It’s epic.
The last few days have been quiet, but good. I’ve been here almost a week and am starting to settle into the day-to-day routine of things. Maria still calls me Abbie (the name of the previous WWOOFer) on a surprisingly consistent basis, and feels just awful about it. But I don’t mind. In Italy, Laura and Piero called me Leslie (the previous WWOOFer) for the first couple weeks, too. After I left, Anthony told me that Laura and Piero could not stop calling the very nice German WWOOFer, “Aimee.” So I have the satisfaction of knowing that the next WWOOFer at Knockara will be called “Aimee” for at least as long as I’m being called “Abbie.” My name will remain in circulation long after I’ve left Tipperary.
Finding out where one fits (or doesn’t fit) in a family is always the hardest part about adjusting to a new living situation. Discovering the chair in which George always sits, the chair in which Maria always sits, and the chairs in which Aimee may sit if she so chooses. Discovering that George has a favorite plate (the biggest one with flowers on it), and if given another will disgruntledly demand:
“Maria, vere is my plate? My plate has za flowers on it. Zis is not my plate.”
I pay very close attention to these seemingly minute details. I will not be caught eating my morning sausage and eggs off of za plate vis za flowers.
While preparing for dinner, Maria moved her laptop to the windowsill in order to make room for our plates. George trudged in from the TV room (where we had just finished watching an Australian cooking show together), caught sight of the offending laptop, and complained:
“Maria, vy is zat on my vindow? In zis house I haf only my bed and two vindows. Zat is my vindow!”
“Yes George, I’ll move it shortly.”
“No. No, move it no-ow.”
“Shortly, George.”
And George continued into his bedroom, muttering to himself about all the things that were “mine”.
I enjoy George very much and we get on splendidly thus far – I just can’t take any offense at his brusque mannerisms. He operated his own business for many years, and had upwards of one hundred employees. On my second or third day at Knockara, he told me that being in charge of so many people and so many things has made him very “economical.” Instead of saying,“ Aimee, I think it’s about time to bring in the horses because it’s getting dark. Would you please go and get them?” he’ll say, “You bring in za horses, please.” Coming from another person, my frightful passive aggressive side would rear its ugly head at the audacity of his commands to not parade themselves as requests (as is the universally accepted guise in which commands may conduct themselves). But when George asks me to do something, I really do hop to it – happily, I might add. I’m not surprised that he had so much success in business. He has a certain honest charm about him. We had a nice long conversation the other morning. George ended it with, “All zis philosophizing has made me sleepy. I go rest now.” And as he passed me, he patted me on the head with a closing, “You are a very good girl.”
As a dog, I would have probably jumped up and licked his face. As a very good girl, I smiled politely and said, “Thank-you, George.” Anyone else patting me on the head and saying, “you are a very good girl,” would have made me feel so very patronized. But it somehow feels natural with George.
Maria let me tag along to the market in Cahir on Saturday. It’s a medium sized town (it has a church and a castle) with a lovely walking path along the river and up to some Swiss cottages. I wasn’t able to actually see the Swiss cottages as they were closed for the day (apparently you need to be part of a guided tour to truly appreciate them in all of their Swiss cottaginess), but I hear that they’re lovely.
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| Walking around Cahir Castle |
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| Cahir Castle |
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| Walking to the Swiss Cottages |
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| Walking to the Swiss Cottages |
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| Cahir Castle |
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| Walking to the Swiss Cottages |
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| Walking to the Swiss Cottages |
The most exciting thing in Cahir was its Internet, though. Good god, I sound so jaded. The castle was beautiful and the river was stunning; but it felt nearly miraculous to click on a link and have the page load within two or three seconds. Having such poor Internet connection at Knockara is proving very difficult. I can’t post blogs, can’t communicate with potential hosts, and can’t Skype Alex. I sat in bed and absentmindedly studied Italian after he had run his marathon, feeling like the worst girlfriend in the world for not being able to even Skype him after his massive undertaking.
If you think about it, I suppose I am very close to being the worst girlfriend in the world.
I try not to think about it.
