The Shannon is Gone I Heard

In the past, I've posted excerpts from my unedited 2005 Ireland journals in order to mark St. Patrick's Day.   Those previous entries can be found here:  Part 1,  Part 2,  Part 3,  Part 4,  Part 5,  Part 6,  Part 7.


I didn't sleep well, probably awakening to pee for each pint I had drunk.   Awoke to a beautiful morning.  The coffee at Kinley House was weak, so I decided to walk around town in search of something stronger.  I walked back down the main pedestrian drag, now completely empty and silent.  Even the churches looming on adjacent blocks had no life.  Whereas last night I'd only noticed bars, today I saw the shops, for Aran sweaters and musical instruments and new-age trinkets and the cafes all closed this Sunday morn.  Besides the narrow cobblestone lanes, I found a few ruins -- a Druid temple, the Spanish Arch -- testament to the days when this town was a major port.  I found a few sections of the town's former wall, pigeons loudly cooing in the holes once used to sight rifles.  I went down to the water, up the rushing river, then back through town, wandering aimlessly like a sailor back in port after many weeks at sea. 

We set off at 10:30, meeting below the spooky mural in Kinley House's stairway, of a wizened hag looking down at a backpacker.  Not far out of town , a dark storm dumped on us, but within 10 minutes the sky was flawless again.  In a field, I saw a bathtub which had been put out to collect rainwater for cows.  We were entering sod country, huge chunks torn from the land to burn in the fireplaces of Dublin, and to be used in the the local power station to power the region.  

Our first stop was at Clonmacnoise, an incredible ancient site of pagan Christianity.  Driving in we passed a Norman fort doing a bizarre balancing act.  After watching an extremely disjunct film, I wandered the site.  There were dozens of ornately carved Celtic crosses dotting the hill, amidst a few small stone cathedrals built here.  A high tower stood watch over the swollen River Shannon, with her blue dark against the green beyond.  There was a power here.  I could have stayed here all afternoon, but for the incredibly strong wind chilling my face and pushing me about.  Wonderful weather for the setting.  I must return.  

Our next stop was at a small pub where I had a really nice roast turkey and a pint, next to a small fire.  We were sitting in the 'Bullshitter's section.'  After lunch, the rest of the group toured Ireland's oldest whiskey distillery, but I chose instead to sit in the adjoining cafe and write.  The road back to Dublin was busy, but we made decent time.  In front of one house, a dog napped in front of a stone deer.  I also noticed that Ireland has its own Farrelly Brothers, but here they are landscapers.  

Our group parted ways, and I killed the evening by checking email and reading in my hostel.  When I went to brush my teeth, I passed a huge Russian who had perhaps the worst body odor ever.  I had to hold off on brushing, the scent filling the bathroom making me gag.  So I quickly set out for The Palace at the Trinity end of Temple Bar.  Upstairs I found a céilidh in full swing. Here I sat, tapping my feet, nursing my last couple of Guinnesses in Ireland.  Coming back to the hostel, the Russians were smoking out front, clad only in T-shirts, hardened against the cold.

I had thought that the night was over, but I entered my room to interrupt a couple in the their 50s in the act of something.  His chest was bare above a hill of a belly, and she was flowing out of her bra and panties.  Startled, I ducked back out and brushed my teeth slowly to give them time.  I returned, apologized and turned out the light.  They were both sharing the same bunk, and both began to snore almost immediately.  A Spanish couple returned and crashed out immediately.  The Spanish guy would make a clicking with his tongue, and I'd move my bed slightly, in an attempt to wake them.  The old guy would mutter in his sleep, "Fuck!  Mumble mumble, fuck!"  It was like sharing a room with Father Jack.  

The next morning I awoke before everyone, trying to make as much noise as possible.  An early bus took me to my ferry that ended up departing four hours late.  But the boat was a nice swank distraction, with two restaurants, a pub, a convenience store, and a movie theater.  I staked out a sofa, and passed the time reading, dozing, and watching the Irish Sea trade Ireland for Wales.  


On the turntable:  Anoushka Shankar, "Anoushka"

 

 

Over the Hills and Galway

In the past, I've posted excerpts from my unedited 2005 Ireland journals in order to mark St. Patrick's Day.   Those previous entries can be found here:  Part 1,  Part 2,  Part 3,  Part 4,  Part 5,  Part 6. 


