Sooo….culture shock (reverse culture shock?) came on the second I was back in California. I got off the plane at SFO and was hit by a wall of noise. Had I never really noticed how loud it is there? It felt like my senses were being assaulted from all directions. After three months in the quietest, most serene place, my nervous system was not quite ready for re-acclimation.
Not to sound cliche, but I left a little piece of myself in Ireland. It’s been nearly six weeks since I got back to California, and I still check the weather in Kilcrohane, Bantry, Ballydehob, Cork city, and Kenmare daily. I occasionally look at live webcams of West Cork, just to pretend I’m still there. On clear nights, I will look up at the sky and search for the Orion constellation, which I could see from the skylight over my bed on Sheep’s Head. My family and friends here must be so tired of hearing of me talk about this place where a big piece of soul now resides, but the truth is that it’s out of my control. The pull to go back to the place that was my temporary home– in a way I never expected– is intense. I miss myself there.
I procrastinated this penultimate blog entry for weeks because I wanted some time to process what the experience meant, and did, for me. Here are some of the things I’ve learned:
I’m a nicer person there.
I’m a calmer person there.
I’m a less neurotic person there.
I seem to like people more there.
Which isn’t to say I don’t like people normally (I just don’t like being around a lot of people). I am not known for being the most social. As a (choose one) Pisces/INFP/introvert, I am easily overwhelmed by frenetic energy coming off other humans. I love love love teaching, but after a six-hour day of being in the classroom in front of a hundred students, I’m sometimes so drained when I get home that I collapse on the sofa before I can even get my shoes off. Same if I go to a party. Or a bar.
But weirdly, the rural Irish pubs (which I hung out in far more frequently than I ever would have imagined) did not have that effect on me. Pub culture is basically a sort of therapy. Whereas here at home, even in the smallest towns, “going out” to the bars involves putting things on: clothing, makeup, a persona, going to the pub involves peeling things off: pretense, bullshit, small talk.
I made more new friends in Ireland in three months than I have here in the US in the last ten years.
I like cemeteries now. Kind of a lot.
There are public restrooms everywhere. I mean, how civilized.
There are no such things as non-grass-fed cows.
There are pretty much no recreational/non-commercial trucks or SUVs.
You pay for fuel (“petrol” or diesel) after fueling up.
Men un-self-consciously dance to live music, and not just the really drunk or dorky ones, and also not ironically.
When I close my eyes and flash back to specific moments in Eire, the ones that spring to mind are so simple: the first one of my nightly walks when I befriended Hallie and Sis, the two donkeys up the road (mother and daughter). The twilight when I noticed that the clouds over Sheep’s Head are sometimes pink and look exactly like cotton candy. The day I drove up the Healy Pass and crossed the border from Cork to Kerry and saw, right at the border, as the thick fog succumbed to clear blue skies in a matter of meters. The tears that sprang to my eyes the first time I looked out over the lakes of Killarney National Park.
I have never spent so much time totally alone as I did there. Which was part of the point. Some specific things I discovered about myself as part of that:
I don’t want to sleep as much I figured I would given the amount of free time I had (7-8 hours was more than enough).
I can be chill and roll with things, almost anything actually, as long as I don’t feel like my values are being threatened.
I’m more comfortable with animals than people (is anyone surprised?)
I like myself, mostly.
I still worry a lot. I guess neurosis doesn’t disappear just because you’re on sabbatical.
I’m stubborn as hell. This presents problems when I’m in a battle with myself.
I rarely feel lonely.
In fact, I think independence is more important to me than security. Also my fear of not being in control of my own life is greater than my fear of being alone.
I’m reaaaaaalllly sensitive to people who lack the same level of personal boundaries as me.
I have difficulty negotiating between kindness and being taken advantage of.
I overreact. To everything. Good and bad.
I feel things just as intensely as ever. Being alone doesn’t change that.
When it comes to fear, I think the big difference between me and most other people is that I vocalize my fears.
I’m still holding on to anger from my past, which is/has been a barrier to seeing things clearly. And to opening up.
I need more validation on my level of intelligence than I’d like to admit.
I worry a lot.
I’m in denial about aging.
Related: at 45, I am amazed and awed at people with children, because I do not feel qualified to raise children and have realized, if I’m being honest with myself, that the main reason I don’t have kids of my own is because I’m terrified of damaging another human being. TERRIFIED.
I don’t shower every day. I don’t even shower every two days.
I am pretty boring, honestly.
I can go 96 hours without talking to another human being face to face before I start to get a little weird(er).
Started the morning with my cuppa scald, then noticed the press was bare, so decided to make a trip down to the grocery like. Fuck’s sake, the weather was fierce and the wind was blowin’ a hooley so I put on a wooly jumper. I bought up some crisps, biscuits, courgettes, and pinhead oats. I walked to the car park and put it all in the boot, then stopped in at the pub, where some afternoon trad was on. I shouldof stuck to drinking minerals like, but went ahead and grabbed a pint. There were loads of lads in the bar, but most of them were blow-ins with serious notions, and one totally balbous buck was acting the eejit over by the jacks, so the barman didn’t charge me like. I told him thanks a million and you’re grand. On the way back to my car, I saw a fit lad run by with a torch and the guards running behind him. I asked him what was happening, and he said the lift in the next building was banjaxed and he was meant to help out. I told him fair play. I was still hungry so I bought some takeaway and gorgeous wine to drink at home. I put a match on the tele and drank my wine with my mate. Jesus, it turned out to be good craic after all. Woke up this morning totally wrecked but happy out.
So y’all know by now that it’s impossible for me to imagine falling more deeply in love with a place than I have with Ireland. Specifically with Co. Cork, more specifically West Cork. I’ve begun my departure countdown and I tear up every time I think about the fact that I’m now on the home stretch of this sabbatical. Only 10 more sleeps here, and my heart is heavy. I’ve begun slowly saying my long goodbye to the Eire, and today she hugged me back.
Double rainbows. Is my friend Carmen the pot o’ gold?Another set of rainbows outside the cottage today.
The weather has definitely turned. I was blessed with about eight weeks of glorious, unprecedented sunshine-y skies, but autumn hit full-on about three weeks ago. It seems to have a been short season, because as of yesterday, I think winter has arrived. We have had intense, 50mph wind gusts, sideways rain, and hail in the past 48 hours. My lungs feel congested, though I don’t have an illness. I think it’s the Irish dampness that I’ve always heard about; it permeates everything, and even when the inside of the cottage is so warm that I’m sweating under my clothing, there’s still an underlying layer of damp that can never be totally dried out. It certainly explains the lush green landscapes in every direction. Here’s a quick video of the hail this afternoon:
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So, I found out awhile back that County Cork is known throughout Ireland and the UK as “The Rebel County,” which as anyone who knows me will affirm, suits me perfectly. Evidently the nickname comes from the long history of independence of the county from the Viking invasions through the Irish War of Independence, and it’s safe to say there is a bit of rebel spirt that still pervades the air here in Cork.
A map of Cork and Not Cork.
I’ve mentioned in earlier posts how surprising it was to experience the Irish sensitivity around English/British culture. I was not taught much in school about the impact of colonization on Irish/Gaelic identity. I realize now it’s because, duh, it’s the victors who write the history books. Some of it I gathered through Hollywood films, and I have been teaching in race/ethnicity courses for years about how English treatment of the Irish from the 16th century help forms the origins of what we know today as modern racism, but yet I somehow still managed to overlook the true impact of this history until I spent a bit of time here. I suppose this historical glossing over explains why some of my Facebook friends who claim to be big fans of Ireland were of the assumption that Ireland was/is currently part of Great Britain. I mean, ouch. I’m not sure there’s a more insulting thing you could say to an Irish person. No one wants to be confused with their former colonizers a full century after independence. [Sidebar: it’s interesting how little the English, for their part, seem to know about this sensitivity. I suppose it’s the consequence of a government and media that do not want to advertise the uglier parts of British history. Sound familiar, Americans? I should also add that I’m thinking in very aggregate terms here, at the level of the nation-state, not about British people individually, who are lovely.]
Next year, 2016, will be the centennial of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic, the first step in a bloody five-year process of independence for Ireland. One hundred years is a milestone, and it should be celebrated mightily. On the other hand, in the scheme of things, one hundred years is not all that long to have been an independent country. Especially after five centuries of subjugation. The wounds of colonization, oppression, and discrimination can take generations to heal.
Believing that the British Government has no right in Ireland, never had any right in Ireland, and never can have any right in Ireland, the presence in any one generation of Irishmen, ready to die to affirm that truth, makes that Government for ever a usurpation and a crime against human progress.
I personally thank God that I have lived to see the day when thousands of Irish men and boys, and hundreds of Irish women and girls, were ready to affirm that truth, and to attest it with their lives if need be.
–James Connolly, in speech to the Court Martial that sentenced him to death on May 9, 1916
I have also been learning a lot about the role of religion on the Irish identity. It is well-known that Catholicism was imposed on the country, but (perhaps given the people’s need to understand their collective suffering and/or the desire to believe that their suffering had meaning) the religion really took. So much so that Ireland refused to break with Catholicism during the English Reformation. From what I’ve been able to ascertain, there were two major consequences of that: 1) it excluded the Irish from being allowed to share power in the “settlement”, and 2) it has been a major source of Irish autonomy and identity, and as such, may partially explain that stubborn fightin’ Irish spirit I mentioned in my previous post.
Charles Fort, Kinsale. The site of the Gaelic forces’ last big stand agains the English is 1601.
