Get-a more-a Connemara

For my penultimate weekend, I am staying closer to home and exploring Connemara, Galway, and the Aran Islands. To kick off festivities, I went on a driving tour of the Connemara region of Ireland. I was stunned at how gorgeous the landscapes are here. Beauty level: Computer operating system developers must send their photographers here for the background images.

Unfortunately, by the time I got on the road (more about why I got a later start later), the sun was getting pretty harsh and the lighting was soon inconducive towards photography. (I'm not skilled enough to do much with a hazy sky and over-bright scenery.) But I got a couple of shots worth posting!

My first stop was Cong (pronounced "cong-uh"... like the line... which I should've started. dang.) Abbey, which was built in the seventh century. In the beginning of the 13th century, the last high (Christian) king of Ireland lived out his last days here in hiding following the Norman Invasion. Not much exists except for some arches (actually, the remaining arches are an interesting snapshot in the changing architectural trends, as they blend the rounded Romanesque (blasé) to the pointed Gothic (trendy) styles.

The Abbey is adjacent to a forested with trails, and walking on the paths really reminded me of hiking Oregon: the heavy moss cover on tree trunks and rocks; the cool, damp air rolling out from the dark pockets between streams and low bushes; the wet, earthy fragrance of decomposing plant material; the squidge squidge of the ground with each step. The outdoors offer a feast for the senses!

The monks built a fish house that covered part of the stream and stretched a net across the flow of water. By attaching a bell to the net, they could have an automated fishing system ("set it and forget it!") that would alert them when a salmon was ready to greet them. Clever monks.

Another site I visited was a monument to the coffin ships. As I mentioned before, these were vessels that carried the poor survivors of the Great Famine to the US. Safety standards weren't observed, and the passengers often died en route or after arrival, with mortality rates up to 40%. This monument is meant to honor the deceased, with skeletons swirling around the masts.

Across from this statue was a 2,500 ft peak, the top from which St. Patrick is said to have cast out the snakes from Ireland. (More likely the snakes represent the Pagan beliefs that he worked to convert the inhabitants from.) I wish I'd planned my visit a bit better, as just two days later, there is a mass pilgrimage to the peak. This "hike with the pilgrims" would've been a bit tamer version of the Running of the Bulls.

I didn't have time to hike to the top, but even hiking a bit of it was a rewarding way to connect with the ancient past; just last week I stood atop the hill on the east of Ireland from which St. Patrick declared the beginning of his missionary work, and now I was standing on the mountain on the west side of the island, from which he drove out the "snakes." Interesting to note--though not surprising--that the symbolic and literal exit of Ireland was the west side (monks for isolation, immigrants in the 19th and 20th centuries, and St. Patrick for expunging beliefs).

Are these fish & chips local?

My first memory regarding fish & chips was in the 8th grade, when the Ogden Middle School "choir" (I put that in quotation marks because we were hardly a choir. In fact, I remember our teacher telling us that it was impossible to find music for us because we had only a five-note range. At best). Wait, now that I think of it, we spent quite a bit of time playing on recorder flutes... maybe we really were that bad at singing!

Back to fish & chips. One of the easy-peasy songs that we sang was a round that cycled:

"One bottle of pop, two bottle of pop, three bottle of pop, four! [...]"
"Don't throw your junk in my backyard, my backyard, my backyard! [...]"

and the crowning verse,

"Fish and chips and vinegar! vinegar! And pop! [...]"

(Incidentally, the song broke through our five-note range to be an octave+1. That's not to say we sang it well, but we had grit.)

The intro is a bit anticlimactic, I know, but I just remember thinking as a kid, "Why would they call fries 'chips', and who'd want vinegar on them? And more importantly, where can I get this fried goodness?"

The answer? Where the leprechauns roam... and the rest of the British Isles.

So when I was getting ready to head over to Ireland, it wasn't too surprising that the only goal my mom gave me was to eat fish & chips. Every other day, if possible. Well, the university keeps us fed pretty well, but I've kept my eye out for fish & chips on the weekend.

