Of Beaches and Bars -- Cork, Ireland

It's breezy. A rose sways back and forth outside the window, the occasional sharp burst of wind nearly knocking it to the ground. The outer petals are blushing pink, but the veins slowly melt into a pastel yellow that transforms into a glowing orange near the center. The dark green leaves with their light green underbellies flutter wildly as the wind picks up. The pink against the grey is beautiful, but the glowing yellow appears awkward and out of place. As if someone had painted a brilliant sun on a canvas of clouds.

I believe life got in the way of my writing as of late, and I've gone and fallen a good deal behind on my posts. This is frustrating because as a writer, I would hope to prioritize this blog and my every now and then mammoth attempt at playwriting... but Ireland has seen an unprecedented amount of sunny days this last week, and the novelty of sunbathing in Ireland was far more attractive than contemplating color and editing photos at my laptop. That said, I've spent the majority of this week relaxing on beaches, walking adorable and hilarious dogs, and dancing away the nights (and mornings) at various pubs throughout Cork. I've cooked the odd meal for the family and helped out with yard work here and there, but nearly every bit of this experience feels like indulgent, exciting, leisurely vacation. Roisin has been tremendously generous and I'm getting to experience Ireland in entirely new ways -- running into ice-cold water, dancing until four o'clock in the morning, and visiting beaches like these:
 

After the crubeens disaster, Doroteja invited Roisin and me for breakfast -- so she could show us how crackling is supposed to taste. Her mother sends her cracklings from Slovenia and Doroteja pulls it out of the freezer to fry on special occasions. I was so happy that those nasty, smelly pig feet opened the door to this magnificent Slovenian meal of eggs and crackling.

I cooked up a butternut squash and beef tagine for dinner the other night. Daisy approved. She is more efficient at cleaning burnt onions off of pots than any sponge I've ever used.

This picture pretty much sums up my week. Bunny was amusing and annoying in that she would dig all her holes right next to her two human companions, covering us with a thick layer of sand as she searched for buried rocks.

Taking Daisy on a 5 minute walk is equivalent to at least thirty chaturangas

We watched a band called  The Frets last night, and had such a marvelous time that we stayed and danced for their whole show. They even got Roisin, Orin and me to sing with them.

"Just a bit of craic," the tall fellow said as he handed me a tambourine. One of my many personal goals for this trip is to never so no when someone asks me to sing (singing is a huge source of insecurity for me), so I smiled and took the stage. Next to Roisin with her maraca and Orin with her blown up saxophone. We were a pretty classy bunch.

I've been mistaken for a Spaniard on more than one occasion, thanks to my dark skin and wooden earrings. I was under the impression that wooden earrings marked me as a hippie -- not as someone who might be able to speak Spanish at a pub.

I may not be able to drink Guinness, but I can certainly (and happily) drink Baby Guinness. This drink is a bit  deceptive in that it contains no Guinness at all, but is rather a mixture of Irish Cream and coffee liqueur. Had I been thinking properly at the time (three guesses to why I wasn't thinking properly at the time...), I would have taken a picture of it before it was nearly gone, as the look of the drink is how it gets its name. The cream is poured over the back of a spoon so it sits atop the liqueur and looks like a stout.

An Irish song by The Frets: FRETS

Preconceptions:

I haven't encountered any real hatred toward England. Although when I suggested that Bunny's human voice might be a bit cockney, Roisin had a very negative reaction.

Challenges:

None this week. I'm keeping my eyes peeled for my flora and fauna, but haven't had a bit of luck.

I do have a good video, though. I call it, "Why I would NEVER bike in Ireland."

Speechless -- The Burren, Ireland

Purples. Purples and whites and yellows and vibrant pinks dot the grassy places between the grey rocks. I believe the scenery here is bright enough to compete with the standard Irish door, which is unusual and surprising. 

Those of you who know me are probably well aware of the fact that I'm a lightweight and that a glass of wine with dinner is enough to make me feel warm and wobbly. It is seldom that I go out to bars (I can count the amount of times I sat down for drinks in Grand Junction last year on one hand) and staying up past 1:00 a.m. is a rare occurrence.  

