Close encounters of the bovine kind

You know those post-apocalyptical movies where the main character journeys across countrysides without another human soul in sight? Well, because I flew into the Aran Islands (arriving 90 minutes before the ferries), I easily assumed that role of Sole Survivor. The vast emptiness was filled me with awe, and also creeped me out a little.

I soon came upon some survivor cows, sitting so peacefully and chewing their cud. "Oh, fellow inhabitants of this lonely planet! How good it is to see another face!" I thought to myself (because let's be honest, it'd be weird to say that out loud). I remembered my past interactions with friendly cows, where they seemed to have a sense that I was a kindred spirit, and I also thought back to my days growing up on a farm when we had a few kind cows. These were very reassuring memories that brought warmth to my soul, otherwise saddened by the knowledge that I'd never see another human again.

One of my friends mentioned that if you lay in the middle of a group of cows, that they will approach you to inspect this foreigner, and that maybe they'd like you for good luck. Well, they were already laying on the ground, but I thought that perhaps I could approach them and cuddle with them à la the triceratops in Jurassic Park.

I crossed the fence and was in my own little world as I walked slowly towards the cows... and then I snapped back to reality. Stopping mid-step, I realized that the field was at the base of a hill, on top of which stood houses--probably the farmers' houses--from which I was likely being observed. I thought about how odd it must have looked, seeing a tourist ride up on a bike, do a double take at the cows, and have some internal monologue about greeting the cows. Then this tourist shook the gate and realized that it wasn't suitable for climbing before scaling the rock wall. Finally, the tourist inched carefully toward the bovines with an expectant expression on his face, and suddenly froze mid-step. I could almost hear "Honey, get my shotgun!" (I don't know how many Irish farmers do own guns, but 80% of them think they should!)

Having been shaken out of my little daydream and into fear that I may have been watched and within cross-hairs, I swiftly turned tail, hopped the wall and took off down the road.

But someday, cows of Ireland, we will have our meet-and-greet. Just somewhere out of eye-shot (and gunshot) of others.

Cramming for finals and cramming in cookies

'Twas the night before the night before finals, and in Warren's apartment,

Many undergrads were present, working the study department.

okay, that's no good and I don't have it in me to write another Limerick poem.

But there are 34 hours until the first final, and the undergrads are busy studying and "studying." Yes, discussing different modes of heat transfer and dimensionless numbers, but also chatting about the perils of imbred/purebred dogs, gender imbalance at swing dances at Georgia Tech, chomping down on ginger snaps, gushing about meeting local hurling celebrities, singing "Frozen", and playing catch-the-gummy-worm-in-your-mouth. Sure takes me back...

The best part for me is that I get to enjoying all of the "studying" activities without the responsibility of taking the exams!! Okay, but I do help teaching the material, and I do have to grade the exams. Woe is me.

Truthfully, it's pretty nice to be on this side of academia. (Don't worry, undergrads; you'll be on this side soon!)

Camptown races in Lim'rick Town

To the greyhound stadium, I gladly came.
Watching people, not dogs, was my evening's game.
Then with much surprise,
I saw with my eyes
That the crowd--full of tourists--had planned just the same.

The paws, they made quite the loud thumping sound
As they pounded in circles around the ground.
Compared to each master,
Dogs ran so much faster
Until someone called, "Free pints, all around!"

One dog, it was true, had seen better days,
As the other hounds passed him in quite the blaze.
I thought he'd be lashed
for coming in last.
Instead got a pat. Heartfelt, winning praise!

Birds gone wild

I rounded out my weekend by visiting the city of Galway, one of Ireland's largest cities (population: 75,000). The city itself has a large youth population due to a few universities, and the historic center dates from Medieval times. Today, the town center is a quaint winding few roads that combine tourism with day-to-day chores for locals, not unlike Kilkenny.

On Friday, I had given a ride to a few undergrads who when up to Sligo in northern Ireland to participate in a very Ragnarian relay, and we'd arranged to meet back up to carpool back to Limerick Sunday night. In the meantime, I had an hour or so to burn, and I remembered that I still had my fish and chips goal to fulfill. So on the prowl I went.