The Day began with a horse ride around Killarney National Park.  We sat seven in the buggy, knee-to-knee.  It was a glorious morning.  The storm which had dumped rain on the me the night before had swollen the rivers, knocked down some trees, and frightened off the deer. Seagulls blown 20  miles inland foraged in the grass.  The town's cathedral loomed behind the trees liked a two-dimensional backdrop.  The good light and atmospheric clouds threw shadows on the high mountains behind the lake.  A couple Cromwell ruins stood on small islands.  Our driver narrated as we did an hour-long lap.  His rap consisted mainly of sex, those bastards the English, and "Go on, Cap'n."

One of the other tour members had gotten lucky last and made us wait 45 minutes.  Joey blasted us along in order to catch a 12:30 ferry, speeding through hillside and town.  In one, a small Buddha sat above a door.  Sod farmers were at work cutting squares from the earth, piled up like wet cord wood.  Joey told us that there are certain villages in Ireland that have chosen to speak Gaelic over English.  Throughout the country, many signs are posted in both languages.  But in these towns, it was only the former.  

We made our ferry in time and drove aboard.  I stood out on the deck, to feel the wind on my face and to try to steal a glimpse of the Atlantic far off to my left.  Huge waves broke on the bow, sending up large plumes of spray.  I felt truly happy today, standing under mostly blue skies, damp and chilly from the wind.  I felt alive.

When we landed, we were in County Clare.  It was soon easy to see why it was considered by many to be their favorite part of Ireland.  The hills were low and flatter with no real tress to speak of, offering long views.  Houses dotted the green.  It was Father Ted country out here.  The houses were a bit taller, with thick walls for protection against Atlantic storms.  A few had thatched roofs.  We stopped for lunch in Tralee, a small beach town known for its surfing (!).  I had a bowl of seafood chowder in a pub which stood on the lone road through town.  I then hurried to the long beach at the end of the bay here to see the source of my lunch.  I glimpsed the Atlantic a couple of times today, but this was the first time I've stood on its eastern shore, looking back to where I had once frolicked.  It grew shallow gradually as I'd remembered, so I walked far out in inch deep water.  The wind blew foam across its rippled surface, like little Men-of-War.  A surfer was coming out and told me that although the surf wasn't so big here, today it was particularly shit.  Props to him though, as he was in the cold north Atlantic on this day, February 12.  

We drove on up, overlooking the vast space, dotted by multi-colored houses.  Large towers built by the French overlooked the sea.  The land here along the shore looked like sand dunes that had been painted green.  Joey talked of fairy circles where dead children had been buried.  He pointed out the kitchens that had once taken on the hungry, and now stood in ruin.  He pointed up at an obelisk, the monument to the man responsible for such misery in the land.

Cromwell had continually pushed the Irish west until they were put on limestone land unfit for crops.  Potatoes were the only thing that could grow here, yet the blight had changed that.  Taxes eventually moved them off.  Door taxes could be avoided by using half-doors, but the chimney taxes turned the residents black.  Dance taxes led to the devlopment of the Riverdance, where the feet moved but the upper body looked stationary to prying eyes looking from outside.   

Before we set off, I asked Joey if there were any holy wells that he knew of, and he told that one of the holiest, St. Brigid's, was near.  Thus we stopped at a little stone igloo set into a hillside below a graveyard.  Inside, the walls were lined with poems and offerings given by Catholics.  In the back was a small spring, filling a rock-lined pool. I put my hand in the water and touched my head and chest.  Strangely, I couldn't breathe well for a number of breaths.  I had to walk back up to the graveyard until I caught it again.  

Next was the Rock of Mohor, huge cliffs falling 700 feet into the sea.  On the walk up, I passed a guy playing the fiddle, and was amazed that he could move his fingers in the strong icy wind.  Atop the walk was a long flat set of slabs, where truly insane people could lay on their backs and look upside down over the edge.  From here, the ridge rose toward the right.  Midway up, the strong wind was blowing a waterfall back up, spraying the trail and us walkers on it.  (If a waterfall doesn't actually fall, can it still be called a waterfall?  And why do we call a dry waterfall, a waterfall?)  At the top of the trail was a tall observation tower.  (Building a castle here would have been foolish, putting your back to 700 foot cliffs.)  The wind here was unreal.  At one point I could no longer physically move forward.  It was if a hand were holding me in place.  The trail was cut a meter or so below the cliff's edge so there was no real danger of being blown over.  Still, it felt as it I could be lifted off my feet at any second.  I gave up and moved sideways.  Heading toward the bottom, the wind whipping through the wire fence sounded like an army on the move, groaning into battle.  

