Catching Up

I think my muse has had Covid or something. She won’t move. I’ve tried coaxing her into some kind of action but she just makes moaning sounds and goes back to sleep. Imagine, calling yourself a muse and then just lying there like a dead horse. I’m exasperated. 

So I’ve decided to go it alone. I’m going to get this blog post out before my trip back home next week. We have taken the Bard out three times since I last posted and I do want to share it all with you, especially those friends who have inquired.

But I don’t feel inspired to write. I’d rather practice singing Jolene which I just learned, work on the four parts of Trim the Velvet on my fiddle, try out the recipe for Graham crackers somebody posted on the Americans Living in Ireland FB page, watch another episode of Dark on Netflix, read another chapter of Life After Doom by Brian McLaren (it’s a downer), prune the overgrown geraniums in the front garden, FaceTime with a grandkid (or you), do a respectable workout on the rowing machine (it’s too rainy for a walk), pay my bills (ok, that’s a lie), or almost anything else.

 

But since I’ve started writing I feel the muse stirring a little, so maybe I’ll be okay. I’ll get her some coffee or something.

It’s been an eventful couple of months… as things go in my life. Eventful means I’ve gotten out of bed every day, gotten dressed and done something or gone somewhere. I used to harass my mother when she’d say she’d had a busy day and I’d ask what she did and she could only name checking the mail and laundry. Now that I’m in her shoes, I get it. Especially when the weather is windy and drizzly.

I have retired friends who say they’ve never been so busy since they quit work. Not me. I don’t sign up for things. I don’t make an effort to be social. I enjoy my own company more than being with groups of you. But I absolutely love having coffee with just you and having you share what’s happening in your life and how that makes you feel. I’m a one-on-one kinda person. 

Dixie and I are a great match! It’s a miracle really. When we got together, statistically we had a very small chance of surviving the first year or so. Both older, had former relationships and now set in our own independent ways. Dr. Phil would have given us little hope. 

But we are blessed with similar temperaments and he likes to disappear playing golf with his friends, having occasional “quiet pints” in the pub, reading a lot, and being comfortable with himself. And we both love all the time we spend together as well… taking walks, shopping, cooking, making music and going camping in the AvantBard.

Which leads me to our recent travels. (My muse is rolling her eyes that I have rambled so before even getting started on the travels. Her fault, she should have intervened).

So in late April we went back to the southeast, the area where the Normans first landed. That Norman history is so interesting to me. We parked at a church across from a pub in a little village called Carrick-on-Bannow and spent two nights undisturbed. The first evening, the pub owner played traditional Irish tunes on a mouth organ and he and Dixie had a little session together. I wish you could see the video but it won't upload. Suggestions welcome.

By day we visited ruins including 12th century St Mary’s Church in Bannow. We learned that in one year around that time 50% of the village residents died of the Black Death (Glad my muse just had the Covid... wouldn’t want to lose her for good). It’s hard to process the suffering back then… and in some places now.

St Mary's Church, Bannow

Who took the body???

After all this time you’d think the world would be a more hospitable, gentler place. But watching the news I see that things really haven’t progressed much. The strong still prey on the weak, power and wealth still corrupt, disease still happens, and the most vulnerable pay the price for the luxuries they never get to realize.

 

Jaysus… my muse better get into gear… I’m depressing myself!

Back to the road. While we were in the area we took the ferry to Saltee Island, just a 15 minute ride. It’s Ireland’s biggest and best bird sanctuary and we knew this time of year would be nesting season. There were only 10 or so of us on the boat and, being early in the season, this was the only run of the day. So we basically had the island to ourselves.

Since I’ve been in Ireland I’ve wanted to see a puffin. No need to have tea with one, just wanted to catch a glimpse. They typically nest in burrows near the water and on cliffs but only for three months or so then they’re gone. I don’t know where. Seeing a puffin has been on my bucket list.

When we landed on the island and walked a short way, I raised my binoculars in anticipation and sure enough, I thought I spotted one in the distance. I was getting really excited. Dixie called my name and I shooed him away with ”I think I see a puffin!” He called my name again and I could hear urgency in his voice. “For Pete’s sake, what is it? Have you broken your foot or something?”

I lowered my binocs and there at my feet stood a little black and white magician, looking at me curiously like he thought maybe I had appeared out of thin air. My mouth dropped of course. I stood like a statue and slowly raised my phone to get a photo. As the day wore on, I realized I needn’t have been so cautious. The puffins were everywhere and they were unafraid and unaffected by our intrusion.

