Riding Lessons -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

This One is still out of commission. Maria and I took her on a test ride the other day, and heard the disappointing hack three or four times. So the filly will continue to romp about the pasture while Leetie pushes on with her training.

Up until now, the only thing we’ve done to work the horses has been trail riding and cantering a few rounds at the gallops. But yesterday, George, Maria, Leetie, and I clunked over (the roads are so full of potholes here that every trip with a trailer results in a good deal of clunking) to Patrick’s arena for some free-jumping.  Free jumping basically involved us setting up the arena in such a way that Leetie would have no choice but to jump – but she wouldn’t have the pressure of a rider. After setting up the very low jump, Patrick, George, Maria, and I took our posts around the arena, urging Leetie on (by flapping our arms or something equally silly) whenever she decided she’d had enough.  After getting a few good jumps out of Leetie, George told me to mount the mare and not ask any questions.

And then George gave me the most intense horseback-riding lesson of my life.

“Okay, valk on. I said valk on, don’t fall asleep! Good. Tighten up on your inside rein.  Don’t let it just hang zere, take it! Drife her on, drife her on! No, vis your inside leg! Ach. Okay, now svitch hands. Vat are you doing, I said svitch hands!”

“I’m switching –“

“No, I said do not talk -- only listen. Svitch hands. Keep her going; do not get lazy. Yes, I know zis is hard. Zis is not easy -- zis is vork, hard vork. But I do not feel sorry for you. Do NOT drop za inside rein! Keep her going! Ach. Okay. You vere almost zere.”

I believe I learned more from my half hour riding lesson with George than I learned in five years of lessons put together.  George has trained both of his daughters to compete at an international level, has had one of his horses in the Olympics, and was a national rider himself. George is a very good trainer.

I was very disappointed when I finally realized that Ireland has no Thanksgiving. I spent the morning mucking out stables (as usual), and actually ended up underneath a wheelbarrow full of manure at one point. Definitely not the highlight of my day. Dinner was a quiet affair, and probably the first Thanksgiving that hasn’t sent me into a food induced stupor immediately following the meal. Maria and I enjoyed some Indian spiced vegetables and white cod while watching Master Chef.

I missed my family.

This One

This One and Leetie

Tubby!

This One

Stories of George -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

George tells the best stories. The stories he told this morning had me doubled over with laughter for a good ten minutes. We started talking about car accidents, and George said,

“Ach, I haf two stories for you. Za first vas ven I vas in a taxi and za taxi driver hit a voman who vas turning in front of him. I vas sitting in za back of za car – not behind za driver, but in za ozer back seat. Za seat in front of me must haf gone forvard in za crash, and I flew out of my seat and straight srough za front vindow. I suddenly found myself sitting down on za road in front of two burning cars. I vas bleeding on za head, but I felt okay. I didn’t know vy I vas zere, but I felt okay. I lit a cigarette and began to smoke. Someone rushed toward me and said, “Are you hurt?” I said, “I am fine.” Then someone shouted, “Are you an idiot? Stop smoking, zere is petrol everywhere.” I said, “I vant to smoke and I am fine.” Zey took me to za hospital anyvay, and told me zat I had a severe concussion. I said, “I am fine, and I vant to leaf now.” So I left. On za one hour airplane ride back to Vienna, I vas sitting vis a friend whose birsday it vas. In zat one hour, we drank eight bottles of vhiskey, celebrating his birsday and my new birs. Ven za plane arrived in Vienna, I vas so drunk zat it did not occur to me zat I should not drive my car. I remember zat it vas very hard to see za vhite line in za middle of za road. Anyvay, I lived next to za German ambassador, and he had guards patrolling za grounds efery day. In shifts, you know. Six hours or eight. I knew zese guards very vell because I vould alvays say hello to zem ven zey began zeir shifts, and zey vould alvays say, “Hello, George, how are you?”

Ven I pulled up into my drifevay, I opened za car door and immediately fell on za ground. One of za guards rushed ofer and said, “George, are you okay?” I vas on za ground vis bandages on my head from za concussion and bandages on my hands. I said, “I am drunk,” and I began to sing (George demonstrated singing in German here). He said, “ssshhh, be quiet and go to bed.” But I kept singing. I vent into za back and sat on za bin and continued to sing. Finally my vife and za guard got me into bed. Za next day I vas almost dead and I had to spend ten days in za hospital.”