We drove on toward the Burren.  On this tour, Joey usually told his stories while driving.  But for this tale he stopped completely.  And as he spoke, his voice was emotional, angry.  He talked of the famine and the systematic elimination of 2 million people from the island.  The people had been forced to dig up the large stones on the landscape, both to improve the farming conditions for the English, and to break the spirit of the Irish.  I had been noticing these walls all day, thinking them beautiful caterpillars crawling across the hillside. Now they looked like stitches.  Joey told us that a million folks had been displaced to wander these roads.  We drove into this harsh land, with the sun ducking toward the horizon and the uilleann pipes mournful on the stereo.  

We tried to catch rugby on TV at a pub, but missed it by minutes.  Drove to Galway after dark.  Had a meal at a pub near a JFK monument, yet another tribute to this man.  A couple of good blues guitars went at it.  I stayed for an hour, then led the troops in search of trad music.  We popped into every pub that had bands, but it seemed mainly cover bands playing to college aged crowds.  Each pub was packed and the streets outside busy.  Finally, I followed someone's directions and went over the fast water rushing under Wolfe Tone Bridge, up a maze of stubby streets to The Crane.  

Inside its small packed space, a few musicians were going through their paces, playing a slow quiet tune.  But there was a second, darker bar upstairs where it was going off, the musicians cooking up a groove.  The fiddle player was Asian, and the drummer had Joyce spectacles, braided locks, and long bushy beard.  He was jamming on the spoons.  I;d come looking for music but had found something better, an organic jam session of dudes who had happened to find each other.  The bar was noisy and the music tough to hear, but occasionally someone would shush the crowd and a woman would begin to sing a mournful love song.  There would be no other sound in the place.  I loved how much music was such a part of the everyone's soul here.  You can enslave a people's body or mind, but you can't enslave their spirit. 

During a break, I talked to the drummer about how to play Irish style.  He was a generous guy who showed me a few tricks.  I left the pub at just past one, humming Irish songs as I wandered up the near empty streets, running the gauntlet between weaving drunks...


On the nighttable:  Afro-Celt Sound System, "Sound Magic, Vol. 1"                 

Wept for my Daddy-o

In the past, I've posted excerpts from my unedited 2005 Ireland journals in order to mark St. Patrick's Day.   Those previous entries can be found here:  Part 1,  Part 2,  Part 3,  Part 4,  Part 5.   Hoping to wrap it up a bit more quickly, I will post the final three pieces over the next few days.  


In the morning I jumped on a three-day Paddywagon tour of the south.  Joey our driver was a bit of a nutter, suddenly launching into song or impressions of Gollum, claiming to hear voices.  Throughout the day, he'd sing a dozen or so old Irish folk songs, plus a pop song or two.  They'd jump into his head based on what he'd see.  (I did the same, being cursed with Spinal Tap's "Hellhole" after seeing the Murder hole at Blarney Castle.)  

During  the long drive, he regaled us with stories of Irish history.  He talked of the Celts covering their bodies with white clay to scare invaders into thinking the island was populated with ghosts.  As he said this, I could almost see white figures dashing through the forest.  We passed a large open plain where some of the battles in Braveheart had been filmed.  Two locals had achieved notoriety by having their van drive through the background during one of the scenes.  I guess the producers hadn't expected any Irishman actually going to work at 5 a.m.  The passing landscape certainly suited medieval battles.  Ruins punctuated the green grids of hedge-bordered fields.  Two horses frolicked just off the road.  

Our first stop was the Rock of Cashel, a medieval fortress standing atop a rock.  The atmosphere of the place was incredible, huge open chambers interconnected by high arches and circular stone stairs.  The roof was nearly gone, and the crows looked down and laughed.  Defensive slits in the wall looked out onto a graveyard, Celtic crosses high on the hill.  Some of the graves had relatively recent dates, forming part of the walk around the back of the cathedral.  A small angel marked a child's grave.  At the top of the ground was a huge ornately carved stele which had broken two-thirds of the way up, the shattered pieces now littering the base. 