Finally the day came when I dined on the fruit of the sea. with spuds.

Back in Kinsale, after dining on my scone, I still felt a little peckish so I roamed around town in the manner that only a solo traveler can: walking a few steps, backing up to check out a cat in a store window, crossing the road to take a artistic photo, getting side tracked by the fragrance of baked goods, pulling out my phone to find a geocache (all in quick succession). Sometimes I think that if I reviewed my course, it'd look like one of those Family Circus cartoons.

Then, about 300 feet across a parking lot on the edge of the pier stood a food cart, my eye caught by the visual promise of a traditional fish & chips experience.

"It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine."

The chef was sitting in his cart, and so that I didn't freak him out by bee-lining it across the parking lot, I continued on my meandering way over to his location..

"So, um, do y'all carry fish here?"
"Why, yes lad. But ye'll have teh wait a few minutes while teh grease warms up."

I didn't know how many more times I'd have fish & chips in Ireland, so I wanted to make sure this one was a fulfilling experience. Without launching into the intense interrogation (that some Portlandians might), I queried after the fish and if it were local.

"I caught it me very self tis mornin'."

Most excellent. It turned out that he owns a small fishing boat and catches his own cod. AND he was written about in the local newspaper. I was getting my fish & chips from a celebrity chef!

When the oil was finally a-poppin', he pulled out a juicy fish steak and battered it in front of my very eyes before sliding it gently into the churning oil bath.

After a few minutes, he pulled out the fish and stuck a thermometer in it to ensure its doneness (what a professional!) and then handed it to me. Its sizzle greeted me warmly, inviting me to partake.

After squeezing a lemon quarter over it and spattering the dish with some vinegar (vinegar! vinegar!), I sat down and feasted. It was divine.

But then I remembered one stipulation that my mom had given me: the fish & chips had to be served in newspaper. Oh, a slight detail that I overlooked in the heat of the moment! Well, I guess it means that I'll just need to survey the land for fish & chips again!

The hunt continues...

Sonorous strains of the Emerald Isle

Way back in Dingle (an inexhaustible topic, apparently [1, 2, 3]), I saw a small, ancient church on top of the town hill with a sign advertising traditional music. While it's very common for pubs to have nightly traditional music ("trad music" for those in the know) especially in touristy areas (and reassuring when I drive by a pub in some obscure town and hear music coming from it for the locals), I thought that this was in a bit more of a concert format. Plus, I don't think that trad music in pubs usually feature the Uilleann pipes (Irish bagpipes, pronounced "ill-en") so this was a rare opportunity.

The concert started out with a man on his Irish whistle, then a flute, and then another fellow came out and played some Irish songs on his guitar. The structure of the concert was to increase the complexity by adding musicians and instruments, and by the end of the night, we'd heard the pipe, flute, guitar, drum, and accordion from four people... plus a little jig dancing at the end.

Most of the singing was in English, but the first language of the two women was Irish (not uncommon among Western Irish), so they sang a few songs in their mother tongue. Irish is a beautiful language to listen to (it kinda makes me feel like I'm in Lord of the Rings), but sometimes is double-take-inducing; the sounds are so close to English that initially it just sounds like a really thick accent. (The picture in the video below is of the church venue.)

It seems as though the Irish are widely active in continuing their musical heritage, as evidenced by the abundant trad music signs and public performances. In both Kilkenny and Cobh I saw street performers trying to make a few extra euro (reminded me of my older sibs' string quartet every weekend at Portland Saturday Market to raise funds to travel Europe).

In Limerick--an arguably non-touristy town--there's a community of musicians, members of which gather at our campus pub (yes, our campus has a pub!) every Wednesday night and put on impromptu concerts. I stumbled upon one a while back, but wanted to go back to enjoy the music and take some photos. Tonight we had two lasses and three lads, covering fiddle, guitar, drum, concertina, and banjo (?).