I’m not prepared to say that I know exactly what this history has done to Irish identity, but I can say that the recovery is ongoing. I went to a Catholic college for my undergraduate degree, and our mascot was a Gael (I didn’t know what a Gael was until my junior year.) We would hear frequently about “Irish pride” or the “pride of the Irish”, and I now have a context for what that means. There is a collective identity here that is built around several narratives: territory, religion, and nationhood. Each of these waxes and wanes in prominence, depending on the region, county, family, or individual. Nationhood comes out in the attempt to preserve the Gaelic language, which only about 4% of the country now speaks. Every official sign, whether marking a street, a village, a town, or a building, is written in both English and Gaelic, usually with the Gaelic spelling first. One way in which the territory narrative manifests is in the strong county identities and loyalties and traditions (each county has it’s colors, and when you cross from Cork to Kerry, you see the shop flags and bunting shift from Cork’s red and white to Kerry’s green and gold.) Along with those exist core principles such as the Golden Rule, which seems to permeate day to day life, particularly in the rural areas, where neighbors still regard one another as extended family. The more I learn about Ireland and the Irish, the more I want to know. And the more I want to understand my own spiritual identity in relation to this place, which has very clearly called this rebel heart home.
Updated: I want to add this comment from an Irish friend, who agrees with the spirit of the post, but wants everyone to know that there has been reconciliation in recent years:
“Excellent piece, Cynthia. Ireland has in recent years shown a new confidence in its relationship with Britain, and I think the visit of Queen Elizabeth a few years ago highlighted this. It marked an acceptance by Ireland that Britain is no longer the oppressor but a neighbouring state with which we have a close and friendly relationship. We still like to beat them in sport more than any other nation though!”
Here’s a very Irish moment at Rosie’s Pub in Ballydehob last Wednesday night:
And some street signs:
Street signs in Bantry town.
“No person knows better than you do that the domination of England is the sole and blighting curse of this country. It is the incubus that sits on our energies, stops the pulsation of the nation’s heart and leaves to Ireland not gay vitality but horrid the convulsions of a troubled dream.”
–Daniel O’Connell, Letter to Bishop Doyle, 1831
The Battle of Kinsale.Bulman Pub in Kinsale.The Cork-Kerry border at the Caha Pass.Two rooks and a rainbow in Killarney.Jaunty cart in the Gap of Dunloe.My brother and me on the jaunty cart.Ross Castle in Killarney.Traditional music in Rosie’s Pub, Ballydehob.Soul-stirring trad music.
I think I mentioned in a previous post that my original goal for Ireland was to use it as a place to unwind and rest my heart, mind, and spirit after more than two decades of working without a break combined with several years of personal health struggles. Last summer, when I envisioned being here, I saw a quiet cottage (yup) in a remote place (yup), in which I didn’t do much of anything except read, sleep, and walk (uhhh…not so much.) I mean, yes, I’ve been doing those things, but what I began to realize soon after I got here is how much this country has to offer, and what a waste it would be if I didn’t try to take advantage of the opportunity to explore and learn.
And learn I have. Maybe you’ve seen Eddie Izzard’s standup routine where he talks about all the castles in Europe:
It’s true. There are a lot of castles around. Like, you’ll just be driving along, headed to the beach or a neighboring village, and all of sudden, whoa! There’s a castle (or part of one) 30 meters away. In my part of Ireland, most the ruins from these castles date from around the 16th century, but some are as old as the 13th century. That’s 500-800 years old. When you consider that the oldest American relics are about 240 years old*, we are talking some real history here.
*I am referring to the history since the founding of the nation. Goodness knows there is much more to our American story; namely the horrific histories of African slavery and Native American genocide, which of course we do not honor…much less remember formally…because American mythology and the fact that we like to think of ourselves as the good guys always.
Anyway, a key part of Irish history that I was vaguely familiar with (though much less so than I should have been, shame on me) is the Irish Potato Famine (as it’s known mostly in the US), aka, the Great Hunger, as it’s usually referred to here. The famine started in 1845 due to a potato crop blight, and continued until 1852. The fungus that caused the blight came from America (which I find just sickly ironic), and within one year of it arriving on the shores of Ireland, most of the island’s primary crop was wiped out. Ireland was a very poor and agrarian place in the mid-19th century, and the potato was the center of most families’ diets.
The importance of the potato to the Irish diet.The Great Famine Museum in Skibbereen, the hardest hit of all areas of Ireland.
Perhaps the hardest-hit of all parts of Ireland by famine was the town of Skibbereen, which is often referred to as the “epicenter” of the crisis. Between 1845-1848, approximately one in three of Skibbereen’s citizens died of famine-related disease or fever. Last week, I visited the Heritage Museum in Skibbereen, which just so happens to be located about 25 miles away from where I’m living in West Cork.
Heritage Museum in Skib (as it’s affectionately known around these parts).The suffering of Skibbereen.
Amongst other things, I learned that between deaths from famine-related causes (1 million) and emigration (which took another 3 million), Ireland lost about a third of it’s population between 1845-1855. No family was unaffected. The island has never recovered. That seems to be a truth about which most people think, but very few vocalize. It’s hard to imagine the aggregate effects on a country of losing such an enormous percentage of it’s population in such a relatively short time. The demographics shifted dramatically. Those who could afford to leave mostly did. In many cases, families found themselves torn apart when some decided to emigrate while others opted to stick it out. In the latter cases, those who decided to stay often perished. One of my former students told me a story about her ancestors from Cork, half of whom decided to leave, and half of whom decided to stay. Every single person who remained in Ireland died by 1855. No doubt this story is echoed in many family histories. On top of shock to Ireland’s agricultural labor force and class demographics, imagine what this kind of loss does to the morale of a community, and to the psyches of those who survive.
It turns out there are places all over Cork (and throughout the rest of the country, I assume) that in one way or another hold great significance for the famine period. One such place is the Healy Pass, a road though the Caha Mountains in the Beara Peninsula (also very close to where I am living). The pass was cut through the mountains during the famine (1847) to help prevent further starvation. It was one of the government’s (now largely criticized as feeble) efforts at a poor relief public works project. The road became symbolic of the struggle of famine, because it seems that it was used to bring home the dead more than it was to save the living. The stories say that funeral processions would come from one side of the pass (the north side in Kerry County, or the south side in County Cork), and at the top of the pass, where the memorial now stands, mourners would push the corpse in their coffin over the border. The awaiting people then took the coffin from the opposite county. I drove the Healy Pass last weekend, and it was one of the most moving experience of my life, possibly made more so by the fact that as I came up the Cork side of the pass, the mountains were encased in an eerie, dense fog. But as I crossed the border at the top, the fog lifted and beams of sunlight began to burst through the clouds. By the time I reached the bottom of the pass and was into Kerry, there was nothing but blue sky above me. Everything became warm, and the oppressive sadness I’d felt just a mile back was replaced with a warmth that made my spirit vibrate and my heart sing.
The Healy Pass in the fog.The top of the pass, where the funeral processions concluded.The story of the Healy Pass.The skies clearing as I enter the Kerry side.
My experience on the Healy Pass that day mirrored, for me, the nature of the Irish soul. [Let me give a disclaimer before I continue. I have no idea whether what I’m about to say will resonate with my Irish friends. I hope it does. It’s a generalization based on my observations so far. I want to do justice to all I have seen and heard, and to everyone on this island who has lived with this history their entire lives.] Ireland seems to be a land of people who understand in their collective souls the meaning of struggle, of oppression, and of loss. They carry it with them everywhere. People understand that living in this world is painful and often deeply unfair. Life is hardship. So it’s best to just try and enjoy it when you can (I think this explains pub culture and the concept of craic.) People mourn their pain, and they get on with their lives. It’s like they completely embrace both the light and the darkness. It strikes me how different, and I think how much more healthy, the Irish view of life is, than, say, the American view. Unlike back home in the US, there is no cultural norm here of trying to dull or deny pain by channeling it into consumption (keeping in mind that the United States has both the highest rates of obesity, the highest rates of prescription drug abuse, and the highest rates of consumer debt in the industrialized world.) If you live long enough, you are going to experience pain and loss. Culturally, the American way of dealing with those things seems to be to distract ourselves: through television, the internet, binge shopping (what many Americans know as “shopping therapy”), overeating, and other addictions, including our impressive rates of addiction to prescription painkillers and benzodiazepines. Which isn’t to say Irish people don’t have faults or addictions. It seems to be a pretty open secret that the rate of alcoholism here is quite high. But there is a sense that culturally the Irish don’t try to deny or even to fill the void that opens up in all of us when pain comes to visit. It’s not something to be ashamed of. It’s like they bear it. It becomes a part of one’s existence and is carried around like an extra appendage. It’s a burden, but it constitutes part of one’s identity as well. To deny it is to deny reality (and the Irish, I have come to learn, can be a very pragmatic people). To be clear, I’m not talking about victimhood here. I sense none of that. It’s a form of authenticity. And strength. And I admire the hell out of it.
Irish comic Tommy Tiernan talks about this in his stand up:
Irish people are more realistic about the randomness of life, the untold cruelty for no reason. Irish people don’t say “have a nice day!”, we say “good luck!”
I also visited a famine graveyard earlier this week, at Abbeystrowry near Skibbereen. Somewhere between 8000 and 10,000 souls were buried there between 1845 and 1848 in mass graves with no coffins. It broke my heart.
Headstone for the victims of the famine.This grassy area marks the spot where up to 10,000 bodies were placed in mass graves between 1845-1848.Another view of the cemetery.The sign from the road (N71), marking the spot.
Another thing that has struck me about these famine memorials is how they blend so easily into the landscape. They are innocuous, dignified, almost understated. By that, I mean to say that they don’t feel exploitative. Ireland doesn’t start wars and kill thousands of people as a result of their tragedies. And they don’t make vindication of their suffering the center of their foreign policy until the end of time. They include this history as an important chapter in the book of life, and they move on to the (hopefully brighter) next chapter.
