The Gallivanting Grasshopper: Moyleabbey Organic Farm

I'm beginning this post from my trailer at Moyleabbey Organic Farm. I'm cuddled up in a wool blanket, two sweaters, wool socks, and one of the awkward hats I knit for myself on the drive to Telluride. It's quite dark inside the mobile home living room, as I am far too cold to get up and walk across the room to turn on the lights. The "kitchen" sink drip.... drip.... DRIP... drip... drips annoyingly, and a small beam of light peeks out from underneath the door where the French couple is staying. Soft French murmurings escape under the door with the light, and quite a few kisses are making themselves heard through the paper thin walls. They seem like a lovely couple, but I've DEFINITELY got the bumbling, unwanted, third-wheel sort of feeling. They had this dreary mobile home all to themselves before I got here. Now they have to share it with the American who wakes up at six o'clock to turn on the tea kettle. They don't speak very good english and I don't speak any french, so there is a language barrier, once again. Unlike in Italy, I don't feel like I'm able to breach this one. They're very closed off and happy being by themselves. I feel like a brass invader whenever I interrupt their romantic French murmerings with my harsh English inquiries. However, as we will be sharing this space for another two and a half weeks, we will probably get to know each other somewhat before we part ways. Right now, most of what I know is that the young woman studies biology and the young man studies something with the word aerospace in it. The young man (who has a very pronounced French nose and is a good two inches shorter than me) is an established rugy player/fan, plays the guitar beautifully, and is quite proficient at "I don't speak your language" laughter. This is a breed of laughter I grew quite accomplished at myself, during my month long stay at Agritourismo Ca'Lattis. It is versatile and complex and takes a good while to master. A few of the different flavors include:

Genuine laughter at something that you find funny.

Awkward laughter when you realize that what you thought was funny was actually something not so funny at all. Laura does not have a cute, knee-high puppy at home. Laura had knee surgery because she took a bad fall. Not funny, Aimee. Stop laughing. Stop laughing, or segue gracefully into --

Self-deprecating laughter. This occurs when you realize how much you fail at understanding the other language. It makes the injured party feel less injured and more inclined to forgive your inappropriate previous laughter.

It doesn't matter laughter is to convince the other party that you won't dwell on your mistake for the next forty-eight hours. This laughter is just for show, though. You're likely to dwell on it a good deal longer than that.

Inside Joke laughter. Once you've managed to make enough blunders in the foreign country of your choice, you'll have a good deal of fodder for said "inside jokes". This is the best kind of laughter when it comes to foreign languages. You don't have to know the whole joke. You don't even have to say anything. It can be a simple gesture, and it is more than enough. These jokes are beautiful things, because unlike in a country where you speak the native language, these jokes NEVER grow old. The pure pleasure of understanding an iota of conversation, being on the "in" for a split second, is enough for a rotund round of laughter no matter how many times someone says, "Pomo o mela?" With "Inside Joke" laughter, a little bit of your personality might even shine through the language you're butchering. This laughter segues nicely into:

"I UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU'RE SAYING TO ME" laughter. I trust that the title is self-explanatory here.

There is also the "I don't understand you" laughter. This laughter is a release of tension for everyone in the room. With the proper shoulder shrug and gaze direction, it can communicate "I'm sorry", and "I wish I could understand", and "It's not you, it's me." This is a very useful sort of laugh, but consider developing some inside jokes if you find yourself using it too often.

I did a lot of laughing in Italy.

The French couple laugh an inordinate amount when I try to engage them in conversation.

But I'm in Ireland now. Not Italy. I don't need to use this sort of laughter unless I happen to run into one of the Irish with an accent so strong that their speech becomes complete gibberish for anyone outside of their particular county. I hope to learn this rollicking, airy, head-over-heels accent before I return to the US.

My days at Moyleabbey thus far...

I spent Saturday morning sleeping in and not feeling guilty about it. I was still working off the nasty, chocolate-induced headache, and Loch's frigid house made it extra difficult to muster up the fortitude required to leave my sleeping bag/Irish wool blanket cocoon. The nippy air and cold, creaky wooden floors demanded slippers and a robe. As I had neither at my disposal, I chose to stay in bed and contemplate how on earth I had had the nerve to complain about the heat in Spain and Italy.