 

We saw all kinds of birds I couldn’t name but especially gannets, razorbills and shags ( I looked them up)

 

I spent way too much time trying to get the perfect shot… took way too many pix. It’s been on my mind lately that when I take a photo, I’m really not living in the present moment but living in the future, when I can look at the pic or show it to you. How much more rewarding would it be to just breathe and let every magical moment imprint itself into my soul, even if my conscious mind doesn’t remember it all! I will be changed with each encounter and that should be more than enough.

I know it’s called living mindfully. It’s a popular topic nowadays because I think so many of us find it so hard to do and we want to do it. I’ve toyed with the idea of no photos but I’m just not ready for that yet. But I do want to savor my moments with nature as never before.

 

It’s starting to sink in that the climate crisis is real and it doesn’t look like there will be any significant solutions. When Americans say the economy is their most important priority I know we're in trouble. It’s become cliche to say The Earth Is Fragile and We Are Ruining The Environment. As Al Gore pointed out almost 20 years ago, it’s an Inconvenient Truth. I believe we are all in denial because it’s just too formidable and devastating and frightening to grasp. (That’s it… I’m firing my muse!)

Back to travel… in early May we went back to the annual Cuckoo Festival in Kinvara on the west coast. You can read about this festival in earlier posts. You might recall that last year we parked in a field and got stuck. Lordy, how inexperienced we were! 

This year we parked up right away on the harbor and had a fabulous time. One unexpected treat was an amazing old-time fiddler in the crowd. Look at the video. I felt a sense of nostalgia listening to the oldtime. It’s the genre that started me on the fiddle and I still love it.

In late May my brother Hal and his wife Lynn came to visit for two weeks. I was a little nervous about entertaining them for so long because Hal doesn’t really like sight seeing and is prone to motion sickness. He actually got queasy walking up the spiral staircase of a castle.

We went easy on him and stayed close to home, but had four fabulous music sessions that lasted almost til sunrise. He took Thurles by storm and we can’t wait for them to come back.

When they left, the summer sun rose up like the prodigal son who had been cursed for his absence but was now adored for his return. We were inspired to go somewhere we'd never been.

The Beara Peninsula is sandwiched between the more popular Ring of Kerry to the north and the southern tip of Cork to the south. We made no plans or arrangements. We just took off with enough food and water and comforts to last two or three days. You’d have thought we were heading into the wilderness.

As soon as we hit the peninsula we passed a road sign for Kinneigh Round Tower and went in search. It was an exquisite old abbey ruin with the round tower dating back to the 11th century. After exploring the tower, the church and the graves, we had lunch there in the camper.

This is cool if you can read it!

The scenery on Beara was breathtaking. At one point we found ourselves at a high elevation overlooking green fields, mountains, the sea and we could barely make out a beach in the distance. Then I could barely make out campers parked at the beach. We flew down and sure enough were able to camp in the field by the water.

See the beach way out there

We asked someone how to get to the nearest village and were pointed to a road. But the road forked and we, having a 50-50 chance, took the wrong fork. It turned into a long but impressive scenic hike and we had no regrets. Walking back to the camper was much quicker though.

The next day we drove all the way to the end of the peninsula where we took a cable car to an island just off shore. We walked a little ways there but mostly relaxed at the church ruin perched by the shore.

We spent the next night in a parking lot in Castletownbere, a fair sized port town. I was obsessed with finding a particular nearby stone circle I’d read about but we only found the way to it after asking someone on the street. All our maps, GPS, and internet directions had us going in circles (not to be confused with the stone circle we were looking for). But it was well worth the fuss.

Then heading home we zigzagged through two mountain passes. One took us north and the other brought us back south, almost where we started. The views were absolutely stunning and what’s more… the whole area was practically deserted. Not a single tour bus and very few vehicles at all. 

The surrounding peninsulas are highly publicized, marketed and cater to the crowds. We prefer the solitude and quaintness of small villages and towns where you assimilate with the locals and feel at home. The Beara Peninsula is a hidden gem of a place and we intend to go back. 

If you’ve read this far, you are a saint! This blog is mainly a personal journal to help me keep track of where we’ve been. It makes me very happy to know that someone back home actually reads it. Irish people often ask me how I landed in Ireland. I say I came for a short visit and got carried away by the fairies. 

