Of Beaches and Bars -- Cork, Ireland

It's breezy. A rose sways back and forth outside the window, the occasional sharp burst of wind nearly knocking it to the ground. The outer petals are blushing pink, but the veins slowly melt into a pastel yellow that transforms into a glowing orange near the center. The dark green leaves with their light green underbellies flutter wildly as the wind picks up. The pink against the grey is beautiful, but the glowing yellow appears awkward and out of place. As if someone had painted a brilliant sun on a canvas of clouds.

I believe life got in the way of my writing as of late, and I've gone and fallen a good deal behind on my posts. This is frustrating because as a writer, I would hope to prioritize this blog and my every now and then mammoth attempt at playwriting... but Ireland has seen an unprecedented amount of sunny days this last week, and the novelty of sunbathing in Ireland was far more attractive than contemplating color and editing photos at my laptop. That said, I've spent the majority of this week relaxing on beaches, walking adorable and hilarious dogs, and dancing away the nights (and mornings) at various pubs throughout Cork. I've cooked the odd meal for the family and helped out with yard work here and there, but nearly every bit of this experience feels like indulgent, exciting, leisurely vacation. Roisin has been tremendously generous and I'm getting to experience Ireland in entirely new ways -- running into ice-cold water, dancing until four o'clock in the morning, and visiting beaches like these:
 

After the crubeens disaster, Doroteja invited Roisin and me for breakfast -- so she could show us how crackling is supposed to taste. Her mother sends her cracklings from Slovenia and Doroteja pulls it out of the freezer to fry on special occasions. I was so happy that those nasty, smelly pig feet opened the door to this magnificent Slovenian meal of eggs and crackling.

I cooked up a butternut squash and beef tagine for dinner the other night. Daisy approved. She is more efficient at cleaning burnt onions off of pots than any sponge I've ever used.

This picture pretty much sums up my week. Bunny was amusing and annoying in that she would dig all her holes right next to her two human companions, covering us with a thick layer of sand as she searched for buried rocks.

Taking Daisy on a 5 minute walk is equivalent to at least thirty chaturangas

We watched a band called  The Frets last night, and had such a marvelous time that we stayed and danced for their whole show. They even got Roisin, Orin and me to sing with them.

"Just a bit of craic," the tall fellow said as he handed me a tambourine. One of my many personal goals for this trip is to never so no when someone asks me to sing (singing is a huge source of insecurity for me), so I smiled and took the stage. Next to Roisin with her maraca and Orin with her blown up saxophone. We were a pretty classy bunch.

I've been mistaken for a Spaniard on more than one occasion, thanks to my dark skin and wooden earrings. I was under the impression that wooden earrings marked me as a hippie -- not as someone who might be able to speak Spanish at a pub.

I may not be able to drink Guinness, but I can certainly (and happily) drink Baby Guinness. This drink is a bit  deceptive in that it contains no Guinness at all, but is rather a mixture of Irish Cream and coffee liqueur. Had I been thinking properly at the time (three guesses to why I wasn't thinking properly at the time...), I would have taken a picture of it before it was nearly gone, as the look of the drink is how it gets its name. The cream is poured over the back of a spoon so it sits atop the liqueur and looks like a stout.

An Irish song by The Frets: FRETS

Preconceptions:

I haven't encountered any real hatred toward England. Although when I suggested that Bunny's human voice might be a bit cockney, Roisin had a very negative reaction.

Challenges:

None this week. I'm keeping my eyes peeled for my flora and fauna, but haven't had a bit of luck.

I do have a good video, though. I call it, "Why I would NEVER bike in Ireland."