Knockara Stud Farm, Tipperary

I’m writing this post from the “up the stairs and to the left” bedroom of Maria and George’s charming farmhouse. It is extraordinarily well heated, and I find myself walking all the way from my bedroom to the kitchen in a single layer of clothing.  Well, the house kitchen, that is. I’d need to put on an extra couple of layers to make it all the way to Maria’s pate kitchen (Maria has her own pate business, so she has a first rate, inspector approved pate making addendum on the side of the house). My room has a king-sized bed (with a equally massive down comforter), a bookshelf stuffed full of Irish Hunting catalogues and Joseph Conrad (in German and English), horse pictures, horse pillows, and a horseshoe candleholder (which really ties the room together). My thirteen-year-old self is finally having all her wildest fantasies fulfilled.

Sinead dropped me off at the bus stop a little after eleven on Tuesday morning. After discovering that I was waiting on the wrong side of the road (I do that a lot here), I successfully boarded my bus for Tipperary (which was screaming/kicking-child free, I am pleased to announce). It was difficult for me to pack up my belongings into my behemoth bag and leave behind yet another lovely community. Traveling does make meeting people easier, but it doesn’t do a thing to help alleviate the “I’ve met you, you’re wonderful, now I’m leaving,” situation I’ve been encountering far too frequently.  Sinead’s has been the longest I’ve stayed in one place since the seventh of June, and I could’ve happily remained there for another few weeks at least.

I was able to see a few Irish mountains on the bus ride to Maria’s. I’ve lived so far east thus far, that I haven’t been able to see much more than a smattering of Ireland’s knobby hills. Of course, by Colorado standards, the mountains are still somewhat diminutive and knobby; but to someone who’s spent the last four months in absolute flat, the change on the horizon seemed massive. It made me homesick for Colorado.  

Maria drove up just as the bus dropped me off, so for once, timing in Ireland was perfect. After running a few errands in Tipperary Town, we wove our way through the narrow country roads to Knockara Stables. I met George (Maria’s husband), Leon (a fat, rude Labrador), Tubby (an angry, old Beagle), and Abbie (a very talkative American WWOOFer), settled in somewhat, and then helped feed the horses. My god, not even the seventy-odd “Thoroughbred” books I devoured as a thirteen year old prepared me for the stateliness of the hunter horses here. They’re enormous, stunning, and have such good breeding that they could sell for thirty thousand dollars. I was terrified to touch them, let alone ride them. Everything is done so perfectly and professionally here that I feel like an absolute beginner again -- even though I’ve had about seven years of experience with horses. In a lot of ways, these pampered show animals are a completely different species than my fifteen hundred dollar thoroughbred mare, and the way they’re cared for is just as unique. It’s only my second day here, and I’ve already done several silly things. For instance, I was unaware that horses suffer from “I’ve fallen down and I can’t get up” syndrome when in a stall. If they lie down too close to the wall, they can’t push themselves back up onto their feet. So it’s necessary to build a straw “bank” around the walls, so that they keep a good distance and don’t need to be helicoptered out of their stalls every morning. I had no idea what a “bank” was, so George patiently explained the foreign concept --after asking me, “Do you have no experience with horses?”

I’ve also never used braces on my horse’s forelegs, so Maria had to show me how it was done. Once again, felt really stupid.

I wasn’t aware that horses needed outdoor and indoor blankets.

I’ve never mucked out a stall filled with straw before. Shavings and dirt are the best my horses ever saw. It took me forever to muck out the two stalls this morning. Felt worse than useless. I hope to improve my speed by at least two hundred percent by the end of next week.

It was blustery and wet all of Wednesday morning, so instead of riding out, I helped Maria make pates. She has a tantalizing selection she sells at farmer’s markets three days a week, so it takes her a solid day and a half to cook enough to last Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Hence, I chopped carrots, onions, and celery as we waited for the wind to abate.  One o’clock rolled around, and as the dreary weather showed nary a sign of improvement, we decided to toughen up and ride out regardless. We loaded the horses into Maria’s two-horse trailer, and headed off in search of some woods.

The horse I’ll be riding for my month at Knockara is a tall, well-built chestnut mare named “This One” – which leads to a good deal of confusion when referring to horses. Even with all of my yoga training and grunt determination, I had to use a mounting block to get myself into the tiny English saddle atop the massive mare. Other than that initial embarrassment (and the torrential rain), the ride went pretty well, and I felt like I’d be capable enough to perform at least most of the horse jobs Maria needs done for the month that I’m here.

The slaughter house where Maria gets all her fresh poultry livers

Tubby. With all the dignity only a 16 year old hunting beagle can possess.

This is the magical stove that keeps the entire house toasty.

George's famous Austrian goulash. He gave me a Viennese cookbook so that I could make it myself when I leave. 

Part of what I do here...

Maria's pate kitchen

After the ride, we washed down the horses, cleaned out the trailer, and settled down to enjoy a warm, flavourful meal of cabbage and pork. I really am in Ireland now.

I’m enjoying getting to know George. Maria’s been at the market all day today, so I spent the morning cleaning out stalls and raking leaves, and have had the afternoon pretty much off. I was considering biking into Tipperary Town, but the weather has been too precarious to make biking these narrow roads a safe endeavor. So I sat around the cozy kitchen and chatted with George. He’s a terribly funny, very well traveled, Austrian ex-businessman, who’s always had an overwhelming love for dangerous sports. I learned all about his experiences running, skiing, waterskiing, competitive riding, being robbed, surviving war in Austria, running his own businesses, his family, his poor health, and what eventually led him to Ireland. He has a wonderful Austrian accent, and I hope to hear enough of it to be able to add it to my repertoire of accents by the time I leave in December. 

The stables 

One of their many pastures

George lunging Leetie