The music was enjoyable and upbeat, but I had to get back to work with some students in preparation for their Biotransport exam tomorrow... oh yeah, my primary purpose here is schooling...

watch out, world.

I like to purchase musical instruments from different countries that I visit (I bought an erhu in China), and I'd initially considered buying a token Irish harp... but then I saw the price tag and easily talked myself into getting something much more manageable (and affordable). I settled on an Irish whistle from an awesome little music shop in Kilkenny (because everything in Kilkenny is awesome). Maybe I'll join the campus pub group next Wednesday.

Oh wait, I'm already booked then for the regional hurling final! Dang. Looks like I'll have to foolhardily whistle another time.

Gypsies in Ireland

View en route to class. From Google Street View.

Shortly after my arrival in Ireland, I was getting a brief tour of campus from the program coordinator. University of Limerick is a bucolic campus, on the edge of the edge of Limerick. While crossing the bridge that we walk on every day from dorms to campus, I admired the scenery and asked if it were possible to to swim or kayak in the shallow River Shannon beneath us. The coordinator replied that people occasionally swim or kayak, but that a week or two prior, a drowning had occurred. He further explained that a group of gypsies--or Irish Travelers, to be anthropologically correct--had been in the area, and though details were fuzzy, a young boy had been riding his horse into the water as part of a celebration when suddenly the horse threw him. Perhaps due to an undercurrent or lack of swimming skills, the boy drowned; a tragedy to be sure. I would later hear mention of the Irish Travelers here or there, but it wasn't until yesterday that I encountered them.

About 20 minutes east of Limerick, on my way back from Wexford, I was approaching the interstate (?) from a two-lane highway. Generally the roads are really narrow here (probably the progeny of a wagon or handcart road) and the shoulders are negligible, leading to many side-swipe close calls. In this particular area, there was about a 15 foot shoulder off to the left, and I noticed wisps from a few spent campfires rising above the ground before I saw several camper trailers. I had about passed the camp before the horses gave it away: this was a group of itinerant Irish Travelers! I drove on, about a quarter mile to the roundabout to join the interstate before I slowed, considering my options. On one hand, I didn't want to drive back by to stare at these people, thus objectifying them. But on the other, this was a chance to observe a group with history and practices distinct from my own. Rather than taking the first exit on the roundabout to enter the freeway, I looped around and got my camera out. Trying to balance respect with innocent curiosity, I drove by at normal speed, with the camera just peeking over my window.

As far as I could tell, the camp consisted of four campers. A few horses were tied up, with two small horse trailers nearby. There were two cars in the lot, but considering that the campers and trailers were drawn by trailer hitch, I assumed that the group owned more cars or trucks that were currently elsewhere.

At the camp, I only saw nine or so people: two girls outside one camper, washing their hair in a basin; a mother and two young daughters at another camper; and a woman with three young kids having a snack outside. Presumably the men were out working.

That sage source Wikipedia describes the Irish Travelers as an Irish minority (not to be confused with the Romani people, I believe where the "gypsy" term originates) that separated from the other Irish settlers about 1000 years ago (ascertained by DNA testing). Around 25,000 live in Ireland but there are populations elsewhere, including in Georgia, Ohio, Mississippi, and Texas. These American Travelers likely emigrated during the--you guessed it--Great Famine (1845-1855). My friend's brother has described interactions with the Georgia Travelers, unfortunately not usually favorable to their reputation. Among other demonyms, the group refers to themselves as Lucht Siúil, Irish for "Walking People."

It was so interesting to briefly observe (though sadly not interact with) these folks, who are notoriously secretive and exclusive. I've been to Amish Country in the US, but they separate themselves from the world both culturally and by proximity. In contrast, the Travelers have distinct culture and practices, but they live among the general population; like mixed oil and water, they may exist alongside "us", but they do not solubilize.