Ireland is changing all that. Perhaps it's because I'm at sea-level that my tolerance has increased. Perhaps it's because the pub ambiance is fun here that I don't mind staying up dancing and listening to stellar music until three o'clock in the morning. 

Perhaps it's because everyone here does it and when I travel, I try to experience the things that everyone does. 

That said, Sunday morning was later and groggier than Saturday morning. We opened the side door to Roisin's van at 11:30 and blinked our sticky eyes as the sunshine spilled in. 

God, I can't believe I stayed in bed until 11:30. Don't think I've ever done that before... I shamefully walked to the campsite bathroom (a magnificent structure called "The Great Relieve") to wash my face and brush my teeth. When in Rome. 

"Want to drive back through Clare?" Roisin suggested as we left the resort town of Westport behind us. 

"Really? That would be gran-- phenomenal, fantastic, excellent!" I corrected myself. Seeing Clare would not just be "okay". Walking around the natural wonders of Clare has been something I've wanted to do since my last trip. Home to the Cliffs of Moher and the Burren, Clare has the reputation for being one of the most beautiful counties in Ireland. 

We wove our way through peat bogs and castle ruins and fields or erratic stones with sheep taking shelter behind them. 

I felt like I had left this world. The scenery was so arresting, commanding, stark, compelling, fantastic... but as we drove through the brilliantly colored Burren (which means "Great Rock" in Irish), I had no words.

"Christ," I'd gasp as a sharp turn would open a whole new view. "God, I... I just... wow..."

"You okay?" Roisin smiled. 

"Never...never seen... never seen anything like this. God, it's gorgeous," I managed to stutter through my awestruck teeth. 

My pictures are poor and I hesitate to put them up because they don't do the Burren justice, but as they're all I have, they'll have to suffice.

We stopped at a teashop on the way through and I was ecstatic to finally hop out of the car, breathe in the smell of the ocean and take some pictures. My trigger-happy fingers had been itching for ages. The unfortunate side about driving through the Burren is that there are so few opportunities to pull over and take photos. A lorry might round a turn and crash into you as you're off looking at the flowers and grasses.

There are a prodigious amount of walking and biking trails through this part of the country, with a wide range of difficulty levels. I would like to return to the Burren at some point and spend a few days (or weeks) traversing trails like these: Burren Trails

We left the limestone Burren behind us and continued down to the Cliffs of Moher. However, the cliffs are invisible from the road and a fee is charged at the main entrance, so we tried to hike to the Cliffs from the side, avoiding the entrance station altogether.

Then the wind picked up. It howled and raged with a fury I've never experienced, blowing us back down the hill as we tried to push through it. There were times I'd take a step forward and the antagonistic gale would drive me two steps down the slope. With an electric fence on one side and the Cliffs ages in front (at our pace, anyway), we decided that continuing  our excursion would be unsafe, so we allowed the wind to push us back to the van.

Even the cows knew to keep low in that kind of wind.

After another two hours of driving (which resulted in a minor case of whiplash), we reached Roisin's home in Cork. Her parents had arrived from France the day before and had brought a mini-fridge full of Camembert and other fine French cheeses with them. 

Cheese makes me a happy, happy lady

Roisin's father is an avid photographer, so I spent a few minutes showing him the lenses I'd purchased for my iPhone. If anyone already has an iPhone 4 or 5 and is thinking of purchasing a small camera, consider investing in this instead: Phocus The phone slides into the case, the lenses attach, and you've suddenly got a much nicer camera.

Harvey took some accidental pictures while I was showing him how it works. Bad picture, but I enjoy my expression. I hope I always look this concerned when I teach.

Preconceptions:

People do seem to drink an awful lot in Ireland -- compared to my culture, anyway. In my part of the world, one would generally say something like, "I had a glass of wine at dinner, went to Le Rouge for a cocktail, and then went to the Rockslide for a couple of beers." In Ireland, it seems to go more like, "I had a few glasses of wine at dinner, a few pints at Matt Malloy's, a few pints at Abbey Bar, a few at..."

The main difference seems to be the nonchalance with which the word "few" is used.

Challenges:

Roisin is in the process of teaching me a few Irish dance moves. Once mastered, I will record and post them. Should be tremendously amusing.