“Za second story is ven I vas drifing home from a business trip. I had drifen all ofer Austria already zat day, and vas very tired. Za road vent down za mountain in… vat do you call it… do you know “serpentine?” Ahyah, so, I vas drifing down a serpentine and I fell asleep going 100 miles per hour. My car hit a rock on za side of za road, and it propelled my car into za air. I saw a house I vas flying ofer (I vas avake zen), and my car flew srough za air 100 feet to za ozer side of za serpentine, hitting za trees on za vay down. All za time I vas thinking, “Zis vill do some damage to my car…” Finally my car hit za ground. It vas on fire, so I got out and valked avay. It had not exploded – it vas only on fire – but I sought it vould explode soon. So I vas standing at a distance, smoking a cigarette again and bleeding from za head (I am alvays bleeding from za head), ven someone stopped zeir car and shouted, “Are you okay?”

I said, “Vell, I cannot drife, but my car is not exactly drifeable anyvay.”

Just zen my car exploded.

I am a very lucky man. It vas za rock zat propelled me into za air and za trees zat slowed my fall zat safed my life. But I should be dead. Many times, I should be dead.

I haven’t laughed so hard in months. George seemed amused at my amusement.

“Vell, at least I haf made you laugh.”

“Yes, Geroge,” I tried to pull myself together, “you have made me laugh.”

George has a very good sense of humor about most things. When Maria and I came home from the Saturday market last week, we found George sitting in the study with a massive bruise on his right foot and cuts all over his hands.

“Goodness, what happened, George?”

“I vent to feed za horses zis morning, and Rocky stood on my foot and pushed me over. (Laughing) I vent flying into za mud and lost my spectacles. I had to crawl on my hands and knees srough za muck until I found zem. I did not vant za horses to step on zem, too. I vas so angry zat I srew za bucket at Rocky, but I missed him because I vas not vearing my spectacles. I said, “Rocky, you stepped on my foot!” He looked at me and said, “I do not care.” Zen I found my spectacles. But (Laughter) you should haf seen me crawling srough za mud on my hands and knees. (laughter) Vill someone please brush za mud off my jacket?”

George’s business in Austria was one of the first to implement computer technology. For many years, George was glued to his desk and his computer screen. Since retiring to Ireland to breed racehorses, George has sworn off computers; until my arrival, that is. After witnessing the power of Google to look up various recipes for dinner, he has taken a keen interest to looking up his long-lost Hungarian relatives (on his mother’s side). I’ve Googled his father, his grandmother, and a distant cousin of his. I’ve even Googled George, and witnessed his disappointment when nothing really showed up. The only thing that saves George from becoming a complete Internet addict is that the Internet at Knockara is so very slow, and George has very little patience for such things.

George has very strong opinions and preferences which he manages to forget about on a consistent basis. I approve of this forgetfulness, as it keeps one from getting too close-minded and set in one's ways. We were talking about Poland the other day (there are a lot of Polish people moving to Ireland for work, despite the floundering economy), and George said emphatically, "You know vat I lof za most about za Polish? Zey haf za most beautiful vomen in za vorld. Beautiful people."

The next day we were talking about India and how it was high on my list of places to visit. George said emphatically, "You know vat I lof za most about za Indians? Zey haf za most beautiful vomen in za vorld. Beautiful people."

Plans -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

Every day of my stay at Knockara with George, Maria, Tubby, and Leon feels like a once in a lifetime experience. The food is extraordinary, healthy, and authentic; the horses (although quite the handful) are athletic, intelligent, and exquisite; the scenery through which I ride consistently takes my breath away – in the “pinch myself to make sure I’m awake” sort of way. I spend a lot of time planning where to stay and what to do for the next few months, but when I’m not browsing couchsurfing, workaway, or helpex, I’m more present than I’ve ever been. I’m constantly learning new and wonderful things from George, am gaining confidence in my skills as a rider, and am learning how to coexist happily and comfortably with strangers better than I ever have. I love finding places to fit in strangers’ lives. The other morning I was sitting in the kitchen with my coffee and journal, and George walked in on his way out to feed the horses.

“Ah, you haf anozer role in our domestic game. You are rider, chef, and alarm clock. Your noise in za kitchen alvays vakes me up at just za right time.”

