A Hard, Wet Day -- Emly, Ireland

It was a hard, wet day. The rain is mocking me. Soundly. I believed for a single, fleeting moment that Ireland’s weather was not the bloody worst I’ve ever experienced. I believed it had the potential to be rather – dare I say it? Pleasant.

It has drizzled rain, pounded rain, pissed rain, misted rain, and speckled golden spots of sunshine all day.

The golden spots of sunshine have been remarkably rare.

Colors are saturated and muted at the same time. The world outside my window is verdant and soggy. The pied wagtails hop about in the brief respite the clouds now offer, and their white and black feathers stand out against the soggy green and yellow.

The puddles in George’s dirt/gravel driveway would have any five-year-old tramping about in uncontrollable ecstasy and any mother horrified at the mess the mud would make in her home later on.

Ireland is a big, sopping mess right now. Facebook tells me that my home state of Colorado is burning up. If I could send my dear mountains half the rain that fell on George’s stables today, the flames would likely be put out in no time at all.

If only things worked like that.

The last few days have been full of up and downs. George’s three-year-old colt sold for 35,000 euros two days ago. The old man gave a sigh of relief and said, “Now I can pay some of my bills. Zhat vill get us srough anozer year.”

George had a filly up for auction yesterday morning. He wasn’t expecting much for her, as female horses are rarely used for racing – not for big money racing, at least. Fillies with good pedigrees can be bought for breeding, but most of Ireland is not breeding horses, at the moment. The economy is still rough for folks on this island, and breeding and raising horses is an expensive endeavor. So George hoped to make a mere couple thousand off of his beautiful Little Susie. However, he hit the refresh button on his sluggish computer and his filly popped up with the red “make a bid” sign next to the dam’s name.

The filly hadn’t sold.

George was disappointed. “Ve haf too many mares. Za land is sufferink and cannot support all of zhem. I sink ve vill haf to destroy one or two next sprink. Vhat else can ve do?”

A sad truth about breeding racehorses. If they don’t produce winners, you can’t afford to keep them. And nobody buys a broodmare who doesn’t produce winners.

So the horse is shot.

“I get tears in my eyes efery time,” George said quietly, “I get too attached to za horses.”

George reluctantly attached the trailer to the Nissan and drove the two and a half hours to pick up his unsold filly. While he was away, I prepared stuffed eggplant and walked the three km to Emly.

Like Tipperary, Emly hasn’t changed an iota since my visit in 2011. This is disappointing to me, as I keep hoping to find a coffee shop with Internet, but I suppose that the folk of Emly find it fairly tolerable. Enough to brag about, anyway.

 Walking along the roads in Ireland is a dangerous pastime. The hedges are high, the roads are unreasonably narrow, and the cars whiz past. I was nearly clipped a couple of times during my three km walk back to Knockara. During my last visit, I biked to Tipperary and back, and the trek was nearly as frightening as immigration in Dublin. The roads here aren’t just narrow – extremely poor maintenance has led to potholes with regularity that rivals dead deer on the side of the road in Meeker, Colorado. Especially along the sides where a biker is likely to ride.

That’s a hell of a lot of potholes.

I don’t bike in the Irish countryside. Unlike George, I still have a great many things I would like to accomplish before I die.

George arrived home after I’d finished checking the mares, yearlings, and foals. The trailer was empty.

“Za filly sold!” George cried, amused and elated. “Half an hour before I arrifed. “Vhy do you not haf a mobile, George? Ve vould haf rung you.” “Za mobile is vis Maria in Australia and I vould not know how to vork it anyvay.” A man from Kazakhstan bought Little Susie for 1750 Euros.  Vhere is Kazakhstan?”

And the rest of the evening involved eating eggplant (another vin for Aimee za Vitch) and helping George Google Kazakhstan.

Kazakhstan is near China and has a rich history of racing. Just so you know.

Preconceptions: I haven't been able to get out enough to bust/confirm any preconceptions.

Challenges: Zip. Nada. Zilch. Emly has nothing I need to conquer my challenges. I’m falling very far behind indeed.