To bring this home for me, I did some investigating of my own roots, as the famine discoveries had me extra curious. What I’ve learned is that my great-great-grandfather (Richard Boaz) was born during the first year of famine in 1845, in Cullinwaine, Kings County (what is now known as Co. Offaly). His wife, my great-great-grandmother, Emma Louisa, was born in Roscrea, in Co. Tipperary in the same year. It’s unclear when or how they met, but they were married in Dungarven (Co. Waterford) in 1865, and moved at some point back to Moneygall in Offaly, where they appear on the 1911 census. Two of their sons, including my great-grandfather Norman, emigrated to Canada around 1912. So it’s clear that not only did many of my ancestors survive the famine years, but they stayed put in Ireland for many years after. I would very much like to know more about this story, as I understood that they were farmers, so they must have been affected along with everyone else. However, those areas of Tipperary and Offaly are also well-known for dairy farming, so perhaps that is how the Boazes survived the famine. I hope I can take a visit up to Tipperary and Offaly to find out more. And if it doesn’t work out on this visit, it gives me yet another reason to return to this country with which I’ve fallen very much in love.
I’ll end this blog post with one of the most heartrending parts of the famine exhibit. It kind of brings it all together, doesn’t it?
A list of organizations that sent famine relief to Skibbereen. It includes the Choctaw Nation.
**I am planning a part iii on my reflections of the 1916 uprising and subsequent independence of the Republic of Ireland from British rule.
The first soundtrack was made up of songs from my iPod. This one is songs that have been important to my time here in Ireland, and they’re a mix current radio hits, cover songs from a favorite local West Cork band called Loose Change, and songs featured in shows and movies I’ve watched while relaxing at the cottage. In short, they will all remind me of this place for years to come. Hope you enjoy the variety!
I know I sound like a broken record, but feck am I glad I chose Ireland as my sabbatical spot. Along with marrying Jason, I think it’s the best decision I’ve ever made for myself.
Idyllic.
I feel badly about gloating because I have several friends going through some serious shite right now and I don’t want to rub it in. (You guise know who you are, and I love you and am sending happy vibes from the Eire.)
I actually teared up a little bit as I stood outside the front door of the cottage last night, looking up at the night sky, and thinking about the countdown to my return home. I’m kind of fatalistic like that. Instead of being excited about the fact that I have 26 more days here, I keep thinking about how I *only* have 26 days left. The first 56 flew by so quickly, I don’t know what happened. I want them back.
Full moon over Sheep’s Head on Tuesday night. I took this from my bedroom window with no tripod.
So, I guess that means it’s time to get serious about accomplishing my remaining Ireland sabbatical goals:
Visiting Kinsale (will probably do this with my brother in the second week of November)
Visting Clonakilty (on my to-do list for next week)
Visiting Cobh
Visting Lough Hyne and the Heritage Center in Skibbereen (today maybe, or tomorrow)
Driving the entire Ring of Beara (will do with Carmen for sure during my last week, possibly once before that too)
Driving the Healy Pass (with Carmen again, and also possibly once before that)
Visiting Ross Castle, Torc Waterfall, and the Gap of Dunloe, all in/near Killarney National Park
Seeing Garinish Island
Seeing Dursey Island
Visiting Roscrea, Moneygall, and Dungarven (in counties Tipperary, Offaly, and Waterford, respectively)– where my ancestors hail from. Unfortunately all of these are long drives for me, and may not be possible. Fingers crossed.
Getting up to Northern Ireland to visit my friend Julie, see the Giant’s Causeway, and do a Game of Thrones tour (also VERY far and seeming less and less likely now that winter is coming– pun intended)
Getting up to Mayo to see my friend Marina, and possibly also seeing Galway along the way
These are ambitious goals, and my energy level and enthusiasm for driving super long distances is not what it was a decade ago. But I figure if I put them out there, I’m more likely to be accountable.
Anyway. There was supposed to be a point to this blog post, but I’ve kind of forgotten what it was.
Oh yes– I remember. I want to express my pure and utter bewilderment at the fact that Ireland is not more of a destination. I have mentioned in a previous entry that I ended up here because of pretty pragmatic reasons. I will be frank, most Americans don’t know much about Ireland and to the extent that they do, and want to visit, it’s because they’ve heard of: the Guinness factory, the Blarney Stone, the Giants’ Causeway, or the Cliffs of Moher. And that’s about it. I didn’t have a list of places to see before I got here. I had zero expectations other than to chill out in a remote cottage and get my mojo back. I was also not one of those people with a lifelong goal to see the Mother Country. Ireland was on my radar mostly in the context of my work as a political scientist. It’s ranked number one on the Good Country Index, something about which I tell my students each year. The index is designed to measure proportionally how much each country on earth contributes to the planet and to the human race. So it’s not just about whether people of that country have rights, freedoms, and justice (though those things are factored into the formula), but it’s about about how much that country makes the world better just by existing. And Ireland is number one for many years running. No surprise, honestly, after being here for a couple of months. I’ve never seen such a genuine sense of community, and it’s there is every town and village I’ve visited. Ireland also pops up a lot in my lectures as a country that ranks relatively high on the Human Development Index, whilst not being all that wealthy (an impressive feat). It also has one of the lowest rates of deaths by firearms in the world, even though private gun ownership is legal. It’s just very highly regulated: you must prove you have a need for a weapon (the main reason being to protect livestock), and you are limited in the quantity of ammunition you can purchase. Gun owners are also required to store their guns, unloaded, in a locked safe, and must renew their license annually. It’s kind of a perfect example of how sensible gun control laws WORK. And health care is pretty darn good, too. The WHO ranks Ireland 19th in the world in overall health care, which is 18 slots above 37th-ranked United States, which spends twice as much on health care per capita.
But I digress, kinda. What I really want to talk about is how fecking beautiful this country is, and how much it’s blowing my mind. Growing up in Sonoma County, California, I’m not surprisingly a huge snob when it comes to things like nature and food. I like my nature to be breathtaking and my food healthy, local, and delicious. I’m about to say something totally heretical right now, so be it. The places I’ve seen here in West Cork and Kerry are, taken together, the most naturally beautiful sights I have ever seen. In. My. Life. Okay, there are no redwoods or Rocky Mountains here, but there are coastlines with cliffs so steep that they can stop your heart. There are endless hills of green grass in hues that I swear to god I didn’t know existed in nature. There are lakes, hundreds of them, many glacial and ancient, sitting atop craggy rock-covered hills and moors. There are forests and woods so thick with foliage that to enter them means to forego the light of day. Every day I enter Lothlorien or the Shire or the Gap of Rohan. It’s not at all unusual to be walking along a path and to happen across a waterfall. There are sunsets that could make a grown man cry, and they illuminate fluffy pink clouds that hover just a couple hundred feet off the ground. And the night sky, I don’t even know how to begin to describe it. Because there is so little ambient light here, it feels like there are a hundred times more stars than you’ve ever seen before. It’s like looking into the celestial realm from a parallel universe. On a clear night, the stars shine so brightly that for a couple weeks after arriving, I’d awaken in the middle of night thinking someone had turned on a light switch. If you’re a spiritual person, this entire country feels like magic.
Gougane Barra dressed in fall colors. Magical.Saint Finbarr’s Oratory reflected in the lake in Gougane Barra.Another of the oratory. I mean, how can this be real?
Even the food. To everyone who warned me that Irish food sucked, you are dead wrong and please update immediately because you are spreading misinformation. I have never had better seafood than here. NEVER. And okay, yes it’s cliche, but the beer/stout/ale is amazing, and I don’t even drink, really. I have yet to have one bad meal, either out at a restaurant or cooking at home with local ingredients. Organic food is readily available, and at least in West Cork, it’s all about local. And what’s more: processed and microwaved food isn’t really a thing here at all, nor are GMOs, which are heavily regulated by the European Commission. The use of antibiotics in livestock is highly regulated, and no meat or milk from animals treated with them may be sold within specified periods after the animal receives the medication. Food tastes cleaner, fresher, and healthier, even when you’re eating something as relatively unhealthy as crisps (potato chips), which I’m not eating right now. Okay, I am. Sue me. In other words, food tastes like food.
Then there’s the history and the folklore.* It’s. Everywhere. And the community (have I mentioned how warm everyone is?). And the rituals, like afternoon Tea, which I think takes on a slightly different meaning here than other parts of the British Isles. Tea is the Irish equivalent of the Spanish siesta. It’s when you unplug and drown your cares in a warm mug of deliciousness.
History. Three Castle Head (Dunlough Castle). Built in 1207. 1207!! THAT’S MORE THAN 800 YEARS AGO, PEOPLE.More history. Carriganass Castle. Relatively young, as it was built in 1541. Seat of the O’Sullivan Bere clan.Oh and look, more history! Castledonovan, seat of the O’Donovan clan. Built 1560-ish.
I honest to god don’t understand why everyone isn’t trying to visit Ireland. West Cork alone is worth the jaunt across the sea. To draw comparisons my Bay Area friends will understand, Mizen Head is as awe-inspiring as the Golden Gate Bridge. Killarney National Park is as stunning as Armstrong Redwoods. Gougane Barrais more serene than Point Reyes. Dunlough Castle is more interesting than Alcatraz. In a nutshell, West Cork is the Sonoma County of Ireland, and (the wealthier and more touristy) Kerry is the Napa County. And yet, I had not heard of a single one of these places before I got here. I’m guessing most of my readers outside of Ireland have not either. Why aren’t these places more well-known? Everything here should be world-fecking-famous!** Does the obscurity have something to do with the history of colonization? (I’m starting to think everything that happens…or doesn’t happen…here can be traced back to that.) Is it the relative lack of industrialization? Or just lack of marketing? Did Ireland piss off the west somehow? I’d love to know what this is about.