We drove down toward Tipperary (which wasn't such a long way).  Nearby Cahir Castle was still complete, a testament to its strength.  Oliver Cromwell ended up keeping it rather than razing it, recognizing the strategic value.  It was at a confluence of rivers which formed a V-shaped drop like a fun park ride.  No doubt it had once been a sacred Celtic site.  I admired the defenses, not unlike those utilized by the Japanese.  Circular stairs rose clockwise as it would be harder for a right handed man to wield his sword.  A cannonball was lodged in the wall where it had hit.  I had my first look at a wrought-iron spiked gate , as I'd seen in films.  The main chamber was quite warm and had incredibly thick walls.  Over the fireplace at the room's far end hung the enormous antlers of a prehistoric deer.  I enjoyed climbing up and down the curved stairs, popping into damp stone rooms, peering through archery slits, precariously moving along narrow walks high atop the cubist walls.  I also learned that prisoners here, as throughout the UK, had an 'M' for malefactor branded on their right hands.  This is why we raise it while swearing on a bible.  

The land grew hillier the further we drove into Cork.  We passed Cob'h and its deep port, the Titanic's last port of call.  The ship must have looked immense against the small town and low hills.  We passed through a few market towns, noticeable due to their wide streets.  Some towns had essentially a single structure running the street length, individual homes demarcated by different colors of paint.  At one point, we passed a camp of caravans.  It is said that they were perhaps the descendants of farmers uprooted during the famine.  Or they may go back 8000 years.  

Our next stop was Blarney Castle, an incredibly tall narrow structure that rose out of a beautiful patch of landscape of fast-moving brooks, low stone bridges, and open expanses of green.  As at Cahir, I wound round and round the steps.  The top was open to the air, paths leading around perimeter to the Blarney Stone.  An attendant held you in place while you lay on the stones, bending backward over the wall to kiss a stone hanging perpendicular.  The stone was shiny from years of handing and kissing (though I've also heard that the locals come piss on it at night).  Back down at the castle's base, I found the grounds amazing, following the paths around the Rock Close and its wonderfully Tolkienesque landscape.  There was a peace and stillness that I'd not found since arriving in the Uk the week before.  (I later found out that I had been in an old pagan temple.)  I walked across the bog to an awaiting pub.  I liked the way the earth molded to me feet as I walked it.  The feet up, I had a pint of Murphy's drunk more regularly in Cork than Guinness.            
   
 Coffee in hand, I hopped the bus and we did our final push to Killarney.  The road got wilder from here.  As we entered the Cork and Kerry mountains Joey began to sing Whiskey in a Jar.  He told us the story of Micheal Collins, killed in these hills.  You could see how easy it would be to launch guerrilla attacks from such a landscape, a landscape of large boulders, steep hills, dense scrub, and fast rivers.  Waterfalls hugged the ridges as they dropped below the treeline, all a dense mass of small pines.  Though a bit inhospitable, everything was in miniature. It was a place where legends began.

We pulled at dusk into Killarney, this perfect little tourist town of narrow streets.  Dinner was at a pub.  Members of Paddy Wagon's six-day tour came in on their last night.  Their body language was completely different to ours, having had nearly a week to bond.  We on the other hand were still acting like middle-schoolers at a dance.  After dinner, we headed off to another pub  for a drink called a car-bomb, which consisted of a shot each of Baileys and Jamesons, dropped into a pint of Guinness and then slammed.  It was tasty, like cocoa, but was like an express elevator to the brain.  Some live music came on, and like the present company, wasn't terrible interesting to me, so I set off to find some trad music.  I'd forgotten to replenish my cash from my room and had only €3.20 in my pocket.  Luckily, I found a half-pint for €2.45, which I sat nursing, surrounded by a bunch of old timers grooving to four middle-aged men badly mic'd...


On the turntable: Andrew Hill, "Compulsion"
On the nighttable:  Honore de Balzac, "Lost Illusions"
  

With a Rose

In the past, I've posted excerpts from my unedited Ireland journals in order to mark St. Patrick's Day.   Those previous  entries can be found here:  Part 1,  Part 2,  Part 3,  Part 4.


On the ride back to Dublin I realized that I'd been on the wrong side of the bus the day before.  The view from this side was magnificent, of large farms, ruined churches, and the high towers of castles.  This area was famous for breeding horses, and more than a few riders were galloping across the landscape.  Small creeks bisected these massive tracts of land.  Off on the horizon were the Slieve Bloom range, "towering" above the small farms and towns.  In Kildare, a market was in full swing.  I wish that I had had a chance to thumb through the CDs piled upon one table.