Maria and I rode out after the Saturday market. By the time we’d finished grooming, tacking up, and driving to the woods, it was well on its way to getting dark – but we set out regardless. The horses had never been out so late before, and it was their first time traversing that particular trail. They displayed their displeasure by deciding to look for things to spook at. Everything was scary. The traffic cones were frightening. The barking dog was petrifying. The bicyclist was just waiting for his chance to devour Thoroughbred flesh. The straw bales, the fences, the wind, the other horses, the cows, EVERYTHING caused Leetie and This One to jump out of their shoes. Fortunately, people in Ireland are very sympathetic to the super-sensitive horse. Bicyclists dismount and drag their bikes out of eyesight, keeping them hidden behind the brush until the horses skitter by. Cars pull to the side and turn off their engines. Dog owners hold their dogs and keep them quiet. And let me tell you, after This One had jumped at the thousand and eighth falling leaf and my knees were throbbing from pressing into the saddle so hard, I have never been so appreciative of the biker who kindly dragged his wheels off the road.
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| This One |
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| Leetie and This One |
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| One of the many entrances into the woods |
Maria invited me to attend mass with her on Sunday morning, but I respectfully declined, preferring to stay behind and chat with George. Before he retired from the immense fatigue of holding a conversation with me, he said, “You are a dangerous voman. You haf intelligence.”
After morning mass, Maria and I loaded up the horses and drove a good thirty minutes to a Tipperary hill famous for being a good test of a horse’s endurance and strength. If the steed can canter up the steep hill twice without becoming utterly exhausted, it’s ready to event. Simply walking and trotting up this hill is also a great way to build muscle and stamina. However, we failed to take into consideration two integral factors into consideration when planning the location for this ride.
a) 1) It was Sunday. A lot of people would likely be tramping about the hill on the Lord’s Day.
b) 2) It was sunny. So sunny that I almost forgot I was in Ireland. The whole island was likely to be tramping about in some capacity.
Thus, the ride was miserable. This One was so terrified by the dirt bikes and hikers that she worked up a lather immediately. After a few minutes of trailing foam, she decided that it was terribly unfair for her to be dripping sweat and saliva whilst I remained unapologetically dry. She reconciled this injustice by tossing her head so often that she succeeded in plastering my entire front with her sticky, anxious horse gobs. Going the extra mile (she really shouldn’t have), she pulled a muscle in my right shoulder when she decided it would be safer to throw herself into a ditch than walk pass some parked bicycles.
This One is just too much horse for the likes of me. My own incompetence makes me so nervous that I’ve taken to starting off each ride by reassuring myself, “What’s the worst that can happen? Maria will decide that you’re not quite advanced enough to ride these high-strung beasts, and you’ll pack your things and find another farm. You have excellent parsnip pulling credentials. You won’t be stranded. Okay. Giddy-up, then.”
Then George and Maria started sharing their many horror stories. George’s son-in-law was thrown from a horse and killed a few years ago. Someone riding one of Maria’s horses forgot to tighten his girth, flipped underneath the horse, hit his head on the road, and woke up from his hospital bed sans sense of taste. Maria got kicked in the head while checking a horse’s hoof. A friend recently broke her arm in an equine related accident. So there are a LOT worse things in the foreboding realm of possibilities than being sent packing to another farm. While I really did know this, I had been most successful in ignoring the “What’s the worst that can happen?” “well, I could die” aspect of this placement before Maria and George’s generous sharing.
But Monday’s ride went so well that a smidgeon of my self-confidence was restored. The weather was just as gorgeous as the day before, but all the Sunday hikers were once again shackled to their jobs, so Maria and I pretty much had the run of the mountain to ourselves. The fillies were sensitive, but not overly so. I began to think that I might make it through the month of November without losing my sense of taste.
A few things:
NEVER try to high-five anyone outside of America. If someone holds out their hand, they’re probably just waving. Attempting to high-five will result in a floppy, haphazard handshake and the infamous “stupid American” look.
In America, the middle finger is the f*ck you digit. In Ireland, it’s the index and middle finger together. I learned this from listening to a radio broadcaster ask, “Should we give two fingers to the pope?” I had to turn to Maria and ask, “Two fingers? Is that generally a bad thing?”
“Oh yes, yes, yes. Yes, indeed,” Maria shivered appropriately.
We have hounds and hunting in Grand Junction, Colorado. I would have sworn we were far too redneck for something as British upper-class as fox hunting, but I met a very nice Irish hunter who told me that he’d spent a very enjoyable couple of weeks hunting in my hometown. Huh.
Maria makes heavenly pates and terrines, and I get to eat a goodly amount of the market leftovers. Pork pate, duck liver pate, chicken liver pate, and gourmet salmon pate; I’m in meat-spread heaven. My favorite is the terrine, though. She lines a pan with bacon, puts in a layer of brandy-marinated livers, and tops it off with ground pork and pistachios. I ate nearly 15 euros worth of market reject terrine today. I feel fabulous.
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| Maria's pates |
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