I am very happy to have these roles in George and Maria’s domestic game. However, it’s well into November and my time at Knockara is drawing to an end. As mentioned, I’ve been spending a good deal of time figuring out what the winter months will look like for me. I’ve decided that I’ve had enough WWOOFing for a while. I need a break from the “constantly at your disposal” feeling I get when volunteering for someone with whom I’m living. So I’m going to spend three weeks exploring Ireland by myself and then fly to Copenhagen to spend three weeks with my boyfriend’s family. It will be wonderful to spend Christmas in Denmark with Nina and Freddy (although I desperately wish Alex and Svetlana could be there as well).

Tentative plan for the winter months:

December 1^st – 7^th: A friend from yoga training (Roisin) has graciously agreed to host me in her hometown of Cork, Ireland. I’ve been dying to get down to Cork for the last few months, and am thrilled to finally have the opportunity to do so.  Cork has the reputation of being the culinary center of Ireland, as well as having a fabulous music and film scene. I also anticipate bountiful Internet.

December 7^th -10^th: Through couchsurfing, I’ve asked a girl from Galway (a film student named Sarah) to put me up for a few nights. She has given me a “most likely yes” answer, so I’m going to assume I have a place to stay. Galway is well known for its theatre, so I’m really excited to see what kind of plays are produced there. I’ve got a few finished scripts collecting metaphorical dust in the hard drive of my MacBook Pro, and I’m looking for theatre companies accepting original works. Who knows? Maybe my first professionally produced plays could be in Ireland.

December 10^th -13^th: Continuing my stay in Galway with Matthew, another fellow I met via couchsurfing.  I asked Matthew to host me for the weekend because six days seems to be a bit much to ask of any one couchsurfer. I also love the fact that couchsurfing allows me to meet so many unique, generous, welcoming people, and I’m going to exploit that wondrous aspect as thoroughly as possible.

December 13^th – 16^th: Hopefully couchsurf in Dingle

December 16^th – 18^th – Hopefully couchsurf in Limerick

December 18^th -20^th: couchsurf in Dublin with Lochlann, who has agreed to host me yet again.

December 20^th – January 5^th – Stay with Alex’s family in Copenhagen. Perhaps I can meet up with Mette (a Danish girl from yoga school) and she can show me the oven she’s designed.

January 5^th – ? Volunteer in France through a program called Workaway.

So, this is where I’m currently at in my vagabonding, volunteering adventure. Key word is “currently”. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past five and a half months, it’s that plans change from day to day, and to never get too attached to any one opportunity. However, I am thoroughly convinced that there are many golden opportunities to be had, and that I will be fortunate enough to happen upon more than my fair share of them.

Working Leetie -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

Cantering Leetie wasn’t nearly as disagreeable as I’d anticipated -- fairly enjoyable, in fact. Having received confirmation from Maria of the mare’s biting and kicking habits (she’d been bitten the day before), George decided it would be best to hold Leetie’s head for me while I tacked up. Leetie does not bite George – just Maria and myself. George says that this is because, “You both haf exciting backsides. I do not haf an exciting backside.”

Thus, with the help of George and his not-so-exciting backside, I was able to groom and saddle the mare with nary a nip. She squealed and pawed during the trailer ride to the track, but was almost lethargic when we actually got there.

I don’t mind a lethargic horse, now and then.

I was nervous riding out onto the track because it was my first experience working with Leetie and it was George’s first time seeing me in the saddle. Now, George is a very considerate man, but George is brutally honest when expressing his opinion. George is also an expert on all things horse related and is passionate about having the absolute best for his beloved mares. Possessing relatively little experience with horses from very novice instructors, I was more than a mite apprehensive as to what George would say regarding my riding abilities. I mostly expected to hear something like, “You call zat riding? Zis is how you haf been vorking my mares? You vill ruin zem.” But after trotting two rounds, cantering five, and walking one, George seemed happy enough to call it quits for the day. When we hopped into his sputtering old Saab (just out of the repair shop), he turned to me and said, “You haf a natural vay of riding. Just give za mare more rein and lean in on za turns so zat za she does not change leads.”

A natural way of riding. That compliment gave me butterflies in my stomach, swear to god.

We were planning on cantering Leetie Thursday and Friday morning while Maria was off selling her pates and terrines at markets, but we were forced to settle for lunging her instead. Shortly after George introduced me to his newly refurbished old friend the Saab, it hiccupped and died, having decided that it liked its new engine about as much as it liked its last.