Sometimes it feels like I am detached from America and yet not really Irish of course. It’s a quirky in-between place that isn’t really lonely but is strange. I am so grateful for friends like you on both sides of the pond. You are the real muse! Thank you!

 

Back to Dingle

It’s been a dreary, oppressive winter. That’s my Florida girl assessment. Dixie would say it’s been “grand and fresh” but what does he know! We had planned to go on the road more often but alas, the cozy warmth of our fireplace and the addictive nature of Netflix  have been as tyrannizing as the Normans.

However, our diaries (calendars) were marked again with the Scoil Cheiol an Earraigh, literally the School of Music in Spring. I don’t usually think of February as spring but what do I know! So we loosed our chains and hit the road.

My favorite thing about this festival is that so many of the lads from the Monks Pub go. It’s held on a long weekend in Ballyferriter on the Dingle peninsula in a Gaeltacht (Irish speaking) region of County Kerry. It’s a good long drive but we all get giddy with anticipation. Whether you call it winter or spring, it’s a welcome respite from the tiresome routines that take root during the “grand and fresh” season.

Great friends who came along

The lads stayed in B&Bs but we took the AvantBard back for his second rendezvous in the area. As you may recall (if you have been traveling with us on this blog and have an extraordinarily good memory for your age), we go back and forth from Dingle to Ballyferriter throughout the weekend, crawling from pub to pub sussing out music sessions to join in. 

Dingle Harbor

Our first night was our favorite. The pub was At Tigh an tSaoirsigh translated The House of tSaoirsigh (Try saying that. Nope, you got it wrong!) We found a nice nook we could comfortably fit in and room for other random musicians to join us. Fabulous evening followed by three other days and nights of more of it. Enjoy the music and impromptu set dancing.

When we weren’t making merry in the pubs, we were jaunting along in the Bard taking in the sites. As you may recall, last year we had driven along treacherous Slea Head Drive in the wind and lashing rain and I almost had a heart attack. This time we drove it from the opposite direction on a gorgeous day in the setting sun. 

I also wanted to revisit Cill Mhaoilcéadair (Try that one! Okay, it’s Kilmalkedar …say kill mahl kay der!) which had absolutely mesmerized me eight years ago. It’s a sixth century medieval site overlooking Smerwick Harbor near Ballyferriter. The small 12th century church ruin is stunning in its Hiberno-Romanesque architecture (thank you, Google), and the graveyard retains an impressive ogham stone and a medieval sundial among many weathered and very cool grave stones. 

Kilmalkedar, Dingle Peninsula

Ogham is an early Medieval linear alphabet. You can read this, right?

Not sure how this sundial is supposed to work

Kilmalkedar graveyard

We also explored a beautiful, secluded beach just a short walk from the center of Ballyferriter (who knew?) and checked out other beaches we passed as well, although the weather was always iffy and we did get wet at times. Can’t go to Kerry without walking on beaches though.

The weekend went by way too fast but we made a soft landing back into our routines. We had dinner guests who were on vacation from back home. Karen is the little sister of a good friend of mine from my school days. The last time I saw her she was about five years old. My, how she has changed! 

We took her and her husband, Dennis, to the Monks for music and had such a good time. There was another American couple there as well.

I always get a twinge of homesickness when I’m around my fellow Americans. Physicists theorize that there are multiple universes, the one we live in and others that surround us undetected. There could even be other You’s out there. You but not You. Remember that Star Trek episode when that guy Lazarus was eternally locked in combat with his other self… or the one when the crew of the Enterprise all became their parallel selves? I think Spock had a beard in the other universe! But I digress. 

I sometimes feel I live in two worlds simultaneously. Maybe there are some people who think I should be “home” where I belong. But what do they know! What does “home” even mean? I think ‘home” is where you love and feel loved, and most of us have several homes that travel around with us through life… like turtles!

When I think about the comparison between my former life in Florida and my life here in Ireland, there’s really not that much difference. Mostly a matter of life style. Mostly driving there but mostly walking here…Tank tops there but raincoats here… Biscuits and grits there but scones and black pudding here… Poolside there but fireside here… Coffee with friends there but coffee with friends here (Wait… that’s the same)… My family there but Dixie’s family here (Thank God for FaceTime and airplanes)… Watching Netflix alone with my cat there but playing music, singing and exploring the country with Dixie here. I think I made the right choice for me.

