Vis George -- Emly, Ireland

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I’m sitting in the side yard at George’s and trying to notice the colors (my assignment from Roger). I had expected that Ireland would overwhelm me with the green, but it is more the silvers and the yellows that inundate my senses. The buttercups are in bloom and the fields are blanketed with flowers so cheery and yellow that they make even Kerry Gold butter appear pallid in comparison. They are sunshine and butter and orange marmalade mixed into one, and set off beautifully by the light, gentle green. When I walk through them, my shoes are dusted yellow.

Which is romantic enough, but also annoying.

The silvers captivate me. The white blossoms from a rather prolific tree lend the horizon a silver sheen. The wind gently rustles the leaves and the flecks of silver ripple like the waves from the wake of a boat.

Even the green appears more yellow this time of year – everything is less intense than I remember from August-December of 2011. Perhaps the white, yellow, and pink blooms make the green appear faded. Or perhaps it’s because this part of Ireland hasn’t seen rain in an unprecedented 12 days.

Preconception busted: Ireland is NOT always super green. Right now, it is super yellow.

George says that this is something peculiar to Ireland.

“Efery year it is different. Zis year, ve haf za buttercups eferyvhere. Zey are all ofer Ireland. Za only people who do not haf buttercups haf sprayed. Next year, it vill be somsink different.”

I wish Kenton (my plant expert) had given me buttercups as a challenge. I have yet to find the Green Alkanet, the Spring Squill, or the Yellow Bleedingheart.

I’m having much better luck with the birds. European Robins and Pied Wagtails are commonly seen around George’s Emly house. I’ve yet to get a good picture of one, but I do see them often enough. 

The Pied Wagtail! Yay!

When I gave George my side of the story with immigration, he said, “It is because you are too honest.”

“I am too honest, yes. And I didn’t know that using the word “volunteering” would be such a terrible thing. I'm helping a friend. Why did I have to slip the word volunteering in?”

“You vere a little bit stupid.”

“I was.”

“You should haf just said you vere coming as a complete tourist and to spend lots of money.”

“That’s what I will say from now on, George. No matter what I’m doing.”

“I haf a story for you. Ven I vas flying back into Fiena, za immigration officers vould check our sings. “Haf you got any bombs, veapons, or jewelry?” Za man in front of me did not understand, so I translated to him in English. Zen I said back to za officer, “Ya, he has a bomb and it is already smoking in his pipe.” I sought I had made a funny joke, but za immigration officer took me into a small room and had me undress and kept me zere for hours. I missed my flight.”

“So,” I laughed, “Never use the words “bomb” or “volunteer” with an immigration officer or you’ll be taken into the back room and searched.”