update from the travel desk - Taylor?
<>
Uh, That's right Taylor, we go today to special corresponded in the field, Taylor, who I believe has some breaking news from Belfast. *camera shift to bundled correspondent* Yes thank you Taylor, this news comes just weeks after the incident that occurred here shocked and dismayed audiences everywhere, and I think has left many fans in a sort of haze. I myself am very disillusioned as to the integrity of our rugged traveling hero, Taylor Gray, but as much as it pains me to report this, I owe it to the public. That's right, our intrepid man-of-the-world has broken down and taken a bus tour! A full-blown, man-with-a-mic, double decker, hop-on-hop-off, picture snapping, map pointing bus-tour. And what is even more horrifying, reports amid the aftermath confirm that he did, in fact, enjoy the tour immensely.
<>
So that's my confession, which I have hidden in a clever news story gimmick (read it again if you missed it). And yes, I can confirm first hand that not only was the tour fun and educational, but the guide was hilarious and I would even recommend that future travelers do the same. But I still can't talk to much of it, my travel-pride is still a bit raw.
Aside from the tour, I spent some time with rough-neighborhood teens at a drop-in center in Belfast, and was delighted at how forward these Irish teens were. They would just march up to me and introduce themselves and practically demand to know who I was and where I was from and would I play ping-pong. I am happy to say that I creamed them at ping-pong, which given the average age of 14, doesn't exactly sooth the badminton sized hole in my ego.
I was also privileged enough to stay with the owner of Avalon Guitars (handmade in Ireland, average price is about $3000), and received a personal tour of the factory. It - was - epic. at least for me. It was full of half-made guitars and wood-scraps and sawdust. But it was therefore extremely interesting to me and I got to play all of the finished guitars in their showroom, which was also pretty much the shit.
That, and another excellent viewing of kung-fu panda, pretty much sums up my Belfast trip. And given the length of this post, I may just completely ignore the title and write about that in Chapter Six: In which I return with a purpose and a better title.
Cheerio for now!
P.S. The title of this post actually has no reference to real life, except that I wanted to describe Valerie, who is the wife of Norman, and in my imagination at least, is a field mouse. Pancake-Picturebook is ex nihilo, and I left it because I love how it sounds, and may have to form a band.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Improvisation #1
Well well well. Rather than lapse into complete radio silence, I am choosing to begin a post without having any clear idea as to its impending content. But a nice, wholesome update will do, and I think perhaps, a few character sketches of the fabulous people around me.
Updates -
1. For the first time in my adult life I have a room to myself. This revelation in home environment has caused several unbecoming displays of emotion and a long journal entry. In fact, I have in other literary endeavors called my new room a 'sanctuary' and 'akin to a holy place' or some such nonsense, but I think it best to avoid any radical sentiments here. Suffice it to say that a small, rather sparse, definitely cold, and hard-to-get-at room has brought me an inordinate amount of happiness. I even have wireless reception, and am sitting in it this very moment.
2. I am known at sight and by name at three pubs.
3. A local man asked if I was from Rostrevor, a great compliment to my affected Northern Irish Brogue - his level of intoxication will not be mentioned. Also, two lovely English ladies (to be described in future posts - and quite sober) exclaimed at lunch today that my request for tea and milk to be passed down the table sounded Irish. They were shocked, I was pleased, we all drank tea.
4. I discovered the stash of movies. They are not about worship conferences, prayer conferences, prophetic conferences, or in fact about conferences of any sort. This is certain to revolutionize my evenings around the middle of the week.
5. I have had no further misadventures, because I have not ventured much outside of Rostrevor. Defense a) There is a whole world of life in this one little village, and by getting to know it intimately, I am becoming a part of it - much more satisfying than walking around with a camera and being scowled at like a tourist. Defense b) you wouldn't go out in this weather either.
6. For those who are interested, I have been making huge progress at the piano, which is a blessing for me, having been very limited since my injury.
And now, someone I have been dying to introduce to you all - the first person I met in Ireland, the indefatigable Norman.
Norman is English. He is English in a way that went out of fashion sometime shortly after World War II, but Norman has very little interest in fashions, and will tell you so. He is a slight man, not tall and not broad of shoulder, and his eyes are rather close together and his hooked nose is rather prominent. Every day, Norman wears a collared shirt and a tie, both tucked into his corduroys, and a sweater to cover the whole affair. Norman is the grounds keeper, and when changing from his morning ensemble (shirt, tie, sweater, cords) into his outdoor clothes, he vanishes for several minutes, and reappears in quite a different shirt, tie, sweater and cords. He is 73.
The first thing one learns about Norman, however, is not presented to the visual, but the olfactory senses. Norman was born in an age and culture that was indifferent to such trifles as bodily odor, and he has been indifferent to his since. Did I mention, he is 73. The delicate odor of gently cooked rubber and aged, sweating onions is constantly present wherever Norman goes, and Norman goes everywhere. But despite his rough bouquet, Norman is of excellent and fascinating vintage.