Which wasn’t very much.

It was really quite sad. They’d been waiting for ages to get the car back from the shop. It’s Ireland and mechanics take forever. It’s a rule, I believe. Mechanics, plumbers, and electricians are not allowed to be timely in this country. It must be a part of preserving their cultural heritage, or something along those lines -- like the way there’s Irish above the English on all official signage. George was just so happy to get his car back. He patted it on the dashboard lovingly and said, “I haf zis car sirteen years. It is like an old friend.” When the engine died again, George merely heaved a sigh and said, “Zat is a disappointment.” 

A few pictures from the market at Cahir (where I post all the blogs from The Lazy Bean Cafe):

You know you're a tourist if you take pictures of swans in Europe

Self-Portrait of George -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

Maria has a cough. She has laryngitis and the flu. She snores and hacks the whole night through, so that when I ask George how he slept he replies, “Ach, Maria keeps me up za whole night vis her coughing and snoring. She ran out of gas early zis morning, so I slept only a little zen.” The stalwart, staggeringly busy woman manages to get everything done regardless of her ill health, but has a terrible time making herself understood at markets and has an even worse time at her play practices (she lip-synced everything on Monday). She’s curing herself with honey and blackcurrant jam. While I have my reservations about the medicinal properties of honey and jam, I’m sure they taste marvelous.

This One has a cough. She huffs and wheezes and snorts for the first forty-five minutes of every ride; but like George, This One does not complain. If asked to pick up the pace, she’ll perk up, work through the cough, and do everything she can to keep less than a length behind Leetie. Not only does she not complain, she thoroughly enjoys every second spent in a nippy canter. I love how much she loves to run. This One is powerfully built, has boundless stamina, and has the time of her life whenever I move into two-point position and cue a canter. But the cough is bad enough that George has decided to let her rest and recoup for a few days.  I’m dismayed by this turn of events because This One and I were finally starting to develop a mutual trust that made riding out brilliant fun. Alas, until the wheezing stops, I’ll have to ride Leetie. Whom I do not trust at all.

Leetie is a brat. A big, pushy, expensive, beautiful, well-bred brat who still aims her rear end at me when I go to take off her blanket, and nips me in the ass when I tighten her girth. I am not thrilled at the prospect of riding out Leetie alone.  George is aware of my preference for This One and he agrees with me that This One is a bit more honest than Leetie. Whenever we turn the horses out to pasture, he says, “You take your darling, and I take za bitch.”

The ride on Sunday was lovely and just the right length. The ride on Monday was far too long (we went and got ourselves good and lost in the woods), and my knees and inner groin muscles are still griping from the excessive use. The ride today was far too short, as we had to stop early due to sad, coughing horses. After the ride, I cleaned the stables as quickly as I could, and then hopped in the car with Maria to follow along in another hunt. We arrived early enough to see all the riders coming together and the hounds released from their box.

Releasing the hounds

Maria and I followed the Field in her jeep just like before, hopping out and running behind when the Field left the road. Once again, I was quite impressed with Maria’s stamina when it comes to racing through fields of soggy grass and mud. You can really tell just how much she enjoys the event. In George’s words, “She is mad about it.”

The fox managed to outwit the hounds and hunters yet again, leading them all on a merry chase through the mud. I don’t think the Field has managed to actually catch a fox yet – and there have been four or five Meets already.  Fox hunting doesn’t really seem to be about killing the fox, though – thank goodness. It’s much more about the chase and the obstacle course that the fox cleverly designs.

I mentioned in a post a good while back that I was getting tired of the kitchen. I considered telling Maria that I was absolute crap so that she wouldn’t even let me touch a pan during the length of my stay here. That already timid resolve lasted until we got to the butcher’s shop on the way back from picking me up from the bus stop in Tipperary. Seeing all that lovely meat she was loading her bag with, I immediately, uncontrollably spurted, “I adore cooking, so if you ever need any help with anything in the kitchen, just let me know.”

And she did.