Back in Dublin, I crossed Ha'Penny Bridge's stack of steps, then cut through an arch onto Temple Bar.  I again found the Porterhouse Pub, and tried a few of their stouts.   I talked myself into an expensive trip to Christchurch Cathedral, which I'd foregone visiting two days before.  Due to its age, I'd hoped for some pagan or Viking imagery, but found mostly the usual Catholic hits.  In a far corner, there was a chained heart in a cage, brought back from France when its owner died.  It was tradition in those days to let the body lie where it fell and bring home only the heart, giving birth to the expression, "Home is where the heart is."  The crypt too was interesting, with its jagged posts of stone.  In the back was a moving figure of a woman grieving over her fallen man.  

Back on the street, I wound around the backside of the fort, peering through it's arched gates.  I found a music shop back there, and had to be buzzed in.  It seems that they had had to install this security system last year as the neighborhood was falling apart.  I checked out the drums, none of which thrilled me, and blew a few notes on the low-toned flutes.  The quality of the instruments attest to the fact that the shop supplies most of the city's top musicians.

The street led on to St. Stephen's, where I stopped to have a cappuccino.  My body by this point in the journey had become used to a well-established pattern of coffee-beer-coffee-beer.  Head abuzz, I admired the Georgian's lined up to frame Merrion Square, each identical but for door color, or the carving around them.  Would be an easy mistake to enter the wrong one after a few pints.   At one corner stood Oscar Wilde's childhood home.  Across the street in the park was a  statue of the man himself, in a slightly pervy-looking pose.  Upon the base were some of Wilde's more renowned witticisms, no doubt said with a smirk similar to this one carved in stone.  Rounded W. B. Yeats' house and headed down to St. Stephen's Green, where I sat and read from the book Trinity.  Though the sun had come out today, it was still cold, a cold like that of Japan which sinks into you.  I hadn't felt this over in Britain.  To escape it, I pressed on, up Grafton, the newer tourist tat crowding out the few olde shoppes remaining.  The street here was cobblestone and closed to vehicle traffic.  A few side streets had small stands selling flowers or hippie clothes.  At the top near Trinity College was the statue of Molly Malone, showing an awful lot of boob.  A woman leaned against Molly's cart, playing a harp.

Nearby, I found Grogan's Pub, long time favorite of the city's artistic set.  It was a true pub, quite old, and definitely not one for the tourists.  Strangely, there was a wall running through the middle, with drinks being cheaper on the far side.  Behind the bar was a beautiful stained-glass picture of the pub.  I sat and eavesdropped on a few conversations, then wrote awhile.  I was sleepy so nursed only a half-pint, but I felt self-conscious about it.  

Moving along, I found a covered street which housed a warren of alterna-clothes and CD shops.  Surprisingly, this was all non-smoking, despite being a proper street.  Then back out again, through the now growing pedestrian rush hour crawl, in search of live music.           

I found some at the Celt, but didn't stay long due to an somewhat unfriendly vibe.  Around the corner was a place called Spirits, where I found a duo on a stage.  I grabbed a pint and sat next to a framed poem written about JFK.  The music was good, the first few numbers being simple acoustic ballads which spotlighted the voice of the female singer.    There  was an extremely drunk young guy seated on a stool beside her, who'd shush everyone, then clap out of time, or sing along to the wrong verse.  It wasn't long before he was hustled off.   What followed was a repertoire of covers -- Johnny Cash, Van Morrison, Jeff Buckley, Cowboy Junkies, and a lot of Dylan.  I walked home through the busy streets, the pubs now releasing groups of young drunks in twos and threes, all holding on to one another and talking loudly in what was almost a parody of the drunk Mick...


On the turntable:  "Kill Twee Pop"
On the nighttable:  George Orwell, "Burmese Days" 

St. James's Gait

In the past, I've posted excerpts from my unedited 2005 Ireland journals in order to mark St. Patrick's Day.   Part One can be found here. 


  ...I eventually wound up at the Guinness brewery, having followed its scent for the previous few blocks.  It presented first as the smell of popcorn, then a block later shifted to that slightly sour smell I now find familiar.  For a brief moment, as I passed a fruit stand, all was sweet goodness.  