In the meantime, I guess I’ll enjoy this magical place on my own.
Carriganass Castle through the autumn leaves.Even the animals are wonderful. This girl was waiting by my car at Carriganass, acting like she knew me. I gave her a carrot and she was gleeful. She even tried to get in the car, and I’m not kidding, I was seconds away from dog-napping her.
*To be covered in part ii.
**I’m told by locals that they kind of like living in obscurity.
I passed my 7-week mark a couple days ago, and am starting to get sad when I think about leaving. Yes, I know I still have almost 5 weeks here, so boo hoo, but it’s going to pass so quickly, and I want to hold tightly onto each precious moment of this sabbatical gift. Especially after a day like today, which was spent entirely on dealing with administrative issues related to next semester (textbook orders, syllabi, selection of the Model UN delegation, etc.). It’s just…too soon. And also, I’ve been homebound since Sunday (5 days and counting) because of a bad chest cold I developed after several late-nights at pubs in a one-week period. (Only for you, Katy!) I mean, yes, a part of me very much ascribes to the “you only live once” mantra, but the other part of me is 45 years old and doesn’t want to die just yet. Hoping that by tomorrow I’ll be up for a least a short jaunt somewhere local– perhaps a drive around Beara Peninsula, which I’ve yet to fully explore.
Many people have asked me about my sabbatical (as in, “What is it?”) since I arrived. It’s become kind of an existential issue. At the time I applied for this sabbatical, I was still operating under the belief that sabbatical took one of two forms: it either meant a working vacation (as in keeping regular work hours, just somewhere different) or it meant a vacation vacation (as in getting down in party town). I suppose there’s a grain of truth to each of those, and will look different depending on the sabbaticalizer in question, but there’s something more to it; an undefinable quality that I didn’t fully grasp until I’d been here a few weeks.
To start, let’s see what Wikipedia has to say on the subject:
Sabbatical or a sabbatical (from Latin: sabbaticus, from Greek: sabbatikos (σαββατικός), from Hebrew: shabbat (שבת) (i.e., Sabbath), literally a “ceasing”) is a rest from work, or a break, often lasting from two months to a year. The conceptual of sabbatical has a source in shmita, described in several places in the Bible (Leviticus 25, for example, where there is a commandment to desist from working the fields in the seventh year). In the strict sense, therefore, a sabbatical lasts a year.
The main Bible passage for sabbatical concepts is Genesis 2:2-3, in which God rested (literally, “ceased” from his labour) after creating the universe, and it is applied to people (Jew and Gentile, slave and free) and even to beasts of burden in one of the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:8-11, reaffirmed in Deuteronomy 5:12-15). All agriculture was stopped during these periods, so even the land itself was given a Sabbath.
In recent times, “sabbatical” has come to mean any extended absence in the career of an individual in order to achieve something. In the modern sense, one takes sabbatical typically to fulfill some goal, e.g., writing a book or travelling extensively for research.
So “sabbatical” originally referred to a period of rest (with the blessing of God herself, heck yeah), but has come in the modern era to mean a period of focused productivity toward a specific goal. [To answer the question perhaps no one is asking: yes, I am working on a book and it’s the official justification for my sabbatical, but it somehow seems so much less significant for me professionally than the other benefits I’m getting from this experience.]
And before I continue on that line of thought, I want to also acknowledge that I’m fortunate. I know that. Most people will never get a paid sabbatical in their lives. So I’ve got loads of gratitude for this opportunity. The other side of that coin is that I have worked for 23 years without a real break. I also get paid like crap. I found out a couple months ago that I am in the bottom 25% of political science professors in the CSU (I’m told this has to with the year I was hired– 2008– and bad luck, as administrations typically randomly designate these quotas before the new hire even reaches the campus.) It’s offensive. Anyway, yes, professors get summers off, sort of, but ask any academic who is truly invested in her work when was the last time she totally unplugged and did not think about a course, a research project, a book or article in progress, a committee assignment, a student in crisis, or any number of other things, and I’m guessing you’ll get a lot of “I have no idea” or “Never”. That’s because we never do not take our work home with us. It’s what makes us good professors, but also neurotic, overstressed, jaded, and often times, burned out at far too young an age. Over time, never unplugging becomes normal, and failing to think about some aspect of work feels…odd. Or in some cases, impossible. But Ireland doesn’t give me the choice. She compels me to stop and exhale.
Which is why, I have come to realize, sabbatical isn’t just a nice (sometimes the only) benefit of being a full-time academic, it’s essential to maintaining our inherent humanity.
I originally chose Ireland as my spot because 1) it’s English-speaking, 2) I had been doing some ancestry research and found out I have roots here, and 3) it’s on the euro, whereas Scotland uses the pound. Pretty cynical, right? Well, whatever forces conspired to get me here, I cannot express how glad I am that Ireland is where I landed for this experience. It has given me so much more than I ever imagined. Yes, I’ve been able to relax, unwind, and breathe in the solitude and quiet, but my mind and spirit have also become so enriched by getting a totally new vantage point onto the world. Ireland has totally embraced me, and I am trying now to soak up everything she has to offer in the way of history, culture, tradition, and nature…oh, the nature. I’m not just going to be a better professor and colleague when I get back to Sonoma State, I’m going to be a better, stronger, and more well-rounded person too. I’ll tell you a secret: when I take my daily walks, and I feel the spirt move me, I always ask to leave this experience with three things: clarity, courage, and compassion. Who knows if I’ll achieve them, but the fact that I remember to ask is probably the important thing.
I should also acknowledge the fact that many of my colleagues (both within academia and without) who deserve sabbaticals like this will probably never get this sort of experience. My circumstances are unique. I’ve got no children to care for, and a very understanding and supportive husband who did not put up (too much of) a fight when I announced I was doing this. I have a good friend who was willing and able to move into our house and watch our pets for three months. The stars aligned for me, and I know how fortunate I am. And when I share my experiences with you all, both here and on social media, I don’t intend it as a humblebrag. Or a brag at all. I am overflowing with a sense of spiritual well-being brought on by Ireland, by sabbatical, by all of it, and I genuinely want to share it. I think that means I’m doing sabbatical right.
It feels appropriate to conclude this entry with some photos of some of the most breathtaking scenery I have ever taken in. All of these were shot in the past week. Hiking up to Three Castle Head.Dunlough Castle (“Three Castle Head”), oldest castle in the republic. Built 1207.First view of Dunlough Castle.Shadows and sheep on Mizen peninsula.Sunset over Sheep’s Head Peninsula.Sunset over Atlantic, from the tip of Sheep’s Head.Sheep on Sheep’s Head because obvs.Me with Ginger, a sweet gentle mare who lives in a pasture near Drombeg.Bridge connecting the villages of Glandore and Union Hall.Picturesque Union Hall.Killarney National Park. I mean, have you ever?Killarney National ParkSunset over Dingle peninsula.Dingle Bay at sunset. This is what it looked like– the sky, hills, and sea all different hues of blue.Killarney National Park.Road through Killarney National Park.
[Disclaimer: this post is filled with expletives. Proceed with caution.]
A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine suggested that I might be living a charmed version of Ireland, and that the rose-colored glasses through which I’ve seen this country so far are not representative of the big picture. To that I have a couple things to say:
Good. Isn’t that kind of the point of sabbatical?
and
Good. This train of thought has got me thinking much more deeply about what I want and what we (humans) need in the form of civilized society. And although Ireland is far from ideal in many ways [reproductive rights], the people of the United States could stand to learn a lot from the people of Eire.
Of course, in order to learn, one has to have humility, and we know that Americans are not known for that particular quality.
In the last ten days, there have been several more mass shootings in the United States (because oops we had briefly fallen behind on our one-per-day average), including one particularly heinous one at Oregon Community College. I don’t have it in me to walk you through all my thoughts on guns right now (though I will say that I’m ready to go on record as saying that private gun ownership should be abolished in the United States, with very few exceptions for hunting, protection of livestock, and recreational shooting at designated ranges, all of which should be done under strict regulation. And even then, private citizens should get to own no more than one murder machine firearm.)
This is NOT what the framers envisioned.
Reading about the shootings from here made me sicker than usual. I think it’s because having a bit of distance means having a broader perspective. It is suddenly so obvious to me that America is completely 100% Grade-A batshit INSANE when it comes to our love affair with guns. Nowhere else in the civilized world do you find an ammosexual culture like the one we have in the US. No other non-failed state has a private citizenry that stockpiles weapons. You don’t read about kids borrowing weapons from their mom/grandfather/uncle’s arsenals to mow down a room full of children anywhere except the United States.
How’s that 2nd amendmenting going?
A couple days after the OCC rampage, I was driving along a serene Irish country road listening to talk radio, when I came across an interview with a piece of human garbage guy named Cal Thomas. Apparently he was someone back in the 1980s and played some role in the Reagan campaign or administration (he still uses the same barber obviously), but has fallen into such irrelevancy that FOX and co. dispatches him to be the talking head for the “AMERICA: FUCK YEAH!” perspective to international journalists. As I was listening to this dickhead guy talk, I couldn’t help but feel sad/bemused/horrified that Ireland registers as so unimportant to the United States that the best we can do is send THIS ASSHOLE to represent us.
Heil… I mean Hello, Cal. You seem friendly.
Amongst other things, he said that most of the crime in the US is “black on black crime” and that President Obama totally ignores that. He also said that Ireland’s murder-by-gun rates are so low because it’s mostly white people here. And of course he peppered the entire interview with random NRA talking points like “guns don’t kill people, [black] people kill people”, and at the point he said that, the host was like “What the fuck is wrong with you, CAL?” (Okay, he doesn’t quite say it like that, but that’s the obvious subtext.) That’s when I pulled over the car and started recording this racist’s nonsense on my iPhone. I had planned to upload it and share it with the world, but lo and behold, Ireland has it’s shit together more than I even realized, and had the archive of the full interview up later that same day, so here it is in all its disgusting glory. The interview starts about 1:00 and ends about 14:30. Have your barf bag ready.