I’ve been able to cook the most scrumptious, meaty dishes during my stay here. I’ve made a lovely lamb casserole, lamb shanks with a mint/mascarpone sauce, a pork belly ragout, several zucchini boats, crispy chicken, stuffed peppers, jerusalem artichoke soup, frittatas, and many more random side dishes. It’s a curse. I see a kitchen and I feel an instantaneous longing to put something into the oven. A longing that will not diminish until the whole house smells like garlic and onions and there’s not a spare dollop more of crème fraiche to be found.

George and I talk a lot. I’m learning more from George than I’ve ever learned from one human being in such a short span of time. We seem to be establishing our own little routine on Maria’s market mornings -- which involves George waking up from his nap as soon as I finish cleaning the stables, checking his blood sugar, and telling me stories from his very full life. He’s a extraordinary storyteller, weaving in and out of his complicated past in the honest, simple, straightforward manner of a man who truly knows himself and is still happy with who he is in spite of this knowledge. I hear about his experience growing up in Austria during the Second World War – how despite America’s many shortcomings, he will always be grateful to them because they saved his family from starvation with their care packages. He says that he still remembers the taste of the pineapple rice in his care package. It was the first rice George had ever eaten, and he relishes the taste of rice to this day.

In the middle of one conversation, George pulled a piece of paper from his windowsill and began to doodle. He continued to talk about his life as he doodled, and I learned about his experience as a skiing instructor and a scuba diver.

At which point he turned the doodle toward me and said,

“Did I not tell you zat I also studied art in Vienna for sree years? Zen I discovered zat I had no talent. Zis is a self-portrait. Zis is George.”

Zere is a Mouse in Zis House -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

Zere is a mouse in zis house.

Several mice, in fact. The nearest and most relevant to me is momentarily just to the right of my bed.  While I’m certainly not afraid of mice, I’m not particularly fond of them, either. I keep reminiscing to my childhood Little House on the Prairie breakfast readings, wherein I was appalled to learn that a resourceful field mouse had stolen all the hair off the top of Pa’s head to use in her nest. If I remember correctly, Pa had to wear a hat for several weeks before his hair grew back properly. As an impressionable lass of ten, I was scarred so deeply that I took to conducting a thorough search of my room every night, emptying out all my shoes and barricading any potential mouse hole with my Breyer horse plastic hay bales. So while I am hankering for a haircut, I’m still holding out for a better barber than the bold rodent beside my bed.  

Anyone? Anyone? Will someone please cut off this mass of tousled hair? If not for my sake, for yours. You people out there actually have to look at it. I only have to wear it.

Damn, there goes the mouse again. I told Maria that she might consider a cat, but she told me that a cat was quite impossible. Tubby would kill it immediately. He’s quite the killer, apparently. Maria tells me that the ancient terrier is a amateur mouser, himself. Unfortunately, dear old Tubby prefers the outdoor, gamier variety of field mouse; his refined sensibilities won’t let him dine upon the rascals already cozied up inside. However, he carries more than his fair share of live mice into the house, whereupon they join their brethren at my bedside.   

I’m sure Tubby has the best intentions.

I hear Tubby’s mice in the morning when the house is quiet and I’m drinking my coffee. They scamper along the floorboards and scurry through the cabinets. Maria has been setting traps for them, but they’re skillful enough to take the bait and leave the trap intact. The last two mornings have seen Maria puttering into the kitchen in her robe and slippers, gingerly picking up the still set trap and tsking, “And I set it so well, yes I did. So well indeed. I shall have to set it again tomorrow.”

George doesn’t wake up early enough to hear the mice, but he does hear the ghost. We were finishing up an episode of Master Chef the other night, when the floorboards above my head starting creaking rather low and painfully. George perked up.

“You hear zat?”

“The floorboards, George?”

“Yes, za floorboards. Zat is our ghost. He sometimes says to me, “Hello George, how are you doing?” And I say, “Ach, okay.” “

Leon and I have arrived at some sort of understanding. He does not follow me into the stables to eat manure anymore. I have threatened him with my pitchfork and dragged out his whining ass by the scruff of the neck too many times for him to want to sacrifice his well being for a few steaming horse turds. He knows I won’t threaten him in Maria’s presence, though. When she’s there, he greedily gobbles down as many as he can, then hightails it to the house – gloating at me from the front porch.

He no longer nearly knocks me over when I open a door and he insists on getting through first. I push his head out of the way with my knee, open the door, and generously gesture to the confused lab, “Would you like to go out, Leon?” To which he generally ponders the strange new order of things, and then trundles on through.