Just a block or two from the river waterfront was a very popular restaurant with a line out the door. Although a long line is more an indicator of popularity than actual quality of food, my guidebook recommended the place, so I decided to check it out. I was surprised at the selection under the "fish" section. I already thought that smoked salmon mind be a stretch, but manta ray? Maybe some day, but today I was going to go for traditional: cod.

After I paid for the grub, I walked outside to the middle of the popular street and--being a product of the 21st century--wanted to take an artsy picture of my food. I held up the boat fish and chips in the air and took some shots. I was trying to get the focus on the meal with the medieval street fair semi-blurred in the background, and had to iteratively keep adjusting the settings and focus. After six or seven shots, I happened to look around me and found that--as I was standing on display in the middle of a crowded area--several tables of people were watching me with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. I sheepishly waved and tried not to walk away too quickly to maintain my remaining dignity.

meh.

***Side note: not nearly as embarrassing as when I got caught practicing my "excited face" for a photo in the window of a car that I thought was empty. It wasn't.

I chose my picnic area to be the waterfront, near the arch (constructed 1584) where the Spaniards would dock to unload shipments (usually wine).

As I sat down, I noticed a friendly little swan pass by. Well this certainly set the mood! "Are you gonna eat all of that, mister?" He seemed to ask? (Swans are very expressive and it's very easy to discern their moods.) "Well, I guess I can spare a fry..."

I tossed a fry nubbin to him, which he handily beakily caught. But I hadn't anticipated what signal a mid-air fry is to the rest of the bird community. Suddenly, it was like The Birds 2: Will Kill for Fries. I would've taken some photos of the action, but I was busy protecting my eyeballs. Honestly, I imagined the scene to resemble The Little Mermaid, when (SPOILER ALERT) the animals crash the sham wedding.

I'd learned my lesson. Not "don't give food to animals," but "give food to animals discretely."

After the commotion died down and the opportunistic birds sought spoils elsewhere, a few remained to play a war of attrition. However, the white birds were into gaining more turf and squawked at each other until they were more interested in inter-avian fighting than waiting for food.

A brown bird, though, kept her distance until the white birds had distracted each other away. Then she would take a step forward, and kinda bat her eyelashes. She knew to "catch flies with honey, not with vinegar." As she got closer, I noticed that she would kinda change positions in an "Ain't I cute?" sort of way, but also a "Look at my sharp beak and talons. Think of how easily they could pierce soft tissue!" It was unsettling but effective.

When we'd gained each other's trust, I held out a fry between my fingers, and she ate from from my hand! (I can't imagine my response if she'd walked on my bag. Maybe like Buster's!) We bonded/enabled for a few more minutes, but then it was time for me to meet up with my carpool friends. For the heck of it, I decided to briefly examine their pecking order (literally!) by throwing a fry amongst a few birds. It was mildly amusing.

Before I left, I heard the mixed sounds laughter and shrieks. Apparently, two young women had started throwing bread crumbs to the birds, but the birds' appetite was greater than the speed at which the women could feed. It looked quite a bit like I imagine a out-of-whack flame thrower would, with the flame moving ever closer to the fuel source. I was glad that I was far away from that fiasco.

I did have quite a bit of food left over, but I dismissed the fleeting thought of throwing it into the air near some other tourists, thus inflicting a feeding frenzy on them. No, that'd be too mean. But if it were April 1st...

Dude, where's my yellow jersey?

*inhales deeply*

The Aran Islands (cousins, I think, to Blasket Island and Skellig Michael) are a group of three islands off the west coast of Ireland, the largest of which is Inishmore and measures 9 miles x 2 miles. It is often ranked in the top five places to visit in Ireland, probably because of the gorgeous landscapes and the quaintness of the isolated communities on the islands

Most people get to the Inishmore by 90-minute ferry, but I've already fully experienced the whole ferry option, and when I learned about the option to fly over in 8 minutes, I quickly chose the latter. The airport was teensy, which was reflected in its all things related to it.

Advertising on makeshift billboard for the airport.

The only check-in counter in the airport, complete with scaled (R)
to weigh passengers and balance the load.