You will not be surprised to know that at more than one point, I yelled “SHUT THE FUCK UP, CAL!” at the radio in my car. Luckily only a few bovine friends heard me. What I learned that day is that literally no one else in the world knows what the hell is wrong with us. We are like a science experiment that nobody can solve. I mean, most people around the world like American people fine, but they think we are suicidally and homicidally insane when it comes to our absurd love affair with guns. To the rest of world, no one should have their shit together more than us: we are rich, powerful, diverse, and huge. We dominate everything, we set the trends. FFS, people in the most remote areas of the globe know who the Kardashians are. Globalization has come to be a synonym for Americanization, and for the most part, there’s not much resistance to that, at least in the industrialized western world.* But when it comes to guns, they think we are motherfucking nuts. And they are RIGHT.
*By this I mean that people seem to accept it as an inevitable. Most intellectuals and highly educated folks I’ve spoken to here in Ireland actually find the materialistic, consumerist, rat-race, image-obsessed aspects of American culture to be off-putting and bizarre.
I don’t think it’s a coincidence that last night at the pub, my friend Katy and I got into a discussion of these things with some locals. It seemed like they wanted us to explain/defend American culture, but we were both at a loss. They asked me what I thought of Ireland, and particularly West Cork so far. I replied that it was almost idyllic, and that between the landscape, the pace of life, and the people, it was hard not to fall in love with the place. One of the guys, John, took that in for a minute, and then said to me, in all earnestness, “What you are noticing is that people here look out for each other. If someone needs help, we all take care of that person.” I tried to articulate this to my husband last week as well. One of the things that I love so much about being here is what is lacking. That constant, anxiety-inducing pressure to be the BEST at everything- to succeed or die- doesn’t exist here (or at least not in the rural villages where I’ve spent most of my time). Competition (other than in rugby or soccer), creating an image, cultivating status, hoarding money and possessions…are just not athing here. It’s so refreshing! For a person like me who is physically repelled by guile and all the trappings of constantly seeking validation through external forces, this place is like a nirvana.
Irish people will walk right up to you and tell you what the fuck they think. Authenticity is seen as a sign of respect to other humans. People here believe life is to be enjoyed because you never know when it will come to a screeching halt. This is not to say that people don’t worry or that there isn’t a dark side (have you ever read a book by an Irish author or watched a film set in Ireland? For fuck’s sake, you need therapy afterwards). It’s that people understand that life is real and the rest of it: possessions, status, image…are mostly bullshit. To them, Americans are living in our own little dystopian reality show where every week, another school, mall, church, or movie theater gets shot up by some young white fuckhead filled with narcissistic masculine rage. They watch the hand-wringing and prayer vigils and endless parade of lone-madman-theory advocates on corporate-controlled American media, and all of them just keep saying to me “Jesus Christ! Why don’t you guys take away the fucking GUNS?”
It’s been awhile since my last post. I was kept busy by my friend Jennifer’s visit, then honestly just got lazy for a few days. I’m not sure if this is a quality of Ireland, or sabbatical, or my own twisty mind, but time has taken on strange properties since I arrived. Sometimes a day seems to stretch on forever, and I find myself wondering what I will do next to fill it, but then I blink, and another week has gone by. I’ve now officially passed my one month mark, and that makes me a little sad. I don’t know how I will be able to fit in everything I want to learn and do (and undo or redo) in the time I have left.
I’m going to bed earlier and waking up earlier than I ever have at home. I’m much more attuned to the weather and the temperature and the light, and without a watch or a thermometer could probably tell you the time and temperature (well, within 2 or 3 degrees Fahrenheit) just by stepping outside for a second. It’s as though I’m being absorbed into the landscape around me, and it gives me a feeling that is very hard to describe, almost as though I share each inhale and exhale with the movement of the wind through the grass and trees. It makes my skin tingle to stand at the top of a hill and look out at the vistas surrounding me. It makes me feel tiny and enormous at the same time. I love that feeling. Could I sound more like a hippie? (No, I could not.)
Anyway. The theme of this entry was meant to be villages. And culture. And maybe a few other things yet to be revealed.
Before I got to Ireland, I never put much thought into the distinction between different municipal entities. In the US, or in California at least, there are cities and there are towns. A city is a legally defined government entity which provides local government services to its citizens. A town is an unincorporated community with no governmental powers and county governments provide services to these unincorporated communities. So my hometown of Healdsburg is both a city (with defined borders) and a town, depending where in those geographical borders you fall.
But here in Ireland, the majority of municipal or census entities (is that even the right term?) with populations are called “villages.” I have tried assiduously to get a clear understanding on the distinction between villages and towns because it seems to be more than just population or geographical size, but I’m still a bit murky on the concept. From what I can ascertain (and btw, I welcome any Irish readers or anyone with a better grasp on this than me to chime in and school me in the comments), a “city” was originally defined as an incorporated town, usually also an urban center, which contained a cathedral (as well as other important essential services), and is split into actual “cities” (e.g. Cork, Galway, Dublin) and “urban districts”, which seem to be slightly smaller (e.g. Castlebar, Dungarven, Clonakilty) and…I don’t know what else. That might be the only difference, though the urban districts do seem to be slightly less historically renowned outside of Ireland. Though that doesn’t mean much here, as every place you step has a rich and often sad history [sidebar: I’ve seen anonymous grave markers for famine victims in every cemetery I’ve visited– five so far– as well as several memorial statues].
A town is smaller than a city, but larger than a village, and traditionally has at least one church. Bigger towns can also be urban districts (e.g. Skibbereen, Macroom) and smaller towns are also called administrative “commissions” (e.g. Bantry, Bandon, Shannon.) And a village or “non-municipal town” may or may not have a church and is the smallest of the census entities (e.g. Ballydehob, Schull, Durrus). There are also non-census villages, like the one I’m living in (Ahakista), also known as “communities”, I think, and boroughs, which are functionally identical to urban districts, but get to keep the more historically prestigious title (e.g. Sligo, Kilkenny). It’s not clear to me exactly which government entity is responsible for me in my non-census village, but I think it’s the County of Cork. Then again, my postal address includes all of it: the townland (cluster of homes) in my village, the village itself (Ahakista), the closest census village (Durrus), and the closest town (Bantry), as well as the county. So it could be any of them, I guess! I would LOVE more enlightenment on this, people. I do know that this place is small enough that if you sent me a piece of mail to: Cynthia Boaz, c/o Sheila Ellis, Sheep’s Head Peninsula, Republic of Ireland, it would probably get to me (try it!)
UPDATED 10/1: An Irish friend has sent me some additional information, which I will quote here (thank you, Marina!):
Counties are divided into parishes. A parish is a geographical and ecclesiastical division. A parish is made up of a number of townlands and may or may not have a village or town [this suggests that Ahakista is a parish]. Counties are run by a county council, which takes care of the parishes [so as I thought, Co. Cork is ultimately responsible for my governance]. Larger towns had town councils until recently, when they were taken away. Addresses in rural areas start with the townland, then the parish, then the town to which that particular area is assigned, then the county.
In the spirit of attempting to get a handle on my surroundings, I’ve made a list of towns, villages, and other locations, mostly in West Cork, that I want to visit while here. By visit, I mean stop the car and get out in, and where possible, do something like eat, drink, or shop. I’ve actually made significant progress on my list so far. Here it is, and locals, feel free to offer more suggestions:
Bantry Durrus Goleen Crookhaven
Mizen Head/Barleycove Kilcrohane Kealkill Dunmanway Blarney Glengarriff Schull Ballydehob Union Hall Skibbereen Lough Hyne
Castletownbere
Garinish Island
Bandon
Macroom
Gougane Barra
Baltimore
Killarney
Kenmare
Kinsale
Clonakilty
Dingle
Tralee
Sherkin Island
Bere Island
Roscrea*
Moneygall*
Cullenwaine*
Dungarven*
*These four are in counties Tipperary, Offaly, and Waterford, and are on the list because my Boaz ancestors hailed from those places. I’m hoping my brother will want to visit them with me when he comes to Ireland in November.
In addition to cities/towns/villages/parishes/etc, Ireland of course is also divided into counties, which as I’ve learned, has cultural significance that the Irish take very seriously, especially when it comes to sporting competitions. The Gaelic Athletic Association is the national entity for the 32 GAA county boards, and covers a range of sports. I don’t want to make any assumptions based on my limited observations, but I can tell you that the counties outside of Cork which I’ve heard mentioned the most frequently in pub settings (both while being cheered and cursed) are Kerry, Mayo, and Galway. It could mean nothing, or it might be because of the geographical proximity to Cork, or it may be based on some longstanding county rivalries of which I’m unaware. Or current athletic standings…I honestly have no idea, I just found it interesting (again, asking Irish readers to chime in and enlighten me). As far as I can tell, most Irish seem to identify strongly with both the village/town and the county they come from, as well as the one in which they currently live, though where you come from seems to be a bit more important unless you’ve been settled in your new home for a looonnnnng time. I’ve also noticed the very evident but not quite hostile tension/rivalry with England/all things English or British. Anecdotally, however, I’ve met a lot of other visitors to Ireland from around the world, and the largest number by far are from England. This interests me, as I’d never really thought about it before I got here and I’ll return to it in a later blog. I’ll try to treat it with the sensitivity and honesty it deserves. Until last year, Aer Lingus was segregated in a far-away hovel of Heathrow Airport. The move to Terminal 2 was big news in Ireland.