However, this phenomenon is not exclusive to this group. While their boundaries of interaction with non-Travelers are more impassable and enforced, it is worthwhile to observe that people self-group based on religion, race, education, etc. (A fun thought experiment is to imagine if your bus or airplane or elevator got stranded, into what communities would the people separate?) I remember that when I moved to Atlanta, I saw so many different communities, and that I wished I could be a fly on walls to observe without perturbing (people of one group will present differently if they are knowingly observed by another group--this was one of my stressors living in China). We all identify as members of various groups, and until we find what grouping we share in common with an encountered stranger, we keep up walls, albeit cordially.

It saddens me, really, that we have these boundaries, but I understand that their existence arises from a need for trust and security. I guess that the least I can do, then, is to make more of an effort to interface with those of other group and encourage interaction. In the meantime however, I will be content with slipping by groups to which I don't belong--whether on the streets of Atlanta or streets of Ireland--seeking greater understanding and appreciation of "the other."

Irish Psyche: the effects of emigration

In the town of New Ross, a replica of the Dunbrody sailing vessel serves as a museum and specimen of the ominously nicknamed "coffin ships", which transported Irish emigrants for decades during and following the Great Famine. The Dunbrody was roughly 200 ft long and 50 ft wide at its widest point, and the emigrants were housed under the deck in steerage.

Conditions were dire: families were squeezed into 6 ft x 6 ft bunks, or if you were single, you shared that 36 sq ft bunk with five other singles. Up to twelve would share the space, and upon entry onto the ship you prayed that you hadn't been assigned to a bottom bunk. Otherwise, the toss bucket contents and sick wouldn't drip down onto you from the top bunk. The steerage passengers were only allowed on deck for up to an hour a day to cook, and if the weather was too stormy for that, they'd eat bread

that'd been cooked three times over (for preservation), dipped in water. The vessels got the "coffin" nickname because mortality rates commonly ranged from 20-40%. Keep those stats in mind when reading reviews about modern cruises.

they didn't mention anything about having pets on board...

It was interesting to see the ships that were largely responsible for the mass emigration that I'd commented on before. To put things into context, the population of Ireland in pre-famine 1845 was ~8.5 million. About 1.5 million emigrated from 1845-1855 (peaking at 250,000 in 1847), with another 2 million dying due to famine. That means that in just ten years, the population had dropped roughly 40%! Emigration continued well into the 20th century and really only slowed down in the 1960s.

<www.wesleyjohnston.com/users/ireland/past/famine/emigration.html>

But concerns over emigration didn't stop there. In fact, during my walking tour of Waterford, the guide mentioned that unemployment in the last several years has been as high as 19% in some parts of Ireland, and that much of the youth have emigrated. The current hot spot is Australia, with demand for skilled laborers and industry soaring... plus the climate is much more enjoyable. I've actually heard on a few occasions that Ireland suffers from "brain drain."

A quick google search indicates that emigration remains a troubling situation. Just in December 2013, the Irish Independent Newspaper reported that an average 250 Irish leave every day. That means that about 2% of the population--generally able-bodied youth--depart to build lives elsewhere.

This was a surprising situation to think about, as it's the reversal of what concerns many Americans: immigration.

So, a topic that I think would make an interesting high school research paper is:
"What influence has emigration had on the Irish psyche, as evidenced by cultural and political movements?"

(Hint: a starting point would be the 1967 play, "Philadelphia, Here I Come!" by Irish dramatist Brian Fiel, that centers around a young Irishman's decision to move to the US.)

All eight of JFK's great-grandparents had emigrated from Ireland, and the home of his great-grandfather  (who emigrated on the Dunbrody) is just 15 minutes south of New Ross. His cousins still live there (I met them!) and a small museum was opened in the last year that discusses the great success that his forefather/mothers had in the US. JFK had visited the home in the 1950s as an eccentric historian, then in 1963 as President (the museum features material on his visit... months before his assassination), and then Jackie and the kids visited in 1967.

These were interesting meetings to consider. Whereas the US Kennedys had become extremely wealthy and successful through hard work and good timing, the remaining Irish family had stayed in humble conditions. And at the time in the 20th century, JFK was groundbreaking for being so proud of his Irish heritage. As his cousin said to me, the visit of such an accomplished Kennedy to the Irish Kennedys made them walk "about 6 inches taller."

Ooh, actually this makes the research topic a bit more insightful. Let's elevate it to a college term paper. The new prompt: "What influence has emigration had on the Irish psyche, as evidenced by cultural and political movements? Discuss how the JFK Presidency and Kennedy visits of the 1950s, 1963, and 1967 reversed the psyche, if at all."

The allegory of Waterford Crystal

Today I visited Waterford. If you're anything like me, the word that your mind says--intentionally or unintentionally--after "Waterford" is "crystal." It's not like my family had gobs of Waterford Crystal around the house growing up, but I guess that their branding is very good. Plus I have no other association with Waterford. (Tomorrow I'm visiting Wexford. You can guess which word my mind shouts after that.)

Because I can't think "Waterford" without also thinking "crystal", I decided to feed the brain monster by visiting the factory. Allow me to narrate the timeframe in the production of a beautiful piece of crystal.

An undifferentiated ingot of lead-infused silicon dioxide is affixed to the end of a metal straw and placed in a furnace above 1500 oC. It dreams of its infinite possibilities while the mother furnace sings "que sera, sera" to it.

The glass emerges from the oven above its glass transition temperature as a malleable, molten blob. It really could become any piece of crystal: vase, candy dish, Christmas ornament, BCS Bowl Championship trophy, etc. The glassblower spins and inflates the material, and this adolescent crystal starts down a path that will in part determine its final form.

The glassblower places the soft--but quickly cooling and hardening--orb into a mould, thereby finalizing its shape and function. The punch bowl may sulk, thinking "oh, I'll never be a goblet. Poor me," and though the bowl would function just fine as is, it doesn't know that it still has several stages of development left.

The punch bowl is transferred to the hands of the glass cutter, who carefully and deftly carves patterns into the crystal, enhancing it. After a lengthy process, it emerges as a work of art.

The finalized punch bowl, with its developmental predecessors behind.

...

For the last little while, I've been working through the realization that I assume many people in their late-20s/early-30s go through: that by choosing a path, one is indirectly denied passage on other paths. This is something that is completely new to young adults, because up until that point, they've been told that "the possibilities are endless" and "the world's your oyster."

Of course, I realize that not everyone has enjoyed the same range of opportunities that I have had, and I am grateful for my many options. As one of my engineering professors said, my classmates and I "won the cosmic lottery." It's unfair.

From K-12, a child's future is relatively malleable, with the world ahead of her. Then in college and postgrad school, her path starts to take shape and harden. Yes, she could technically go back to undergrad and start again (not over, but again), but more than likely her panic is not due to being faced with a career that she dislikes, but realizing that she can no longer pursue mastery in things that she might have liked. And I agree that life can be enjoyable when multi-faceted, but it's logistically impossible to be a concert pianist and a field biologist and a gourmet chef and a star architect. That's a terrifying thing to come to terms with.

It reminds me of an allegory written by Sylvia Plath in The Bell Jar:

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. [...] I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”


I can take two lessons from the punch bowl:

1) At this point in my life, I have just been formed by the glassblower. I am a functioning adult (when did that happen?), and though it's easier for me to think about how I can't become a vase or crystal bell or butter dish, I should instead consider the exciting future stages of my development. I've lived longer than I ever have before, but not as long as I will have!

2) Although I could go on about my life as a plain bowl, I must be proactive if I am going to take advantage of my opportunities to be the best danged glittering, carved, and frosted punch bowl I can be.

The surprising bundle of awesome, Kilkenny

Thesis statement: The city Kilkenny is a magical place that everyone should visit.