I finally roused myself at half past nine. I donned my Smartwool socks, my Smartwool shirt, and two sweaters. I noticed with a good deal of chagrin that I had left the pants portion of my Smartwool ensemble in Italy -- the country I didn't even need to remove them from my suitcase. So I pulled on my jeans with a sigh of regret, and shivered my way down the stairs, perusing one of Loch's many city guides as I waited for my host to come down the stairs for his habitual breakfast of tea, toast, and jam.

Loch woke up just in time to make tea and greet a young Chinese woman who was Helpx-ing with him. Helpx is a program similar to WWOOFing, but it's not limited to farmwork. Loch was offering this vivacious, well-travelled young lady free room and board for a couple hours of housework and gardening every day. Lochlann is the sort of fellow who enjoys having people from all around the world filling up his empty house, so in this scenario, Helpx works out beautifully for both parties. Those from around the world get a beautiful place to stay, and Lochlann gets to hear the wild adventure stories told by the people from around the world as he eats his bread and jam.

As my stories were rather dull, I'm inclined to believe I got the better end of the bargain.

After my mug of Earl Grey (I thought of you, Alex) and a quick chat with the Helpx-er, I slung on my shoulder bag and headed out on one of Lochlann's spare bikes to explore a local park.

The park was a maze. A beautiful maze full of the epic, tangled, ancient trees that I'd only seen before in films like Chronicles of Narnia. There were a myriad of dog breeds prancing about, dragging their owners behind them as they enjoyed the cool, wet Irish morning. Children filled the park, running around happily and screaming all sorts of things in their Irish accents that made them seem exponentially adorable.

I stopped by the rose garden, the pool, and even managed to find some old brick stables that had been turned into a coffee shop and farmer's market. I bought some smoked Irish cheese from a fellow who sold me two Euros worth for "Just a Euro fifty, just for you." I enjoyed the cheese under the boughs of one of the ancient trees, reading Mark Twain and watching the many games of cricket taking place all around me, out of the corner of my eye.

I headed back to Loch's just in time to say goodbye to my gracious host and lug my suitcase to the bus stop. The journey was uneventful and the scenery was breathtaking. Everyday Ireland seems like everything the American dairy farmer would like to be. The grass is lush and verdant, and there are happy cows and sheep grazing everywhere. The terrain is hilly, the trees are gorgeous, and despite Ireland being a diminutive country, there's plenty of breathing space.

The market in Dublin

The old stables in Dublin

Liam picked me up at the sole petrol station of the quaint village of Crookstown. Unlike Santa Giulia, Crookstown boasts a second-hand clothing store and a SPAR to supplement its pub and petrol station, for which I am exceedingly grateful. I will have to buy some more weather appropriate clothing. Ireland is much colder than I had anticipated.

First day with Kai

Moyleabbey Organic Farm

You know you need a haircut when...

Moyleabbey Organic Farm and Acupuncture Clinic is a stunning little place. Liam grows pears, apples, plums, carrots, lettuce greens, kale, beets, onions, beans, peas, tomatoes, zucchini, pumpkins, cucumbers, CABBAGE, and many other vegetables that shan't make this list.

Because it's late and I'm tired and lists are only exciting to the people making them.

I'm tired because I spent many an hour this week weeding aforementioned vegetables. I work thirty hours a week in exchange for mostly vegetarian food and a small mobile home in which to rest my manure/compost caked body at the end of the day. The schedule is Tuesday through Friday, work nine to eighteen with a one and a half hour lunch. Saturday, Sunday, and Monday are free. As I arrived on a Saturday afternoon, I had two and a half days to relax in an Irish paradise before the labor started. I was even able to attend a small-town county fair with Liam's family and the French couple. I hear that an international plowing competition will be held at the end of September. It's a really big deal, apparently.

I have my reservations regarding its entertainment factor.