Ireland’s counties.Other important features of Irish village life include tea, pubs, craic (pronounced “crack”, and translates to having a fucking lot of fun), and something called “road bowling,” which Jenn and I stumbled upon on Sunday afternoon. A large number of men (and one woman) were assembled on a country road and seemed to be very engaged in whatever it was that was going on. I rolled down my window and asked what was happening, and one guy said “road bowling”, as though it were plainly obvious. No one seemed interested in elaborating, so we went on our way with a plan to look it up when we got home. Wikipedia describes it as “an Irish sport in which competitors attempt to take the fewest throws to propel a metal ball along a predetermined course of country roads.” Yup, that sounds like a very apt description of what we saw. Here is some info if you want to learn more.
We rudely interrupted a raucous game of road bowling on Mizen Head peninsula, just outside Durrus.As I’m sure everyone reading this knows, Irish pubs are legendary. The craic is unparalleled. This, in my limited experience, is legitimate. The Irish know how to have fun. On any given night, but particularly the weekends, if you walk into a village pub, you’ll be greeted by a large crowd singing and dancing along to live music, the ale and conversation flowing freely. Last Saturday night, Jenn and I visited three pubs in Ballydehob because they each had live music and we wanted to sample all of them. The final one– Barry O’Brien’s– was the most fun. We accidentally crashed the 60th birthday party of a guy who is so popular locally that this was apparently his THIRD celebration. He took the microphone at one point, and I was introduced for the first time to a classic Irish folk song that was made into a pop hit a few decades ago by The Dubliners called “Seven Drunken Nights.” It’s a pub favorite, and tells the story of a man who comes home drunk each night to find evidence of another man in bed with his wife. She gives him increasingly absurd explanations as the week goes on, and the Saturday and Sunday versus are so ribald that they aren’t sung out loud in most pubs unless the crowd is well and truly “pissed.” Our birthday boy made it through Wednesday, then forgot the rest of the words, so I had to YouTube the song when I got home that night…er, morning. Here it is, for your listening pleasure:
“Seven Drunken Nights” by the Dubliners
And here are some scenes from various towns and villages around West Cork.
Glengarriff (probably my favorite village so far). Charity shop in Bantry town. The Funky Skunk gift shop in Bantry. Fresh organic produce in Organico in Bantry. Me and Jenn with Bill from Ma Murphy’s in Bantry, our favorite pub. The village of Schull on Mizen Head. Glengarriff village. The Sheep’s Head pub in Durrus. Driving past Barry O’Brien’s Bar in Ballydehob. Hoisting a glass of Smithwicks at Ma Murphy’s pub in Bantry. Pretty Glengarriff. Rosie’s Bar in Ballydehob. You can’t tell from this photo, but the place is so packed at this point, that you literally can’t even open the door (which swings inward.) Love the name of this Chinese restaurant in Schull. Quiet Sunday in Schull. Having a mug of hot chocolate at Paradise Cafe in Schull. FYI– if you lost (or found?) some sheep in Glengarriff, this is for you. View from cemetery overlooking Bantry Bay, with the town in the distance. Girl, green, Glengarriff. Glengarriff, you are so picturesque. ❤
What I’m listening to here. This post is for my good friend Tim. It was inspired by the lunch conversation we had before I left.
To get the full effect, imagine listening while looking out a window at grass so green it has hues you’ve never seen before and a sky so big it makes you dizzy.
Can’t believe I’m already 1/4 of the way through my sabbatical. Three weeks down today, nine more to go.
1. “Take it Easy” by the Eagles (starts at :35)
2. “Rose Tattoo” by the Dropkick Murphys:
3. “Gypsy” by Stevie Nicks:
4. “These are Days” by 10,000 Maniacs:
5. “Carry You Home” by James Blunt:
6. “That’s What’s Up” by Lennon and Maisy:
7. “Galway Girl” by Steve Earle:
8. “Gypsy” by Lady Gaga:
9. “Stubborn Love” by the Lumineers (starts at 1:05):
Some of you may know that I’ve got a heart condition called atrial fibrillation, an electrical malfunction of the atrium and surrounding veins, which causes my heart to beat very erratically (though technically in afib, the atrium is quivering, not really beating) and can cause the heart rate to skyrocket. Afib is unlike tachycardia in that the intervals between the beats is totally uneven. I might have ten successive beats, then a pause, then five, then a pause, then two, pause, eight, pause, and so on. A heart rate taken in afib is at best an estimation because technically the heart rate is changing with each beat.
Even though it’s fairly common (though usually in the 65+ plus crowd) and rarely presents imminent danger, it’s a leading cause of stroke and congestive heart failure, so it’s important that it’s managed with lifestyle changes, meds, or occasionally surgery. Afib often also is concurrent with other arrhythmias like PACs (premature atrial contractions), PVCs (premature ventricular contractions), bigeminy or trigeminy (when the heart beats in groupings of two or three beats, followed by a PAC), SVT (supraventricular tachycardia), or any number of other ectopic beats or non-sinus rhythm patterns. I haven’t had a sustained run of afib in months, and can’t remember the last time I suffered through a whole day of non-stop arrhythmia. So I guess I was due. I’ve had it all day today, the longest sustained episode in three years. It’s hard not to get bummed out and a little scared. I can’t function normally when my heart is out of rhythm. And of course, I’m alone in a remote location. Some people feel almost no symptoms (or don’t even know they’re in afib), whereas I’m classified as highly symptomatic. My heart rate zooms up to 180+, I have compete exercise intolerance (i.e. can barely walk up one flight of stairs), breathlessness, and polyuria (frequent urination, due to excess production of a particular enzyme by the atrium, which is trying to ease the load on the heart by removing liquid from the body.) I also usually get a rush of negative brain chemicals, and in addition to anxiety and extreme irritability, I often feel a sense of impending doom while in afib.
And the meds are no cake walk either. The calcium channel blocker I take to keep my heart rate down makes me tired and slows me way down when I try to exercise. The anti-arrhythmic I take to keep my heart in rhythm is actually black-boxed by the FDA (meaning it has a warning label that says it can cause spontaneous cardiac death in a tiny fraction of patients). It also has many side effects like blurred vision, muscle twitching, and hair loss. Both of them, combined with the afib itself probably, also have cognitive effects: I’m not as quick-witted as I used to be, and it takes me much longer to write or do data analysis than it used to. Still, for now those things are better than being in afib all the time.
However I think the afib has started to progress (as it almost always does; it’s considered a degenerative disease), or I’ve started to develop a tolerance to the meds.
Here’s a snapshot of the ECG tracing I took a few hours ago. My heart rate was 114, while just relaxing. AliveCor (the monitor I use) wasn’t sure whether this was afib or not, so I emailed it to my cardiologist (gotta love technology!) For those who know how to read tracings, I’m curious if you see a p-wave here? At best, it’s multi-focal tachycardia with lots of PACs.
A couple people have written to tell me that I’m brave to take this sabbatical in a foreign and remote place because of this condition. I appreciate the thought, but the truth is I’m not brave so much as willful.
For a month after being diagnosed, I went into a deep depression. I was 42 and felt like life as I knew it was over. And in a way, it was. But I also realized that I had a choice– I could live as if my life was over or I could live as if it were just beginning. Someone wrote to remind me of that quote from The Shawshank Redemption:
“It comes down to one choice, really. Get busy living or get busy dying.”
I chose to get busy living, and as a result, in many of the ways that count the most, I’ve been healthier in the last three years than I ever had been before.
But today is bringing me down, and I thought writing this might help me regain perspective. The truth is that I’m so blessed in ways too numerous to name. And I’m sitting in a sweet little cottage in the most beautiful corner of what might be the prettiest country in the world. I don’t have to drive to work tomorrow, or for about 100 days after that. If there’s any time or place when I can afford to face my health head-on, it’s here and now. It is sad and a little surprising that I’ve had more heart-related issues in the past three weeks than I have had in years, because all I’ve done here is relax, and walk, and eat. But if it was going to happen, I should be thankful to be surrounded by so much beauty and serenity. Nothing heals a heart better than those things, right? ❤️
Wishing everyone much health today, in whatever form you need it.
Update: Jason just messaged to say there was a bobcat sighting in the neighbor’s yard just now. My hens were apparently sending out the warning signal (I call it “triangulation” because it’s always three of them from different corners of the yard.) Sooooo…that’s probably not gonna help my heart today, yikes. He’s got Toby patrolling the yard now, and will go get some capsicum powder to sprinkle around perimeter. He also shot a pellet gun in it’s general direction to scare it off. Hope my hens stay safe, poor things. Another consequence of the California draught: wildlife coming down from the hills and mountains to seek food and water sources in suburban areas. 😦
Update #2: Almost forgot to say it here, in case she’s reading: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM! I love you! And don’t worry about me. This is just a way for me to vent some frustrations. I’m fine. xo
Update #3: For any tech/medical nerds, my cardiologist just emailed to say that the tracing above did not show afib, but it did show tachycardia with lots of PACs. He agreed it’s probably hormonal (I feel so validated.) So that’s the good news. The bad news is that 40 minutes ago, I took another tracing with the AliveCor (a miracle device!) which did show afib and a heart rate of 116. However, after 1mg of Xanax and some pranayama breathing, I seem to be back in sinus rhythm with a normal heart rate and some randomized PACs and PVCs. Here’s a link to the AliveCor, a must-have for anyone diagnosed with afib:
The theme of this blog entry is new friends. I’ve made lots of them over the past week. So without further ado, I’d first like to introduce you to Trixie, Dixie, Daisy, Peach, Abigail, and Henrietta. These are the names I gave them, apologies to their humans if they have other names already. I admit that I’m spending a concerning amount of time trying to get these heifers to like me. Right now, they’re my closest neighbors so I feel like we should be on good terms. Carrots and apples seem to do the trick. We are now at the point where several of them start walking over when they see me approaching, and a couple of them actually run when I whistle to them. Which is the absolute greatest because have you ever seen a cow running? It’s ADORABLE.