 He has also realized that my crotch is not for sniffing and that I do not appreciate it when he eats all of the horses’ oats before I can get the buckets to their stalls.

The one thing that cannot be helped is Leon’s god-awful gas. He’ll whine and scratch at the kitchen door until I let him in, and then he’ll lie at my feet and promptly start to fart. The combination of leftover gourmet duck liver pates and horseshit leaves something to be desired in the digestive system of this husky lab. When the stench becomes unbearable, I escape into the study. After a few minutes, Leon wakes up, realizes he’s been abandoned, and begins to whine and scratch on the study door. I’d have no qualms with just letting him whine and scratch, but I know that George would be upset. So I let in Leon.

He lies at my feet and begins to fart again.

When it’s just me, he doesn’t seem very concerned with maintaining any sort of image. I’ve seen him eat horse poo; his image is forever ruined in my book, and he knows it. But when George joins me in the kitchen, Leon feels proper shame for his extreme flatulence. This shame manifests itself in Leon standing up and moving even closer to me whenever he has to fart, that I might look like the guilty party in the presence of the mutually respected George. 

I was enjoying a solid two minutes of reliable internet the other day, when George abruptly burst into the kitchen.

“Aimee,” George urged, “I must show you somesing.”

“Okay,” obliged Aimee, sadly closing Maria’s laptop and curiously following George into the study.

“Haf you heard of Venetian glass?” George gestured to a large, beautifully crafted glass lamp in the corner. “It is vorld famous. It is manufactured some miles sous of Venice. Anyvay, ven I ended my first marriage, I left my vife everysing – my sirty million dollar house, my  cars, everysing. Za only sing I took vas zis lamp. Because I liked it.”

A few difficult things volunteering with the people you’re living with:

You’re always on edge and wondering if there’s something you ought to be doing. If George says to me, “Vere is za boss, Aimee?” he does not mean, “Vere is Maria?” He means, “Vere is Maria and vy are you not helping her?”

People get into routines -- especially elderly people. Temporary live-in helpers disrupt routines. George has traveled the globe, survived World War II by eating bark soup, and has had near death experiences in just about every dangerous sport made by man.

But George is seventy-five, and George has settled down. He likes his routine. I was charging Maria’s laptop the other day, and the single cord crossed the table to the right of George’s chair.

“Vy are zere cables everyvere? I do not like zis.”

I immediately moved the cable.

I tracked straw into the mudroom.

 “Vat is dis?”

“Straw, George. I’ve been cleaning out the stables.”

“Ve alvays vash our boots so ve do not bring in za straw. Okay?”

“Okay, George.”

I ate a lonely piece of salami in the back of the fridge.

“Vere is za salami? Did you eat za salami?”

I dropped a piece of broccoli on the floor while cooking dinner.

“Vat is zat?”

“Broccoli, George.”

“Oh.”

I’ve started walking on eggshells around George. I do everything I can to NOT disrupt his routine.

George recently found out that as an Austrian citizen of over seventy, he is entitled to certain things. Things like free TV, electricity, and telephone services. He sent in his free-stuff application a few months ago, but never heard back. He called the company yesterday, wanting to know “Vere are za sings I am entitled?” and was told that his benefits had been sent to a house in which he’d lived five years prior. The envelope had been returned to sender, with a note that said the previous owner had been dead five years.

“I am not dead,” grumbled George, “and I vant my sings.”

But even though George is very much alive, he keeps on telling Maria to just put him down. He’s even arranged everything with the fellow who’s going to dig his hole.

“It vill cost one hundred and fifty. Usually, it is one hundred. Zis man charges me extra because I am so big.”

George started watching a series called, “Band of Brothers.” I told him that I’d enjoyed watching that series earlier this year with my boyfriend. I told him that my favorite character was Winters.

“Vich one is Vinters?”

“uhh… the fellow with the reddish hair.”

“Oh. “

“You know?”

“No. I haf red/green blindness. You can add zat to my list of character defects.”

“…oh”

Patrick's Cashel -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

We took the horses out to the gallops on Wednesday morning. I was a little nervous about how This One would react to all the stimuli associated with someone else's exercise track, but to my great relief, she was quite calm. The ride was quick, easy, and fun. This One threw a momentary fit when separated from Leetie, but the fellow who works the gallops came out and lent me a hand with the rambunctious, anxious filly.