The work started on Tuesday, and it's hard, wet, monotonous, dirty, and cold. I spent the greater portion of Tuesday morning weeding the sickly looking corn field. Corn does not grow well in Ireland; the climate here is far too wet for its liking. I started the morning standing, but after an hour or so, my aching lower back forced me to my knees, so I crawled alongside the rows for hours, uprooting all the chickweed and stinging nettle in my path. Liam and Yuki's two children ventured out to join me after they finished their breakfast. Kai is eight years old, and the two most prominent words in his vocabulary are "what" and "why?" If you say anything around this child, be prepared to back it up to the seventh degree of "why?"

"I like doing yoga in the morning."

"Why?"

"Because it puts me in a good mood for the rest of the day."

"Why?"

"Because it's very relaxing."

"Why?"

"Because the way you breathe in yoga forces you to focus and kind of forget about everything else for a little while."

"Why?"

"Because... because... because that's just the way it works."

"Why?"

"How are your chickens, Kai?"

I am no match for his relentless onslaught of "what" and "why".

The other child is Mimi; a twenty-one month old, independent, bumbling ball of giggles. At one point during my my corn weeding crawl, I found myself being stung by nettles with every other yank. Kai stood by, making fun of me for getting stung and asking me question after question in brutal, mind boggling succession. Mimi busied herself with pulling up my shirt, blowing raspberries on my lower back, and then trying to clamor on top of me for a "horsey" ride.

I started thinking about what would be so very bad about packing up and heading home.

I spent the afternoon weeding the asparagus.

I spent the next day weeding the carrots.

I spent the next day tying up the raspberries and pruning the tomatoes.

I spent the next day harvesting beets, onions, and beans.

The meals are rough for me. The family lives by macrobiotic principles, so they eat a lot of grains and soy, and virtually no meat or dairy. I'm well on my way to being just as gassy and bloated as I was at yoga camp.

Part two...

I've gotten to know the French couple a good deal better. They're excessively polite, clean, quiet, and have been making a valiant attempt to speak English and include me in some of their activities. We watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless mind together on Friday night, went to visit a few local towns on Saturday (buses are heinously expensive here), watched The Wrestler Saturday night, and spent Sunday afternoon strolling about the Carlow Farmer's Market. We don't speak often, but any passerby would assume we were having a marvelous time, due to all the laughter.

In Kilkullen

In Naas

This farm has a much different feel to it than the Agritourismo in Italy. I feel much more like an employee here. An employee who doesn't get paid. It is very unpleasant.

Ireland is outrageously expensive. I spent eighteen euros for a sixty km bus ride, and twenty five euros for a cheap looking, waterproof coat at a second-hand store.

The roadsigns are useless in this part of the world. The only purpose they can possibly serve is to leave tourists in such a state of exhausted confusion that they're forced to stop at one of the small towns "on the way" to gas up and buy an exorbitantly expensive lunch.

If I ever have to drive in Ireland, I am sure it will be the death of me. And several others, more than likely.

It is only August, and I can already see my breath in the morning. My body is not handling the cold or the food very well. I'm beginning to think that I won't last the winter here.

WWOOFing is not quite what I'd thought it would be. It's not as much of an opportunity to learn about organic farming as is advertised. It's grunt labor, and when the family treats you like an employee, it's grunt labor without much of a cultural experience. When the family treats you like an employee, feeds you meals that you can't digest, and puts you up in an ice-cold mobile home with no heating, you start to wonder what the hell you're doing. When you're knee deep in manure the next day, you have to remind yourself that you're helping.

In order to keep myself in a somewhat cheerful disposition, I've had to change my mindset and expectations a good deal. I am not here to "get" anything -- I am here to help good people do good things. Like grow beets and cabbages. However, I don't feel compelled to be an unpaid employee through an absolutely frigid winter, so I'm starting to reevaluate things. Changing my plans once again.

But I'm okay with that. I've found some places in the world that I absolutely loved and felt as if I could stay for the rest of my life and be happy. Ireland does not appear to be one of those places. And that's okay. I'll get a couple more months of WWOOFing in, and then see where I'm at.

Hawaii looks nice.

A few more pictures of Moyleabbey: