Of Myths, Magic, and Really Awkward Writing Tablets -- Ireland. In general.

Tis the first of July. It's hard to believe that between time spent with George and Roisin, I've already been in Ireland for nearly a month. With all the sunny weather we've been having, it's hard to believe that I'm in Ireland at all. The significantly more subtle accent of Cork doesn't do much to place me in the Ireland of my imagination (thanks to the leprechaun accent I learned in university), so when the weather hits a whopping 29 degrees Celsius and I can understand every word of a conversation (unless it's on the phone), I have to take a moment to tell myself that I'm in Ireland. And not in Tolkien's Shire.

Although I'm told that Ireland was where he found his inspiration to write his fantasies. Tolkien worked as an external examiner at the University College Gallway during the 1950s, and spent much of his time wandering around the Burren. As an unbiased American visitor, I definitely see a bit of credence in this Irish claim. The Burren does boast a landmark named, "Poll na Gollum (hole of Gollum)", after all. Fun little tidbit.

I tried my hand at watercolor today and was met with disheartening failure. I've been noticing the colors of leaves, and found a gorgeous serrated green and red leaf to copy onto my watercolor moleskin. The vibrant red edges looked as if they'd been dipped in blood and the veins carried the red stream through the rest of the green/yellow mottled leaf.

I made a striking mess of it.

I'm starting this post from Roisin's kitchen. To my dismay, the AGA has been turned off for the season. I suppose that with tropical weather of 29 degrees, the warmth of the massive oven is no longer needed. Clothes hang on a pulley system above the extinguished furnace, and I smile every time I glance up and see the rainbow striped pajamas. A few chives sit forlorn and forgotten in a cup of water next to the sink, and oranges go bad in the fruit bowl. It's half ten and I've put the dogs outside to let them do their business before Daisy comes in for the night. Bunny sits quietly on the courtyard ground, having accepted her dismal fate of sleeping in the shed. Daisy is perched on the windowsill, catching my eye whenever possible and beating the glass with her hefty black and white tail. She knows that she gets to sleep inside tonight. Daisy knows she gets to sleep inside because when she's put to sleep in the shed, she barrels through bricks and chews through wood in order to get out and bark at cars and leaves and things.

So she sleeps next to the AGA in the kitchen. Bunny is far from reconciled to this injustice, and looks at me with sad puppy eyes from the shed window in the mornings when I come down for breakfast.

"you cruel creature, locking me up in the shed just because I'm too small to move bricks and too refined to eat boards. I'll shed all over your nice purple sweater, I will. I could even use the loo on the kitchen floor." 

And I feel like a terrible person for the rest of the day.
 
There are times when Daisy has to be put on a lead (she has a rather pronounced dislike of anything on wheels and of human creatures under 3 feet), and Bunny takes full advantage of Daisy's fabric chains by frolicking playfully in front of her and then darting back to nip her on the neck. Daisy strains mightily against her collar to strike back with her brick-moving paws, but is stopped short at the end of her lead.

Bunny laughs at her and dances away sideways. She hasn't figured out how to run in straight lines yet. 

Roisin took me to see St Fin Barre's Cathedral and UCC yesterday. The walk took just about three hours, but that's mostly because Bunny was being frisky and I was taking so many pictures that I moved at the meandering "EVERYTHING IS EXCITING AND INTERESTING AND CAN I TOUCH IT" speed of a toddler.

A cute little market on Patrick's street on the way into the City Center. In Cork, if you're going on a stroll down Patrick's street, you say, "Walkin' da Pana." I have no idea how that's spelled.

Saint Fin Barre's Cathedral. Couldn't get far enough away to take a decent picture.

I want the people who hand out programs to look at you like this.

Playing in the graveyard. A favorite past time.

BUNNY!

The golden angel of Saint Fin Barre. There is a superstition amongst the Irish that when the angel falls from the church, the world will end. Shortly after construction, a bold chap stole the angel from its perch atop the cathedral. After a period of pandemonium and confusion, the angel was returned and the end of the world was put off for a while longer. Until the next cheeky fellow decides to make off with the resurrection copper and gold leaf angel for good.

"I am Daisy, mighty mover of bricks and the nightmare of all things on wheels."

Entering university campus. I want to be Irish so that I can attend for free. And never leave.

"Go in Health"

Where most of the weddings are done.

The bit of floor over which no one can walk unless they've graduated. I'm not sure what happens if you step foot on the tiles before graduation day, but the superstitious Irish say it's rotten luck.

And then Daisy dragged us into a chamber full of Ogham (pronounced "oam") stones, nonchalantly stepping over the forbidden tiles in the process (she was subjected to many human creatures riding about on wheels on the walk home). This is a form of primitive Irish writing that was used to designate belongings and mark gravestones. Each letter is named after a tree. I'm just beginning to understand how heavily trees factor into Irish culture and mythology. It's a pity that Ireland is the most deforested country in all of Europe. The life and magic of these people seems to be in the forests and in the ocean.

On the note of Irish magic, if you ever end up visiting Ireland...

a) don't expect awesome weather like I'm experiencing. Nary a day of rain in over a week and a half is unheard of. Something magic is happening with the sun right now. Or it could just be some manner of global warming.
b) if you see a raised grassy mound with a dip in the middle, leave it alone. This is a fairy fort, and it is imbued with the magic of Druids. The "Good People" live there, so if you cut the flora or mess it up in any way, you've gone and jinxed yourself and could very well die/suffer some debilitating disease.

c) don't touch the blackthorn! It is a special species of tree inhabited by lunantishees, tree sprites whose sole purpose in life is to guard the blackthorn from being cut down by humans. It's horrible luck to even prune a blackthorn. These are the trees of witchcraft. Its thorns were used by witches and wizards when wax figures were in need of poking, it's said that Jesus's crown was made of blackthorn, and witches wielded powerful blackthorn rods. Before they were burned at the stake with blackthorn kindling, of course.

Preconceptions:

I have yet to experience a strong temper.

Challenges:

None today. I hope to be able to see a play this week, though.