Last Friday night Dixie and I sang a few songs for a fundraiser for Doctors Without Borders. Then on Sunday the lads from the Monks chartered a tiny bus that took us to Garrykennedy on Lake Derg, about an hour away. We had a delicious dinner at historic Larkin’s Pub then joined in “an auld session” in the evening. When we got back late to Thurles, I was knackered and walked home. The lads went into the Monks to debrief… over more Guinness!  I thought that was nuts… but what do I know!

 

Patrick O'Keeffe Festival

 I don’t think I’ve ever really mastered anything in my life. But I’ve dabbled in a lot. When I was a little girl, on my roller skates on our bumpy, sloping driveway (so unfortunate), I envisioned myself being a graceful Olympic figure skater going for the gold. Then in my busy early thirties when I needed a few hours a week to “take
care of me”, I slipped away to the local ice rink and took lessons once a week. Let’s just say I was not a natural, and there were no fancy medals with their sights on me.

I do, however, remember the exact moment when I reached a milestone. I was caught up in the music from the Walkman hanging from my belt when I realized I was actually dancing. I was no longer teetering to stay upright or dodging the traffic around me. I was somewhere else where time and space either didn’t exist or merged. Einstein would have been impressed! This was all I ever wanted from my efforts…  to dance in complete abandon… on ice. This continued to be my great meditative escape for several years.

At some point I had an epiphany. I realized that what was really feeding my spirit was no longer the skating but the music I was skating to. So I hung up my skates and took guitar lessons and later picked up a fiddle. I’ve never grown tired of either, but neither have I become a virtuoso. I’ve been content to use the guitar to accompany my singing, but I’ve always been driven to become a great fiddler. 

I began playing “old-time’ which is akin to bluegrass, but what I really longed to play was Irish traditional (trad) music. I don’t know why. Maybe there was something in my Irish DNA that beckoned. After retiring early, I went through a self-teaching Irish fiddle book with a couple of motivated musician friends but we didn’t get far. It’s not something you learn overnight. Formal lessons didn't help much either.

After mulling over it for a couple more years, I planned a trip to Thurles, Ireland for a week of lessons at a Fiddler’s Retreat I’d found online. You know the rest of the story. I now live in Thurles and the fiddle teacher is a dear friend. I am absorbed in the music, history and culture of this land of my ancestors.

However… progress on the fiddle has been slow. Most tunes can be learned in my head in just a few minutes and played slowly. But playing up to speed requires technique and tenacity. 

I believe I have just reached a milestone. Like dancing on ice, I just realized that on many tunes, I’m actually doing it. It’s a great affirming feeling that I only achieved through perseverance and support from a number of very patient fellow musicians. I’ll never be a soloist, but I know my practice is paying off and that brings me so much pleasure.

Last weekend, we took our RV, the AvantBard, to the Patrick O'Keeffe (a famous fiddler) Trad Festival. We “wild” camped four nights in a parking lot in the middle of  Castleisland (which is a town, not an island, but was named so because in 1226 a castle built there was surrounded by a formidable moat) in Kerry. There were sessions in every pub, day and night, with some of the best musicians in the country leading. Dixie was in his element on the guitar but I mainly sat and listened. 

Sample session schedule

The first evening was chilly and, after returning from the pub, we turned on the gas for heat and there it was… gone. What a time to discover the second gas canister we bought straight from the dealership was empty! The nearest source of a refill was 20 minutes away. It would have to wait til morning. I layered up but still shivered in the night. Maybe I’m just a glamper at heart.

All that was sorted the next day and by early afternoon we were back in the pubs, flitting from one to another like butterflies high on nectar. I enjoyed the Guinness and watched Dixie join in the sessions. I hardly played at all because the standard was so high and most of the tunes were unfamiliar. I slipped away on Saturday afternoon to a singing session where at least 50 seniors had gathered to share the old ballads. One after another they sang with no accompaniment, songs I’m sure many had learned from parents or grandparents. There was a sense of serenity in the room that sharply contrasted with the high energy of the trad. 

The next day as I was sitting at a bar, an obnoxious drunk (there’s always one, right?) tried luring me into conversation. I didn’t want to give up my seat because seating is precious at these sessions. So I leaned over to the gentleman on my other side and said, “If you don’t mind, I’m going to start talking to you so hopefully this guy over here will get the message and leave me alone.” 

He laughed and was accommodating. He said a few of his friends were looking for a place to meet for a few songs if I wanted to join them. He soon left but returned to let me know they were in the back room of the pub next door.