The few other things that I do here other than work with horses involves cooking vegetable dishes for dinner every evening and helping George cope with his various ailments. After dinner I peel two oranges for him. As he is diabetic, he is very careful to keep enough sugar in his system, and as he has arthritis, peeling his own oranges can be a bit challenging. 

“But I do not complain,” says George. “I do not let my body get za better of me.”

“Well, did you sleep okay last night?” asks Aimee.

“Ach, my apnea vould not let me sleep. I haf to alvays vake up and concentrate on za breath. But I do not complain.”

Maria has been kind enough to allow me to tag along to her Christmas play rehearsals; about thirty people meeting twice a week to put on a tiny production of Good King Cole.  They immediately dragged me up on stage and made me sing the chorus songs with the rest of Emly’s choir. I have an absolute ball watching these thespians work, as all the cross-gender roles balance out the cliché songs from “Annie” perfectly.

I’ve discovered that Leon grew up in France, hence only converses in French.  It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize why George and Maria were always saying, “CUSHE, Leon! Cushe!” (I have absolutely no idea how that's spelled...)

No wonder Leon and I don’t communicate so well.

Thursday morning was market day for Maria, so she packed up and headed out around six o’clock. I fed the dogs (George feeds the horses, but never the dogs. He loves the dogs, but will not feed them), cleaned the stables, and sat down to wait for Patrick. Maria had organized for me to help Patrick load some horses in northern Tipperary, so that I’d have the opportunity to see more of the county.

More of the country looked very much like the rest of the county, though. It is all green. It is all rolling. It is all sopping wet. The towns all have churches and pubs. Some have castles. There are many, many cows. The thing that sets Tipperary a bit apart from other counties is its vast amount of high quality horses; the indoor/outdoor blanket sort of horses.

By the way, I’ve also discovered that not only do horses have indoor and outdoor regular blankets, they have indoor and outdoor sweat blankets. Christ, my horses were so abused. Dear old Mariah had only one blanket, and a shoddy one at that.

But Patrick was quite the character, and I relished the opportunity to spend the day with him. He’s a dressage trainer, and TEFL teacher, a amateur linguist, and a history fanatic. He was able to fill me in on the history of various towns, their patron saints, and the Gaelic pronunciation and meaning of the town names. He took me to the rock of Cashel on the way back, and I experienced some awe inspired jaw-droppage at the sight of this truly superb castle. He was also a brilliant conversationalist – I’ve never experienced such effective rabbit trailing as I did that afternoon with Patrick. He could go off for ten minutes on what I thought was an entirely unrelated subject, and then masterfully tie it back into the previous subject just before it had been so long abandoned that I'd forgotten how it could relate. I suppose that's what happens when you're paid to talk for six hours every day. 

Patrick's place

An ancient abbey. There's a sign at the entrance that says females will drop dead as soon as they set foot on the grounds. 

God, I love the trees here. 

Patrick

Rock of Cashel

Cashel

Cashel

View from Cashel. Several wealthy families in Tipperary still have the right to be buried at this site. 

Cashel

A few helpful websites for vagabonders:

couchsurfing.org -- a great way to meet people, get to know the area, and travel cheaply.
the various WWOOFing websites. These are obviously great for finding organic farms to volunteer at. Just be aware that you'll be in very rural locations -- which can get fairly isolating after a few months.
workaway.info -- the agreement is pretty much the same as WWOOFing, but there are more urban opportunities. Volunteering in hostels or in homes as opposed to farms.
helpex.net -- very similar to workaway. Urban and rural volunteer positions all over the world. Food and accommodation for about 25 hours of work a week.
neweuropetours.eu -- a great resource for free walking tours in various cities throughout Europe. I've been on three, and enjoyed all of them immensely. 

The Meet (Mary Poppins versus Tipp Town) -- Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

Today marks five months of traveling. I haven’t moved around as much as most people would in nearly half a year, but I’ve certainly experienced a lot.  Attempting to travel the world on a budget of ten euros a week seems to thrust me into interesting circumstances with abundantly generous people. The only thing I’m pining for (other than my family and friends back home) is a good pair of boots. I’ve taken up the terribly impractical habit of lingering lustfully outside shoe shops, doing all sorts of creative arithmetic in my head, attempting to finagle my budget enough to afford a sixty euro pair of warm leather boots. I practically drool at the sight of the ones with a bit of wool seductively sticking out of the top. I’m also in need of new contacts, glasses repair, and god, I need a haircut. But I seem to be getting by (I’m not blind, still have all my toes, no one’s lopped off my offensive head, etc.), so I’ll keep on getting by until I simply can’t.