I turned up at the wrong gate, but an incredibly kind man set me straight.  His double around the back had the complete opposite demeanor, a slightly crooked and wretched-looking man standing beside a smaller version of a clydesdale.  I slipped past him to find an attractive Italian girl just inside.   Noticing the discounts given for student IDs, I slipped her my Japanese gaijin card, the only romanized characters being those for my name.  She noted that I could be showing her just about anything.  I replied that she'd just have to trust me, a hint of flirt in my voice.  She smiled and bid me pass. 

 I spent an hour or so working my way up through the multi-leveled displays.  It was an extremely industrial set-up, of huge girders, open spaces, and exposed elevators.  I felt like Charlie in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.  As a reminder of how indelibly linked the name Guinness is to stout in my own mind, I had honestly never realized until visiting here that it was the same people involved in the record keeping.   A true beer man, I am.

I finished with the brewing process stage, loving the smells and the immense wooden casks.  I was amazed that Guinness used oil tankers to ship its similarly-colored product.  There was certain level of hipness found in the multi-media "Craic" display, as well as in the video layout of old commercials.  On the 5th floor, we could post messages.  I wrote, ”クラックはどこ？”   

But the treasure lay at the top, in the form of a complimentary pint, served in a circular glass bar with a near 360 degree view of the city.  On the glass were written quotes by Joyce, facing the landmarks they described.  I was thrilled to have my first stout in Ireland, in all its creamy glory.  I nursed it while enjoying the view, then chatted with a guy from Chiba who I'd met downstairs.  

I set down Sráid Watling, which figures in Joyce, then turned the corner to find a house from "The Dead," facing the hideous James Joyce Bridge, obviously inspired by dental floss and ice cubes.  The Liffey itself was similarly uninspiring, but I followed it awhile before cutting directly across the city to an open shopping street of dull generic brand shops.  The streets running perpendicular had lively markets and various signs of immigrant life.  I began to notice more and more Chinese faces, no doubt preparing for  Lunar New Year the following day.  On one corner, a woman sold pears from a pram.  

The further east I walked, the more the local shops appeared.  I took a short break in order to share a coffee with Joyce, then set off for dinner and live music at O'Shea's, not far from my tourist ghetto bed.  The pub was busy, most disinterested in the football match showing on all the TV screens.  I alternated between writing, watching the game, and looking out the window.  Young beautiful women strode quickly home.  Many small groups of Chinese came from a single direction.  A guy dragged his bus pass along an iron fence.   Live music came on at 9:30, two guys playing trad tunes and really tearing it up.  Growing sleepy, I order a pint of Coca-Cola for €5, twice as much as my beer.  

 At my room once again, I talked awhile with my three Polish roommates, who had no trouble finding work in these days of the Celtic Tiger.  They all seemed quite intent on leaving their home country for good.  They had little money and had actually brought food over from Poland when they came.  I envied the fact that they could work in any EU country.  They thought my quest for family was brave, but it was they, giving up all that was familiar, who were the brave ones.  I taught them some Japanese numbers and basic phrases, then we all crashed out.  



On the turntable:  The Wolfgang Press, "The Burden of Mules" 

Raising Eire

In the past, I've posted excerpts from my Ireland journals in order to mark St. Patrick's Day.   Those previous two entries can be found here:  Day 2  &  Day 3.  The following post details my first day in country. 

At the gate for Air Lingus, I nearly laughed when I saw the open bar in one corner, despite ours being a 6:30 take-off.  At the exact moment they made the final boarding call, the gate over the bar slammed shut.  

The flight from Glasgow was short, around 40 minutes, and on my first view of the Irish coast I nearly wept.  I was amazed at the bright shade of green of the earth, and thought how the island deserves its reputation for being that color.  Then I realized that I was looking at a golf course. 

We touched down, and at the far end of the runway, I noticed a rainbow.  The flight attendants made their final announcements in both English and Gaelic.  It was one of those airports where you walk directly up to the plane, and the moment my feet hit the tarmac, I couldn't stop smiling.  The smile returned when my passport was stamped.  

I took the bus into town through a misty rain, which bled the scenery into a bland vision not unlike that found in most English suburbs, of long identical flats, and identical young mums in identical coats pushing identical prams.