I gladly followed. There were just eight of us together sharing ballads. They were so welcoming and that became one of the highlights of my weekend. (Dixie said my strategy could have landed me tied up in the trunk of a car but who thinks of that at a trad festival?)

We’re back home now anticipating our trip to the US for Thanksgiving. I always say I’ll practice while I’m there but I never do. I’d rather meet with friends and play with the grands. But by mid December I’ll be ready to cross back over the pond, decorate my Irish home for Christmas and resume the dance. 

  

Sneem

To me, the Irish weather is like a mild chronic pain that I’ve learned to live with and mainly ignore. I jump for joy on the days the sun shines bright and wonder if it’s climate change and it’s here to stay. But after a day or two at most, the sun grows weary of my jubilation and bids us a mournful farewell. Then it’s business as painful usual.

Earlier this month it looked like one of those sunny portals was opening. Siobhan, the weather lady, pointed to a sunshine icon on her screen, so we took the hint and took to the road. 

Back in June, my niece and her family visited us from Georgia. We took a leisurely two days to drive the amazing Ring Of Kerry after having raved for weeks about it’s gorgeous vistas. Of course it rained the whole way and the kids sat in the back of our rented van playing their video games as we optimistic adults strained to catch a tiny glimpse of the sea or a mountain.

Anyway, one town we passed through was Sneem, just at the edge of the Ring. There is a campsite there called “Goosey Island” and now Dixie and I wanted to go back and see what that was about. Online we learned there were no reservations accepted and we should check in with Sean at Murphy’s Bar. Okay.

We planned to do just that but not until we had stopped in Kenmare along the way and revisited the Kenmare Stone Circle that we had explored with the family in June. 

At that time, it was crawling with tourists and felt very commercial. I wanted to “experience” it at a time when its magic wasn’t suppressed by iPhone photos and bustling crowds (yes, I did take photos this time but I wasn’t bustling).

As we had hoped, it was deserted other than the guy at the reception stall that took our two euro. After taking my obligatory photos I walked the circle, touching each and every stone and deliberately trying to be mindful… to not dwell too much on the ancient past which is tempting at a stone circle, but rather to appreciate my great fortune at being here and now as a link in the great chain of history. It could have been my ancestors (or yours) who hoisted those stones. Who knows???

Stone Circles are mostly from the bronze age which they say is roughly 2200-500 BC. No one is really sure but it’s believed they were used for ritual or ceremonies of some sort. The Kenmare Stone Circle is the biggest in southwest Ireland where there are about 100. It is also special in that it has a large central stone that is believed to be a burial monument. Wonder who’s under there! 

After all this dreaminess, Dixie finally succeeded in pulling me away so we could meet Sean and park up on Goosey Island. As we suspected, it wasn’t exactly an island but a large outcrop of land on the River Sneem. It was just on the edge of town, an easy walk for meals, drinks and of course lattes.

Goosey Island from the bridge in town

As I continue to blog, I realize that what I’m actually doing is making a record for myself of the towns and villages we visit. Just driving through, like we did in June, doesn’t really allow you to feel the distinction of each place and appreciate its uniqueness.

Sneem is another village right on a river, but with a pedestrian walk along its bridge that has a grated floor so you can look down at the rapids below and see mountains in the distance. You could stand there all day… if you didn’t mind getting wet because, contrary to what that bitch Siobhan led us to believe, it rained almost the whole time we were there. There were moments of misty reprieve and we explored the area, but it was mostly rain.

We loved the motorhome park. Because the season is about over, we had our choice of sites and chose to be right on the river with a view of the mountains. We didn’t realize right away that the river was tidal, morphing into an estuary before spilling into the sea, and the next morning we could walk out on the river bed and look for things… like rocks. There were plenty of rocks. I found a gorgeous little chunk of quartz with crystals embedded in it. 

Compare with first photo on this post. Same place, different tide.

Beside Goosey Island that really isn’t an island there’s a plot of land called The Way the Fairies Went. It’s a short walk with reproduction stone pyramids and “beehives”…a smart little architectural attraction but disappointing in its inauthenticity. It would be a good place to take kids.

We admired the historic church and many statues, had good food at O’Shea’s, good drinks at Murphy’s, a “hotdog” that wasn’t a hotdog from a roadside vendor, and shopped at Quills, a touristy place that sells Irish knitwear and gifts. I bought a wool hat that is very warm and won’t blow away in the wind (even if it does leave my hair flat).

Though it rained all the way home, we stopped and took lots of pix because it is Ireland after all… and every soggy place steals my heart!