Norman worked in a bank for thirty years, raising a family of four girls with his wife Valerie. His thirty years in a bank instilled the most common bank-like attributes in him, that is a perfect adherence to order and procedure, and a withering cynicism that would discourage even the most optimistic person from truly enjoying their banking. Not that Norman isn't happy, or indeed good natured - his face is deeply lined with many laughs, and his smile is quick, if a bit sardonic. No; Norman, like most cynical people, is quite happy and will tell you so. He has even managed to be quite active and healthy for his age - though after the English fashion he so purposefully ignores, he reached his old age very early, and so is very practiced. He can be seen on any clear morning, plodding between the flowerbeds with a small bucket held indifferently in his hand, or stooping amid the geraniums. Despite knowing the proper and common name of every flower and plant on the extensive property, Norman claims he is not a plant person. "They live or they die," he will say, "at least, that's the way I see it. You can't really do much by them, I should think." Actually, if he were a little taller, and said "I shouldn't wonder" instead of "I should think" I would say he was exactly like Puddleglum the Marshwiggle, but more prone to jokes.
I quite like Norman and have done him no proper justice, but the hour compels me to leave off this useless venture. (No use talking to your friends all the time, says Norman, they'll never know you were gone) I am too tired to continue, but I promise not to be so long between posts. Until then, Cheerio.
Updates -
1. For the first time in my adult life I have a room to myself. This revelation in home environment has caused several unbecoming displays of emotion and a long journal entry. In fact, I have in other literary endeavors called my new room a 'sanctuary' and 'akin to a holy place' or some such nonsense, but I think it best to avoid any radical sentiments here. Suffice it to say that a small, rather sparse, definitely cold, and hard-to-get-at room has brought me an inordinate amount of happiness. I even have wireless reception, and am sitting in it this very moment.
2. I am known at sight and by name at three pubs.
3. A local man asked if I was from Rostrevor, a great compliment to my affected Northern Irish Brogue - his level of intoxication will not be mentioned. Also, two lovely English ladies (to be described in future posts - and quite sober) exclaimed at lunch today that my request for tea and milk to be passed down the table sounded Irish. They were shocked, I was pleased, we all drank tea.
4. I discovered the stash of movies. They are not about worship conferences, prayer conferences, prophetic conferences, or in fact about conferences of any sort. This is certain to revolutionize my evenings around the middle of the week.
5. I have had no further misadventures, because I have not ventured much outside of Rostrevor. Defense a) There is a whole world of life in this one little village, and by getting to know it intimately, I am becoming a part of it - much more satisfying than walking around with a camera and being scowled at like a tourist. Defense b) you wouldn't go out in this weather either.
6. For those who are interested, I have been making huge progress at the piano, which is a blessing for me, having been very limited since my injury.
And now, someone I have been dying to introduce to you all - the first person I met in Ireland, the indefatigable Norman.
Norman is English. He is English in a way that went out of fashion sometime shortly after World War II, but Norman has very little interest in fashions, and will tell you so. He is a slight man, not tall and not broad of shoulder, and his eyes are rather close together and his hooked nose is rather prominent. Every day, Norman wears a collared shirt and a tie, both tucked into his corduroys, and a sweater to cover the whole affair. Norman is the grounds keeper, and when changing from his morning ensemble (shirt, tie, sweater, cords) into his outdoor clothes, he vanishes for several minutes, and reappears in quite a different shirt, tie, sweater and cords. He is 73.
The first thing one learns about Norman, however, is not presented to the visual, but the olfactory senses. Norman was born in an age and culture that was indifferent to such trifles as bodily odor, and he has been indifferent to his since. Did I mention, he is 73. The delicate odor of gently cooked rubber and aged, sweating onions is constantly present wherever Norman goes, and Norman goes everywhere. But despite his rough bouquet, Norman is of excellent and fascinating vintage.
Norman worked in a bank for thirty years, raising a family of four girls with his wife Valerie. His thirty years in a bank instilled the most common bank-like attributes in him, that is a perfect adherence to order and procedure, and a withering cynicism that would discourage even the most optimistic person from truly enjoying their banking. Not that Norman isn't happy, or indeed good natured - his face is deeply lined with many laughs, and his smile is quick, if a bit sardonic. No; Norman, like most cynical people, is quite happy and will tell you so. He has even managed to be quite active and healthy for his age - though after the English fashion he so purposefully ignores, he reached his old age very early, and so is very practiced. He can be seen on any clear morning, plodding between the flowerbeds with a small bucket held indifferently in his hand, or stooping amid the geraniums. Despite knowing the proper and common name of every flower and plant on the extensive property, Norman claims he is not a plant person. "They live or they die," he will say, "at least, that's the way I see it. You can't really do much by them, I should think." Actually, if he were a little taller, and said "I shouldn't wonder" instead of "I should think" I would say he was exactly like Puddleglum the Marshwiggle, but more prone to jokes.
I quite like Norman and have done him no proper justice, but the hour compels me to leave off this useless venture. (No use talking to your friends all the time, says Norman, they'll never know you were gone) I am too tired to continue, but I promise not to be so long between posts. Until then, Cheerio.
Friday, October 24, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
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 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,
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)