Supporting arguments: kind strangers; cat-themed venues; balance of tourists & locals

Conclusion sentence: Kilkenny city offers and unique collection of attractive features that provide visitors with a fulfilling experience.


Now allow me to flesh that out.

Before you read further, Kilkenny is pronounced kill-KENNY (like you're clarifying who the target is). "Kil" means "village" or something like in Irish.

I knew it must be a good sign when I got the last parking spot in the tourist parking near St. Canice's Cathedral. This lot was on the edge of town, but no bother; I'd get a nice stroll in and orient myself. After hopping out of my car (I was in a chipper mood), I took off towards the Kilkenny Castle. Along the way, I stumbled on *gasp* The Black Cat Pub (their CATchphrase is "The purrrrfect pint!"). Okay, I doubt that the pub actually has playful cats with which to interact (as I had hoped here) but Kilkenny got points in my book for being cat theme-friendly.

Unfortunately, I got a wee bit lost (probably fuzzy-brained after seeing the pub), and I stumbled upon a painter touching up a sign. I think it's charming that so many of the signs are hand painted here, and I asked the guy first for directions, and then for a picture. Although it would've been great to get a shot of him in action, he must've not wanted his mug in the photo because he stepped off his ladder.

Except I accidentally got him in the picture. I'm creeped out.

Unfortunately, my general experience with most Irish is that they do not default to being friendly with strangers. However, Kilkenny proved different, and Mr. Painter was the first to resident to do so. He gave me thorough directions--twice, just to make sure I got it right--and then talked about his painting background and his sister who married a Chicagoan and how he loves Country Music and Nashville.

After he cheerfully saw me on my way, another local walked up to me on the sidewalk and said, "I saw yeh talkin' the the painter, and I just wanted teh tell yeh a bit more about tis old section of town." She filled me in on a bit of the history. So helpful!

When I finally got into the city, I was delighted to find its town center to be tourist-friendly (a souvenir shop and street entertainers) but also cater to the locals with the likes of furniture and shoe stores. A kindly lady was standing at a corner, holding a collection bucket to support a local elderly home, and when I tossed in a few Euro, she responded, "Bless you, love!"

Not sure if this is a pro or a con, but one of the performers played his fiddle along with animatronic mannequins. His act may be material for nightmares, but at least he he isn't a corporate sellout, right??.

I finally arrived at Kilkenny Castle, which has been extensively remodeled and is totally worth a visit. While I was browsing through their painting collection (I found a beautiful Madonna & Child by Carlo Dolci), I heard strains of Pharrell's "Happy" coming from the courtyard. My interest piqued, I looked out the window to see the last bit of a triathlon winding through the castle grounds. Apparently some of the terms of the castle procurement was that the grounds could still be used for municipal activities. cool.

For my fourth example of friendly strangers, I asked one of the race volunteers what the race was for. Instead of gruffly responding "to support a suicide prevention group", the lady followed up with telling me about her history of running, and we discussed different races that we'd run and injuries we've gotten (apparently 200-mile relays haven't made their way over). Then she told me about an ideal cycling route that she wanted to do later this summer.

On my way off the beaten path, I stopped in a musical instrument shop, where the shop owner took the time to guide me through purchasing... a cheap Irish whistle. Then we got talking about Irish music and classical vs folk techniques and how we should both be better than we actually are. It was a nice moment of genuine camaraderie.

It may seem odd that I'm so strongly emphasizing my positive interactions with locals, but the people I met in Kilkenny (albeit a small sample size) were overwhelmingly the type that you'd expect to meet in Ireland: warm, helpful, and friendly. Of course I understand that a population will feature diverse characteristics and that perhaps it is condescending to think that all Irish would welcome tourists, but it was refreshing to interact with so many people that readily responded with enthusiasm.

I had to get going to the Rock of Cashel, but as if to put two cherries on top of my experience, as I was getting lost (I actually found Mr. Painter and asked for directions again) walking back to my car, I spotted two more cat-centric places.

Gamers were playing board games inside. adorbs.

Recap:


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