Off the bus in Dublin proper, I set off toward Trinity College.   I found the Liffey, and beside it stood a man in African dress being interviewed by a variety of news cameras, probably about the iron statues of Ethiopean men behind him.   I followed the river a little while, cut over to Oscar Wilde's house, turned a corner, and entered the Trinity Gate.  I liked the idea of a walled island of knowledge purposely cut off from the rest of the world.  As I crossed the campus, that line of Van Morrison's, 'that smell of perfume comes drifting through' entered my ears the exact moment the scent of the sea entered my nose.  Beside the rugby field, the university's theatre building looked like it had been uprooted from Southeast Asia.  On the library steps was an orb built of steel bars, in the process of being pulled apart.  I took it for a metaphor for the earth, mechanized and on the brink of destruction. 

 Not far away was the Book of Kells.  The displays leading to the book itself dealt with the history of print in Ireland. At first glance, the Book itself wasn't much.  But something made me lean in for a closer look, and it was then I noticed the color and intricacy of the letters.  It looked to me like body art, perhaps because I'd spent months trying to find the right Celtic symbol for a tattoo I never got.

Upstairs, the Long Room further blew me away.  Two levels of books extended the length of the room on both sides, every shelf packed with dusty old volumes which must number in the tens of thousands.  It reminded me of the storeroom of relics at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.  I linger long here (due to the name perhaps?), amidst the soft light and rolling ladders, pondering if any one person has ever read, let along owned, so many books.  I could picture Joyce or Shaw in here, planting seeds. 

As the bells tolled noon,  I stepped back out into a drizzly rain, so I ducked into the chapel, which was closed, though a small antechamber offered a dry place to sit.  I tucked into my paperback copy of "Dubliners," having long wanted to read it here. ( I was thankful for the short length of the stories, allowing me to sit for brief periods at various locales throughout the city.)  I read a few stories while an organist practiced on the other side of the wall.  

I began to grow hungry, so joined the outflow of students passing through the school's main arch.   Turning right, I entered the maze of narrow cobblestone streets of Temple Bar.  The area looked rightly old, but I knew that a good many bars were new and somewhat trendy.  I found the Porterhouse pub (circa 1989 --Jeez!) and escaped the rain with a Strove Tuesday special of Brie Pancake and Chips and a pint.  After lunch, I wound through the old Viking settlements (where no real trace remains) and down toward St. Patrick's Cathedral.  In Dublin, it seems that the churches require admission, so not wanting to feed the beast, I opted out. I sat in the park to read, after passing the wall that highlights the names of Dublin's famous writers.  A wild, punk-looking guys in his 40s, with long dreads, Docs, fatigues, and multiple piercings repeatedly took laps around the fountain, hands tucked deep into his pockets.

I wandered the smaller streets awhile, trying to turn my brain on to increase awareness.  I saw the same bicycle courier twice.  Gangs of schoolgirls in uniform, with their long, swirling pleated skirts; the boys in suits of blue and identical haircuts.  Double-decker buses in yellow.  Three guys on a corner acting shady, probably scoring.  Two others on the walls of the fort, using.  (As I approached, one guy had a suspicious look on, one hand in his pocket.  I took my own hands out of my pockets and opened them.  He visibly relaxed.)  Lot's of familiar features in the faces of those who passed, of Irish friends and family, and of course my own late son Ken.    

More tomorrow...


On the turntable:  Johnny Winter, "Second Winter"

Gumshoeing in Eire

Today is St. Pat's. If you say the title of this blog with a bad Irish accent, the last word sounds like "Nag." Which is horse. So, at the risk of beating a dead one, I thought I'd post an excerpt from my travel journals written while in Ireland in February 2005. I had gone out into the country in search of relatives who'd married in Maryborough in 1874. Maryborough now goes by the name Portlaois, a town best known for its insane asylum and prison...

Early the next morning, I headed for Portlaois. On the bus, the young couple who sat behind me looked pretty rough. I sat and looked out at the drab outer rings of Dublin lined with houses made of soda bread. Perhaps it was the heavy sky, or my sleepy eyes, but all looked desolate and lonely and I felt sick of travel. I should have been thrilled at my first sight of the Irish landscape, but instead I was unimpressed with the highway busy with trucks, and the bogs devoid of all but bare trees. Essentially, it looked like northern Indiana. Once off the highway, subtle aspects of the country's beauty began to appear, in the form of huge clovers lining a road at the edge of the forest. In Kildare, I giggled at the sign for the National Stud, picturing a suave guy with a nice pad. Beyond this, a couple open fields contained a surprising number of lambs. Two of them seemed betaken with a pig.