Dixie running to me when I called. She eats out of my hand and lets me scratch her nose. Definitely the tamest and boldest.Abigail and Trixie.Pretty Peach.
My new friends running to see me:
Dixie crunching her carrot:
There is also this drove of donkeys who live just up the road. Haven’t named them yet, but they’re very curious, so one of them will inevitably become George.
Hey donks!Are you George?
One things that has been confirmed during this sabbatical is that I love love love being around animals. Jason and I have been talking for years about possibly moving somewhere we could have a small farm with more chickens, a couple donkeys, some goats, and maybe a horse. Being in rural Ireland, literally surrounded in all directions by farm animals, is heaven for me. Although, there is a downside, which is that the more time I spend around these West Cork animals, the cows in particular, the more depressed I get about the factory farms in the United States. I swear, West Cork cows might live the happiest existence possible for a cow. Green pastureland as far as the eye can see, total freedom, clean air, cool but temperate climate…I mean, what more could a cow want? The cows that get to live here must have been Gandhi or MLK in their previous lives. They have lots of kar..I mean cowma. And it breaks my heart to look at them and think about their counterparts back home. I feel like a huge hypocrite befriending cows because since last December, I’m no longer vegetarian. Though I do try to only eat beef that is grass-fed or organic (and therefore presumably comes from a cow that lived a more humane existence), this experience is getting me to seriously rethink my decision to go back on meat. I don’t eat red meat much at all– maybe twice a month– but it kind of feels like too much right now. I mean I guess I always kinda knew that cows were sweet, gentle creatures, but now I really know. More on this later, as I process it.
Factory farm cows in the US. 😦
I have also made some human friends in my time here. Firstly there is my wonderful, funny, creative, skilled, and overall brilliant Airbnb hostess, Sheila (seriously, if you are thinking of visiting Ireland, or are already here and want to do a little holiday on Sheep’s Head, stay at one of her properties, they are the BEST.) I’ve also spent a little time with some folks Sheila introduced me to, Miriam and Bev. They live just down the road from me. She’s from Ireland and is a political journalist (sidebar: she interviewed Mary Lou McDonald last week, how badass is that?!) He’s English and has degrees in literature and social policy. They are both progressive and intelligent and extremely civically and community-minded (as is Sheila)…probably why they all felt like kindred spirits to me from the get-go. They also served me a delicious dinner of roasted chicken, potatoes, and veggies, so they’re pretty awesome in my book.
Miriam and Bev set up a time-banking organization in Ireland that has taken off like wildfire (ouch, maybe that wasn’t the best metaphor– sorry, California folks). One of the terms for the system is “favor exchange”, but it is not simply a barter system. The website describes it this way:
A favour exchange is a timebank – a community of people who have come together to exchange favours. It’s that simple.
You don’t need a direct swap with other members. Plumbing, handiwork or professional advice given to one person earns you web design, nutritional advice, music lessons or gardening from others.
You choose from the skills on offer within the timebank. Everyone’s time is equal. No money is involved.
No skill is too small or too great. Any practical work, professional service or skill can be exchanged.
What makes this idea so incredible is what an equalizer it is. Because everyone’s time is valued equally, there is no built-in hierarchy like you get in currency-based systems. The favors being exchanged do not have to be professional-based skills. For example, if I wanted to participate in the Sheep’s Head Favor Exchange (which I am considering, actually), I don’t just need to offer the skills that I get paid for in my “other” life– editing documents, writing, research, speaking, etc.— I could offer literally anything that I’m willing to do (I suppose the one limitation being that the favor offered is legal). So I’m thinking of signing up and offering to walk dogs or groom horses or feed animals, and in exchange I could ask for someone to cut firewood for me since I have a little wood-burning stove here. The purpose of the favor exchange is to get as many peoples’ needs met as possible and to improve the quality of the community by promoting trust, equality, and most importantly, dignity. That’s probably the greatest thing about this concept, in my view. It’s totally empowering, because anyone can offer something. And there isn’t even necessarily a higher demand for the professions– lawyers and doctors don’t get more favor requests for lawyering or doctoring than, say, a DIYer or a person who just wants to help someone weed their garden. I love this concept so much that I am genuinely thinking of bringing it back to my hometown of Healdsburg. Miriam and Bev say that the ideal size for a timebank group is about 200 participants. But if demand grows beyond that, there’s no reason a second group could not be started. Talking to them the other night over dinner really got me thinking about the larger implications of this. A successful timebanking organization could demonstrate to an American audience that it’s not really true that the best things can only be bought with money, and that value can be measured in ways other than counting profits.
Here is a link to the favor exchange started by Miriam and Bev. Check it out and see what you think. I forsee more posts on this topic, will be curious if readers have any experiences with timebanking.
The tag line for Sheep’s Head Peninsula in all the brochures is “a peaceful, unspoilt peninsula which has some of Ireland’s most beautiful scenery.” This might be the first time in the history of ever that marketing materials are not exaggerating. I spent most of Tuesday exploring Sheep’s Head, starting by driving down to the tip of the peninsula.
Path to the point of the peninsula.Lots of sheep along the path, and they are not intimidated by humans.Sheep on Sheep’s Head.A perfect nook for a leprechaun to hide in!
The drive was about 40 minutes long, and in that time, I passed through about five microclimates. Luckily, it was mostly blue skies out at the water, although I did get sprinkled on for about 15 minutes of my walk. Before setting out (the walk out to the water is about 30 minutes each way from the parking lot at the end of the road), I had a moment of adulthood and sat down for a tea and a scone at the cafe. I had a visitor who was very bold and very determined to get some of my food. You know how this ends. I can not resist a cute animal face. So Jonathan Livingston Seagull did in fact share my snack. I swear, animals know a sucker when they see one.
Tea and scone.He was sooo hungry!
On the way back, I had yet another animal encounter, this time with a big, bold, and extremely friendly cat who apparently lives out there and patrols the trail (i.e. stalks people to give him attention and food.) I bent down, he came scampering over and let me pick him up. It took a few tries for the photographer to actually get it, and by that time, Big Bob (it fits, right?) was over it.
Hey kitty kitty.
Oh almost forgot to show you the photos I got of the view from the path.
The Atlantic Ocean, folks.View from top of path, bay on right, Atlantic in the distance.
I also saw some other things on my drive back to Ahakista. There was this striking castle–or part of a castle–in the distance, just a mile or so before Kilcrohane (the most southwesterly, i.e. last, village on the peninsula). There’s no path to it, so I had to photograph from the road.
Dromneagh Castle, aka Lord Bandon’s Folly. Legend has it that a mouse fell off the top of the turret and died, and that was enough to stop building the castle. So this is it.Typical West Cork road. Look at those clouds directly above me.Microclimates! Here’s the result of those clouds. It was sunny and warm not two minutes before this shot. And see the patch of blue sky in the distance? Irish weather can change ten times in a day.
Also, Kilcrohane is home to one of the most striking churches I’ve seen, and that’s saying a lot, given that I’ve traveled all over France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Russia, and Eastern Europe. It has some celtic crosses in what I assume is a cemetery for some of the church’s original parishioners.
Kilcrohane Church.Celtic crosses.View inside the church.
My penultimate stop that day was the stone circle in Ahakista. If you read my blog post last week about Kealkil stone circle, you might understand why I was a tiny bit freaked to check this one out. Lucky for me, though, this one was totally innocuous. It’s in a beautiful spot, with a lovely view of Dunmanus Bay. It’s a very peaceful location, but its energy was nothing at all like the one in Kealkil. Which is totally intriguing to me….I mean, weren’t these locations all selected for similar reasons? And weren’t they used for the same kinds of ceremonies? Therefore, shouldn’t they all have a similar vibe? I guess not. Anyway, that’s two stone circles down, only about 185 to go!
Welcome to AhakistaI dig these road signs.Stone Circle this way.I would not have been even slightly surprised had a leprechaun jumped out at this point.This is almost but not quite a 360° view of the circle.Me getting stoned. 😉Stones.Stone bridge on pathway to circle.
And here I am walking up to the circle for the first time:
My last stop of the day was at the beloved Arundel’s Pub, on the pier in Ahakista. I was pretty hungry by this point, having only eaten some oatmeal and berries for breakfast, and half a scone for lunch thanks to Jonathan Seagull. Arundel’s is just a mile or so from my place, and I plan to spend a lot of time there. The people are exactly as friendly as you expect Irish folks in a smalltown pub in rural Ireland to be. The place is warm and inviting, and has some of the most delicious seafood chowder I’ve ever had. I also went waaay out of my norm and ordered a beer. I don’t drink anymore (not for any particular reason other than I don’t like the calories or the dehydration, and my binge-drinking-for-fun days are behind me), but gosh the though of a cold foamy Irish beer to go with my chowder and fresh-baked brown bread was just too irresistible. I asked for the “smallest and lightest” beer they had on tap, and they gave me a half pint of Smithwicks (pronounced “Smithicks”, you Yankees!), and it was every bit as satisfying as I’d hoped. That, my friends, is the “Sheep’s Head way”.
Arundel’sView from Arundel’s PubSeafood chowderHey half pint!
That night, I slept very soundly in my cozy new flannel sheets, which I had specially ordered to the Airbnb and will leave here when I go (I pay it forward, people!)
Cozy. That’s Murph chillin in the background.
Okay, I slept after I had a snack (it’s important to comparison shop!)
