Roadtrip! -- Westport, Ireland

I'm starting this post from the Kenny Kitchen, and I believe I will fall quite in love with this space before my stay is over. This is a family full of photographers and painters and sculptors and people who generally appreciate art. The house is eclectic, unique, and exciting -- as many Irish houses seem to be. This is a country full of intensely independent, expressive people and their homes are good indicators of that.

Color in Ireland is a strange thing to someone from Colorado. My home state is dry, high, and vibrant, regardless of whether the landscape is a lush glacier mesa or a dry sandstone desert. There's a sharpness to it -- as if I am staring through the "clarify" filter on an iPhone application. In Ireland, I sometimes feel like I've taken off my glasses. The colors are just as bright, but the extreme moisture of the climate seems to soften the edges; as if I'd taken a mop brush to blend the colors of a sunset or a body of water. This element of gentle blending seems to be fought against in the cities where residents paint their houses contrasting colors, but the countryside (especially on a "soft" day) has its fuzzy edges. 

We opened the fridge Friday morning to scavenge some breakfast and were greeted by our leftover crubeens. 

I can't believe we actually made those, I stifled a gag and gingerly reached for the cheese. 

"Don't throw it away, now. Old people love that stuff. Wait for the parents to get home," Roisin's friend advised over her cup of coffee.

"Don't know how they could like it," I cast the mangled platter of skin a skeptical glance before I shut the door. 

"They love it," she insisted. "Growing up, my house always smelled like crubeens." 

After a quick cleaning of the house and a few tries at some acro yoga (felt so good to fly again), Roisin and I loaded our belongings into her van for the four hour drive to Westport.

Westport (the Irish name is Cathair na Mart, which means "stone fort of the beeves) was designed by James Wyatt in the 1780s. It's located in County Mayo (which is pretty far north on the map), and is quite near the base of Croagh Patrick, a famous Irish pilgrimage.

The farthest north I've ever been. I've now explored Dublin, Kildare, Kilkenny, Cork, Tipperary, Kerry, Galway, Mayo, and Clare. Even a little bit of Carlow at one point.

The countryside was beautiful, but the roads in Ireland are just so horribly maintained and windy. One of the only straight roads was pointed out to me as a "Famine Road." During the time of the Great Famine, many of the starving were forced into "unprofitable public works" in exchange for a meager food supply. So they built straight roads that usually went nowhere and built bridges over which no one would ever need to cross. The west of Ireland is crisscrossed with ancient dead-end roads. 

After rolling into a campsite at Westport, we walked around the Quays (pronounced "Keys". You will be marked as a stupid American if you pronounce it the way Hooked on Phonics would have you believe it ought to be said) and took a few pictures. 

This seems like a very typical meal for the Irish. Smoked salmon, veggies, and brown bread.

We went to a popular pub that night and I accomplished my Magners challenge many, many more times. I was offered so many drinks that I had to stack them on the counter behind me and I fretted about the morning hangover.

"I drank too much during my last trip to Ireland and was sick for three days," I told Roisin as I warily eyed my fourth pint of Bulmers, wanting to place it on the counter with the rest but feeling someone obliged to drink it.

"Yer an interestin' girl, Aimee," one of the lads commented, "But yer a shit drinker."

"I accept that," I took the smallest of sips.

"Don't ya know how to cure a hangover, Irish style?"

"No, how's it done?"

"Ya eat loads of greasy food, drink another pint, and go for a saltwater swim."

I tentatively took another sip. We'll see. 

Preconceptions:

Every person might not own a pair of wellies, but every household sports at least a couple. In varying degrees of stylishness. Wellies were quite posh at one point, apparently. Hunter wellingtons were the most stylish and cost up to 125 pounds. That's about 200 dollars for a nice pair of rain boots.

Challenges:

A Session! Go watch the bad youtube video. :)

Bulmers!