Postcards From Ireland

It took me two years of living in Mali before I even came close to running out of things to blog about, and even when I left, I would read other fellow Peace Corps Volunteers' blogs and kick myself for not having written that entry, or coming up with that joke, or publishing that aspect of Malian culture for my readers to learn about. Well, here I am with a week and a half left in Ireland, and I simply don't have the time or creative energy to keep coming up with things to write about everything interesting I've seen and done in this country. So instead, I'll send you all a series of "postcards;" little snippets of some of my favorite things about Ireland.

Irish Hospitality: Of course our host Flo was going to put us up and take care of us - that's part of the agreement when you ask for WWOOF volunteers. But in my book, when a man is raising two kids, chronically in a state of financial uncertainty, and is still happy to have us live in his house, eat his food (and we eat a lot of it), drink the plentiful bottles of wine which he brings home from events he caters (and we make quick work of those as well), give us rides, beds, and takes care of us without a harsh word, well, that's quite a man. And when we needed a place to stay in downtown Galway one weekend, we were introduced to his friend Daniel (the Jewish New Yorker and pet crow-owner of my previous entries) who has many times since put us up for a night or two and still gives us free fresh donuts at his stall in the market the next day. And just this past Sunday, Kenneth, the other farmer we work for, took us for a day trip out into the Burren, one of the most scenic areas in southwest Ireland, just for a good time. Overall, while they can be a bit reserved and shy at times (Kenneth blames this on all the Catholic guilt they're bred with), just about everyone we've met so far here is friendly, chatty, and eager to help with whatever we need. To illustrate the point, I would have to say that in our two months here, I have paid for less than half, and perhaps only a third of the alcohol I've drunk. Which brings me to my next point:

Beer: All stereotypes, no matter how false they might be, come from somewhere. The one about the Irish and their love of beer comes from inside places like the random pub co-WWOOFer Amanda and I walked into one Sunday morning while looking around town for a restroom. We saw half a dozen men chatting lazily around a cluster of empty and half-empty pints of Guinness, and immediately upon entering, the bartender began reaching for another glass, asking us, "Will ye's be having a pint then?" Yes, the Irish love their beer, and they really love their Guinness. From my own observation, I would guess that between 45 and 65 percent of the beer drunk here is Guinness, and those in the know will even be able to tell you which pubs have the best Guinness. Apparently, Guinness is a very volatile beer, and things like temperature, air pressure, and even passing over a body of water are liable to change the taste and texture of the drink. Luckily, the pub nearest where we're staying has - according to some award it one once - one of the best pints in all of Ireland. But even if it didn't, we'd have plenty of others to choose from, since as the saying goes, "You can't throw a stone in Ireland without hitting a pub."

Castles: "You can't throw a stone in Ireland without hitting a castle either."

Dogs: Okay, dogs aren't one of the major things people think of when they talk hear about Ireland (except for the Irish Gypsies in the film "Snatch" - Ya like dags?), but they've been the source of some of the most fun we have here. Everybody seems to have a dog, at least out here in the country. There's Flo's dog, Bella, who we love just as much as we think she's a complete nut job. She chases every single car except Flo's as it drives off the property, barking directly at the front right wheel while it rolls, except for sometimes when she barks at the front left wheel. Most people are cautious and drive slowly, pleading with the dog to leave their car alone, but then there are those like our neighbor who just chuckles at Bella and then barrels full speed ahead, letting Darwinism have a chance to take its course. Bella also used to steal the duck eggs from Flo's duck pond and leave the empty shells next to her bed outside. Co-WWOOFer Matt started yelling at her every time she did it and shaking the eggshell in front of her face. He did this until she started hiding every time he came home and I figured he had just convinced her that he hated her. But then one day, when we came home from town, she greeted us happily, walked in a bee-line over to her bed, picked up a duck egg which she had captured, and deposited it entirely intact at our feet, still wagging her tail. There are also Kenneth's dogs, Molly and Cara. Molly sits on peoples' feet when they pet her and gazes longingly into the living room window hoping to catch a glimpse of the cats inside, whom she apparently terrorized during their last encounter. Cara, our favorite dog in Ireland, loves to play fetch and has endless patience. The means that she'll find a stick, toy, or rock (all of her teeth are broken in half from too many rocks), lie down in a prone position wherever we happen to be working - between a row of carrots we're weeding, for example - and wait for us to throw her fetch toy. And wait. And wait. She'll wait for us, and if in the course of our weeding we move too far away from her, she'll just crawl up the row a bit closer, resume her prone position and wait some more. Finally, there are the dogs who just meet us on the street near their house as we're walking - to the park, or the lake, or anywhere else - and just start walking with us. Sometimes they want to play fetch, and we oblige, but sometimes, they just want some company on a stroll, and when we return or they get tired, they just go back home.

Peat: Man, do I wish it was cold again. When we first got here, it was in the 40s in the morning and on a nice day, it would go up the low 70s, before coming back down again in the evening. And that meant houses had to be heated, and since firewood is somewhat scarce here and the electric bill is expensive, people threw peat bricks into the stove to heat their homes. Peat, or turf, is like clay. It comes from peat bogs, where chunks of it are dug up and cut and dried into bricks, where they turn into the the nicest smelling fire fuel you can imagine. (It's what they use to roast the grains for scotch, which is where that lovely smokey flavor comes from.) The scent is like a combination of Christmas, New England, barbecues, autumn, happiness, and love. And when a whole town is cold and everyone starts burning the peat to warm up, no matter how cold it is, the peat smoke aroma wafting through the wind will put a warm smile on your face.

Gaelic: Yes, they still speak it sometimes here. In fact, there's a burgeoning movement to have it taught more in schools, and there are areas where it is how the locals converse with each other, speaking it as a first language. Sadly, I haven't really had a chance to learn a lick of it, except for a few words that get tossed around here and there, most of which I won't be able to spell, translate or explain as well as the internet would be able to. . . which I suppose is kind of a tease, but you're on the internet now anyway, and I mainly just wanted to point out the fact that the language is still very much alive, despite common belief that it's gone the way of Latin.

Well, that's enough for now. Perhaps I'll squeeze out a few more snippets of life for you folks before I leave. Thanks for reading, and if you want to send me any love or hate, or just neutral feedback to tell me you're still reading this, go ahead!