Ireland has as many types of potato chips (“crisps”) as they do potatoes.
Fine. I had a second snack too. Good lord, these are addicting.
Jaffa Cakes? Yes please.
And lastly for now: my awesome hostess Sheila has asked me to link her Airbnb listings for anyone who is interested in staying here based on the pretty amazing job I’m doing of selling Ireland (at least 10 people have messaged me to say they’re now planning trips here in the next year…maybe the Irish Tourism Council can get me on retainer?) Anyway- I’m in the cottage side of the house until the end of November, but there’s a “West Wing” add-on next door which is totally lovely, and more appropriate for couples or families. She said that if you mention me and this blog, she will give you a great deal on a longer-term (2+ week stay) on either place. So here you go:
House in Ahakista, Ireland. hello all, There are two options, Entire home or sharing…..it can be both in my house just email me and we’ll discuss it. Mon to Fri I work away from home so whole house is available and some weekends I also go away. I have had a very inte… View all listings in Ahakista
House in Cork, Ireland. I restored this house with love! I inherited it in 2003 and the roof was falling in and the walls falling out and every ounce of my soul has been poured into bringing it to a cosy cottage perfect for two or a small family or 4 or five close frien… View all listings in Cork
*In the next installment: I will tell you all about my new friends, a progressive journalist and her social policy expert husband, and the amazing favor exchange project they’ve started up all through Ireland. I’m genuinely thinking about bringing it home to Healdsburg.
So you all know that I’m in Ireland physically. But today my heart is back home in California. I’m feeling heartbroken and reaching to find the right words. I’m afraid this is not going to be my most eloquent blog post. In any case, it’s dedicated to my community back home.
I found out yesterday that a huge wild fire, the fastest-spreading one anyone can remember, has devastated several Northern California communities (including Middletown, Hidden Valley Lake, and Cobb), and is now just a few miles northeast of my hometown of Healdsburg. It started in Lake County and is rapidly moving southeast towards Napa County and southwest towards Sonoma County. At this writing (6am PST on Monday), it is zero percent contained. Several years of drought plus a recent heat wave (with temperatures going above 105°) and unfriendly winds have created the ideal conditions for an unprecedented fire incident. The embers are so big and powerful that they are jumping 6-lane highways, up to half a mile of a distance, just to ignite more trees, dried grasses, and structures… so many structures. Spot fires are everywhere. As of the last count, at least a thousand structures are estimated to have been burned, including more than 500 homes.
Tragically, four firefighters battling the blaze were airlifted to UC Davis yesterday with second-degree burns. My brother has told me many times of the fraternity/sorority of firefighters, and when one is down, they’re all down. So to have several guys injured at the outset of this incident has been really hard on everyone. Blessings to them all for a full and quick recovery.
I saw this morning that my brother, who is a Fire Captain in our hometown of Healdsburg, posted on Facebook that firefighters should be able to hold the fire at Pine Flat Rd., which is about 5 miles as the crow flies from my husband’s and my house. Cal Fire has put an Advisory (voluntary) Evacuation order in place for that road and another just north, Geysers Rd. So although the fire currently presents a more immediate danger for many others living in the outer edges of Calistoga, Geyserville, Alexander Valley, and other areas along Hwys 29 and 128, it’s still frightening. All my friends and family are reporting that the sky is full of ash cloud and it’s actually changing the climate and the way light is scattering. I asked Jason yesterday if this was the worst fire he’d ever seen in his more than 20 years on the job, and his answer was a grim “Pretty much.” That’s a shock coming from someone who has really seen it all. And that observation was 24 hours ago. Things have gotten much worse since then.
The Valley Fire as seen from space, it is shining more brightly than the entire Sacramento metropolitan area:
It’s big enough to be seen from space.
For a good source of current information on the Valley Fire, as well as others currently burning around the state, see Cal Fire’s website here:
As expected, the scale of the devastation is truly unimaginable. Several friends have posted that they’ve lost homes, businesses, and beloved pets to this fire. My best friend from 9th grade lost the business she and her husband built, as well as part of her home and a pet pig. Other friends I’ve known since kindergarten and grade school have also lost their homes and everything in them. They had to flee so quickly that they didn’t even have time to grab precious mementos, can you imagine? See the video below for one couple’s terrifying escape from the fire, which gives a raw portrayal of just how big and powerful this fire has become.
Many more people from Lake County still have no idea of the state of their homes or animals because they are not allowed back into the area since the mandatory evacuation yesterday.
Strike teams have been called in from all over California, including from as far away as San Diego. At the moment, more than 2300 firefighters are battling the blaze.
Here are some shocking scenes I pulled from the #valleyfire hashtag on Twitter, which is one of the best sources for more information on the fire.
Unreal.This was Hidden Valley Auto Body, owned by my friend Kristi and her husband Randy.Everything still burning.Heartbreaking devastation.What strike teams saw as they arrived on the scene.Apartment complex burning.It moved so fast.Middletown about to go up in flames.An eerie sight. The sign says “Welcome to Middletown.”
One of the most tragic outcomes of this horrific fire is that people were forced to flee so quickly, many pets, including horses, donkeys, goats, dogs, and cats, were left to their own devices. I was touched to see that there are already a number of organizations and people on the ground taking in found pets and trying to place them back with their families. However, so many animals did not make it, and are lying dead along the roads or near the homes they used to live in. In a way I’m glad I’m not there to see that up close. I’m not sure I could handle that level of heartbreak. My husband, who is chief of staff to our State Senator, Mike McGuire, went to Middletown twice yesterday to assess the situation with the senator. When he got home, he messaged me with the photo below and said:
“This was a school. Everything is gone. The entire town. It looks like a war zone. Everything is still on fire. Hundreds of homes, thousands of trees and cars, just burning. Dead animals everywhere. It happened so fast. Five hours. Nobody has ever seen a fire like this.”
A former elementary school. Photo by Jason Liles.Horses set loose so they can try to outrun the fire.
But I should also tell you, reader, that there are few happy endings, and maybe we should focus on them for a minute.
There are these lucky little goats:
Baby goats who survived by standing still on a miraculously unburnt patch of land.
And these confused calves:
Calves being evacuated in the back of an SUV.
And so many kind people who have opened their hearts and home to their neighbors:
We need a lot more of this. Thank you Mike Goodman and R Ranch.
To get an idea of what we are dealing with, here is a graphic of the scale of the devastation so far. Our hometown of Healdsburg would be an inch off the bottom left corner of the map.
Valley Fire.
Also, if you can stomach it, someone posted this chilling video of their escape from Anderson Springs (northwest of Middletown) yesterday:
I wish I could do more to help from here, but at least I can share the ways to help the victims of this fire. I will update this list when I get additional information, so please check back.
ALSO, HERE IS A LIST OF SUPPLY DROP-OFF LOCATIONS:
And finally, because I haven’t said it here yet, I need to say just how proud of and grateful I am to my brother and all the courageous firefighters and first responders working to keep people safe. They are genuine heroes, the people who risk their own lives every day so the rest of us can hopefully get through the day without dying. May the universe keep them safe from harm, and fortified mentally and physically during this incredibly trying time. And also I need to acknowledge my amazing husband Jason Liles (who’s the hardest-working person I know), Senator Mike McGuire, and all the other public officials who are doing everything they can to support our communities. I love you all, please stay safe. ❤
p.s. The Valley Fire is one of more than 7000 wildfires that have hit California since the beginning of the year. I would have to write nearly 20 blog posts/day for a year to cover them all.
For anyone interested in following the weather patterns here (my parents), this is the town you’ll want to watch. My village is too small to be included on most weather apps, and Bantry, while close, has a totally different geography. It sits on a hill overlooking the Atlantic, while I’m in a vale with a rows of hills of either side.
Weather for next week…which could change at any time.
The roads here are deceptively steep because they’re so slowly graded. If I walk for 90 minutes, I come back with 50 floors on my Fitbit, even though it feels like I’ve barely gone uphill (awesome!). And it’s paying off, my jeans are fitting better.
Typical day, most of this is from walking around my neighborhood.
Last night on my walk, I visited my two donkey friends and threw them some carrots. They’re still being shy, but I plan to win them over.
Sis and Hallie
I also walked late enough to literally see the cows come home. I love how they stay in single file, so orderly!
Cows going to bed.
I’ve heard that the road is temporarily patched, so I’m off to Bantry for more groceries in case the road washes out again later this week. I’ll take photos of the patch and post here later.
UPDATED:
Patrick O’Brien did an impressive job patching the road. You’d never know that just 24 hours ago, this was just a series of deep crevasses and cliffs. Tomorrow night there is a town hall meeting about the state of the road, and I plan to attend. It’s a political scientist’s dream to study small-down Irish democracy in action. If no one else suggests it, I’m going to offer that they need to install some culverts under the road. They may not prevent flooding with the super-heavy rains we saw on Friday, but I think they’d at least help. I’m guessing the long-term road repair project is going to be expensive. It will be interesting to see how these things are dealt with here vs. home in California. What I can say is that I seriously doubt a road in rural Sonoma County would have been patched that quickly, and this was done by one guy with a front loader, not a whole team of Caltrans guys and equipment. Veerrry interesting comparison between communities and efficiency and other public-works-type things.
You can see in yesterday’s blog titled “marooned” this exact same angle with that house and wall on the left hand side– it looked a LOT different!We have road.Wow, that’s quite a repair. This was an 8-foot crevasse yesterday.
On my way back from grocery shopping, I ran into a traffic jam. I didn’t get the usual road rage, though.
I also saw my favorite local dog, Katie. I met her and her human on my third day in Ireland, on my first drive out to Bantry. That was 9 days ago (time flies!) Does she have the most expressive eyes or what?
sabbatical eireventures 