I had originally bought my ticket for Friday (yesterday) because I could get earlier departures and later returns. And so that if the flights were canceled, I could reschedule for sometime this weekend. The fog on our side burned off pretty soon after the sun finally finished rising, but Inishmore insisted on sleeping in. The remaining blanket of fog over the landing strip thwarted our plans of flying over that day. Somewhere, a record needle scratched across a vinyl record and the agents asked people to either reschedule or hop over to the ferry.

Well, luckily I had built in some wiggle room into my plans, so I drove around Connemara instead on Friday and rescheduled Inishmore for Saturday.

Low-tech booking hardware. But hey, it works in a power outage!

When I arrived at the airport this morning, I was pleased to find that the weather decided to cooperate today and they loaded us up. I was less pleased to find that they gave the coveted front seat to someone besides me! Something about balancing the plane and wanting to not crash. psh.

A grand total of nine passengers fit in the plane, which was basically a minibus with a large wingspan. I that it was totally cool; I'd never flown in a plane so small! There was something very exhilarating about feeling the plane sway side-to-side with gentle gusts of wind that just isn't the same in a jumbo jet. It's like I was reminded often of the relatively precarious position that gliding through the air is.

Baggage deplaning.

Arrivals and Departures Hall.

There are a few options for exploring the island: minibus tour, horse-drawn cart tour, or cycling tour. As I had the extra time and have grown accustomed to enjoying my traveling independence, I opted for the freedom--and much-needed exercising--that self-propelled and -guided cycling offered.

My steed for the day.

Dún Aonghasa (or Angus Fort) is the main attraction on Inishmore. It is the ruins of a stone ring forts that date from around the Bronze Age to about 1000 AD. Knowing that the boatloads (literally) of ferry passengers would be arriving an hour or two after I had, and anticipating that Dún Aonghasa was also high on their list, I hopped on and pushed the pedals to the figurative medal.

After riding quite a while and through hilly areas (it's funny how you don't realize how much elevation change there is along a path until you run or cycle it), I saw some stones resting atop a hill in the distance. Correction: I saw stones organized in ruined circular formations. One thing I've learned about Ireland is there is often exposed bedrock and also many stone walls.

 After a few more minutes of huffing and puffing--this time on foot--I arrived at the top of the hill, the other side of which was a 200 ft cliff.

No guard rails. Watch your step!

It was fun to people watch and observe how hesitant people were by the edge. Of course, it's understandable, as huge gusts of wind could easily cause someone to lose balance.

But there were three creatures who didn't seem to mind the cliffs. A friendly, young dog followed me up to the fort, which was nice (though not as awesome as if it'd been a stoic mountain cat). At the top, a two birds near the edge chirped upon our arrival, the dog's ears perked up, tail wagged with fervor, and he emitted an excited yelp. They engaged in a daredevil game, for the dog at least. The birds would land on different parts of the cliffs and chirp chirp. The dog would run, and in the last minute, decide which bird to advance on. Then the birds would flit away and the dog would brake last minute. I thought the dog was in danger, but a ranger said that the dog and birds have been playing this game daily for the last two years!

The timing gods were smiling upon me, because I was alone for 15 minutes, and as I turned to retreat down, I saw hoards of ferry-going tourists advancing up the hill.

I was pretty tired from two days of early departure, and after my hike I ate a picnic lunch and happened up a small beach, at which point I felt like I was in the poppy field from Oz, and my eyelids got verry heavy. It was pleasantly warm, but I put on my jacket mostly for the eye shade, and soon ZZZs were upon me.

Not a bad napping spot, eh?

I wasn't asleep for long before the ferry-goers caught up to me there and I was awakened by a flock of Germans and pod of Spaniards. "Fine, I'll go find a more secluded napping spot!" My, what a snob I'd become!

After a bit more successful shut-eye, I ventured around the island, mostly admiring the general splendor and piecing together the small-community feel from the scale of infrastructure.

The island's only gas station and recycling center.

The island's bank branch.

Typical traffic jam.

The flight back went without a hitch... just enough turbulence to remind you of the fragility of existence. Fortunately, there were some beautiful views to distract you from dwelling on that too long!

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...