Minutes off the bus in Portlaois, I found myself at the Catholic Church where an Ash Wednesday mass was just beginning. I was hoping that this was where Brigid Comerford and Michael Dunne( my ancestors) had been married, therefore sharing a spiritual and temporal link. I queued for my ashes, then lingered around. For a 10a.m. mass on a weekday, it was pretty packed, including many students in uniform. I wondered how many people in here might be family. I lit a votive candle for Ken (my late son), then went to the sacristy to talk to the priest. I was worried he'd be too busy to talk and I kicked myself for forgetting that it was a church holiday. He seemed a nice guy, but rushed. He answered my questions in a three minute monologue, then brushed me off with a "Best of luck to you, Ted," Dougal-style. It wasn't rude. On the contrary, he dealt with my needs efficiently, yet lacking the time to ponder properly, he moved on. I liked the way he'd say something like, "Now go to the parish office, where Mary and Polly will look it all up on the computer." Personalized.

Back on the Street, I moved from the tourist office to library to court house to art center. I was looking for someone who knew local history, but everyone modestly recommended everyone else. I decided to stroll. At first, I didn't like the town much, a series of busy roads and shopping malls. (Including a health food store next to a butcher's, and a place called Abra-Kebab-ra.) Then behind this modern facade, I found the older center of town. Main Street was a cobblestone street of narrow sidewalks, shops, and pubs. Compared to England's rows of controlled uniformity, Ireland seems more organic, with varied structures of differing sizes. Smaller sized roads formed zigsaw puzzle shapes at the town center. I must've walked all the roads at least twice, past the ruins of two churches, past the beautiful stone train station, past the new Heritage Hotel (which had no heritage to speak of, but served as a nice metaphor for my day), past a WWI monument with a Private Dunne, past M. Dunnes' Grocery. There was a strong Chinese Connection here, with three restaurants all closed for the holiday. I'd seen a Chinese guy at mass this morning. Being both Ash Wednesday and Chinese New Year, he was having a busy day. I also saw many of the same faces and they no doubt noticed me, again and again, ambling without apparent purpose. In others, I saw my own face, and in many boys, I saw Ken's. Many schoolgirls seemed to be speaking what at first sounded French, but must be the local dialect. I also heard my Nana's vocal inflections in the conversation of three old women. It's amazing how that was passed to her in the new country.

I thought that the church ruins on Church Street were where Brigid and Micheal had been married, but in the records at the library I found an article saying it'd been abandoned in 1804, after having first converted to Protestant. It turned out to instead be the ruins on Church Avenue, a fact explained by the gals in the parish office. I had almost not gone in, but it was there that I found the most concise information, such as the villages where Brigid and Michael had come from. It left a small mystery since Comerfords are traditionally from around Mountmellick in the north, yet her town was south of here. Plus, the Dunnes are from here in Portlaois, but Michael's village is even further north than Mountmellick. The clan has a massive gathering near there in the summer. In any case, it was amazing to handle their wedding register from 1874.

Ultimately, the most amazing info came at a pub, which I'd chosen because it looked the oldest in town. I had a beautiful plate of chicken and potatoes, plus a pint of Smithwicks, over next to the hearth. The bartendress herself was from Mountmellick, and knew many Comerfords. When she'd asked me what I was doing there in town, I was embarrassed to be a cliche'd American looking for his ancestry. In fact, had I been asked directly if I were looking for family, I was prepared to answer with, "Yeah, they stepped out for smokes 130 years ago and I haven't seen 'em since." But this woman was quite friendly and told me that one of the older Comerford matriarchs had died last November, having had 15 children. She also said she saw a resemblance in me, especially around the eyes. I was thrilled to hear this. She took my contact info and said she'd pass it on. (Days later, I'd find an email from one of the clan.)

All in all, I'd had a great day, walking in the steps of my ancestry and playing detective. And the moral of my Irish parable is...

If the Church can't help you out, the pub certainly will.

On the turntable: Masabumi Kikuchi, "All Night, All Right, Off White Boogie Band"

On the nighttable: Ken Wilber, "A Brief History of Everything"

On the reel table: "Stroszek" (Herzog, 1976)