Maria and I rode out early this morning in order to have the horses watered down and turned out before the first hunting meet of the season commenced at eleven. The ride itself went well – it’s actually the tacking up and holding the horses quiet part that’s proving problematic and painful. I’ve never been exposed to such violent pushers before. My hand still throbs from when This One and Leetie pulverized it between their heads a few days ago. My left ear aches from when This One tossed her head and sent me flying into the side of the trailer. Maria doesn’t tie the horses when she grooms and saddles them, so they take advantage of their liberty and move around freely – all over my feet. It took me ten minutes to saddle Leetie the other day because she kept slipping sideways and targeting me with her hindquarters whenever I went to tighten the girth.

The meet wasn’t exactly what I thought it would be. The only image in my mind of fox hunting is from Mary Poppins. You know, with the dignified, fat gentlemen on the dignified, fat horses; both supported by spindly little legs nearly buckling under the weight of all that fat dignity? 

Maria asked me to clean my wellingtons before we left, so part of me assumed that we’d be surveying the hunt from a sheltered balcony. Fans would be waved, kerchiefs would be tossed; hell, hors o dourves might even be served.  Why else would I need to clean my wellies in Ireland?

Alas, there were no hors o dourves to be had. We arrived just a little late, and the Field (special word for the main group of horses) had already moved up the hill, caught scent of a fox (there’s a special word for that, too), and was already in hot pursuit. Maria and I hopped back into her jeep and tailed closely behind the spritely Field, exuberant trumpet calls beckoning us on.

Following the Field

As soon as the Field trotted off the road and into the woods, Maria and I deserted the jeep and trotted right behind them – along with quite a few other spectators.

Everyone gets involved in the hunt

And my sparkling wellies were no longer clean.

The Field in the woods

The hounds. NEVER called dogs. 

Maria surprised me with her level of physical fitness. She sprinted through the 6 inches of mud with ease, leaving me panting behind her. She told me later that once the hunt is on, the adrenaline takes over. She really gets into these things. Although I can’t see myself personally ever becoming bitten by the hunting bug, I suppose I can understand why other people enjoy the sport. The noise element in and of itself is great fun – the horns sounding, the hounds barking, the horses galloping, and the hunters urging on their hounds. A few horsemen starting talking on their cellphones as they waited for a particular trumpet call, which somewhat ruined the ambiance, but all in all, it was a very stimulating auditory event. The best part for me was that the fox got away. That lone, clever creature managed to evade at least thirty horsemen and at least that many hounds. If the fox is unfortunate enough to be treed, it’s killed immediately. I was very glad I didn’t have to witness this aspect of hunting. However, the fox will have to keep keen, as there will be nearly two meets a week until the season ends in March, and the hounds and hunters will have many more chances to track him down before the season is through.

Happy hound

Maria keeping an eye out for the fox

Defeated hounds

End of the hunt

George cooked dinner tonight. I love it when George cooks dinner because he always has to do everything absolutely perfectly, is always somewhat disappointed in himself (even though the food is fabulous), and always has a very interesting story to tell regarding the meal he’s prepared. When we came home from the hunt, Maria moved his dish into the bottom oven while he was watching one of his TV shows in order to cook it just a tad more and keep it warm for dinner. George wandered into the kitchen a few minutes later and frantically demanded,

“Maria, vere is my dish? Vat haf you done vis it?

“It’s in the warmer, George. I thought it might cook a bit more. Still seemed a little tough to me. A little tough, yes, yes, mmmmhh.”

“Zat is impossible. It is perfect. It cannot be improved. Next time you ask my permission before you fudge vis my cooking.”

“It seems a little tough to me, George.”

And George’s dish remained in the warmer. We enjoyed the flavourful pork curry a couple of hours later.

It was a little tough.

I adore George. If I could somehow adopt him as a grandfather or great-uncle of sorts, I would do so in a heartbeat. All of his “ask my permission” nonsense is just play, and he’s one of the most sensitive, genuine, intelligent people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.