Introducing my MacBook Pro -- Sinead's Place

This post is once again beginning in the sun room of Sinead's spacious farmhouse. I've begun many posts from the sun room of Sinead's spacious farmhouse, but I haven't completed any of them, excepting the sole post from a couple of weeks ago. This is due largely to the fact that it is extremely difficult to write blog posts on an iPhone, and that I knew (or thought I knew, anyway) that my laptop would soon be joining me in the sun room.

The laptop was delayed. In fact, it was delayed and nearly sent back home, due to address confusion, excessive taxes, and personal transportation limitations. But due to the extreme friendliness and small-town mentality of the Irish people (my guess, anyway), it was delivered to Sinead's doorstep yesterday by a charming Irish chap who handed it over with a winning smile, saying "Look how we take care of you."

Made my day.  

So, now I have my laptop. However, I am so completely overwhelmed by all of my half-finished iPhone posts that I don't even know how to start writing this one. 

So I think I'll start with pictures. Finally. 

A view from Sinead's

Hannah in the onions

Hannah (the WWOOFer from Montana) with Sinead's onion harvest. It's so humid in Ireland that onions won't dry properly if left on the ground. So we spent many days throwing away rotten onions, bundling onions, and tying up onions on an intricate twine spiderweb suspended from Sinead's barn ceiling. I am doing my best to make a mountain of red onion marmalade out of all the half bad red onions. Progress is slow. 

Ivan's yoga

A nearby WWOOFer from Vermont attempting to show off some of his yoga moves before my little yoga class started. I'll include a quick excerpt of what I wrote to my yoga teacher friends regarding that class:

Hello all,

My illustrious career as a vagabonding yoga teacher continues to flourish in the home of an organic farmer in Kilkenny, Ireland. I've been leading my supportive host through an hour long routine every morning. These routines go astonishingly well, as she has wisely learned to do as I do, and not as I say. They've been going so well that she took the initiative to invite four of her friends over for an evening session of yoga on the lawn. Between my host, her four friends, and the other two American WWOOFers, I found myself facing my largest, most intimidating class thus far. On the far left was Ivan, an American deported from Canada for crossing the street in an illegal manner and kicked out of Vermont for aiming an empty BB gun at a cop. He insisted on consuming four cans of hard cider prior to practice, decided a yoga mat or towel was superfluous, and refused to part with his bright red cowboy boots during practice. I decided to ignore him as best I could, but the frequent passage of thunderous flatulence from his direction often drew my attention away from the rest of my class. On the right were two triathletes. Incredibly strong Irish chaps with a downright dearth of hamstring flexibility, and with mats they seem to have procured from my host's kitchen drawer 

I led them all through a couple sun salutations, and did a few poses focusing on hip mobility. I tried to ignore the flash of Ivan's red cowboy boots on the left, as he kept doing involuntary inversions onto the verdant Irish lawn in his cider induced stupor. I was so nervous about losing my place in the routine that I didn't leave my mat once to assist any of my evening students. 

However, I managed to get them all into Savasana just before the sun went down, and for some reason or other, they all said they enjoyed the class and would love to come back next week. Except Ivan. He said I made yoga impossible and not fun at all. I told him to lose the boots and the booze. Ach.  So, if there are any suggestions regarding poses good for triatheletes and drunken renegade Americans, I would love to hear them. Miss you all. Congratulations on all of your classes and progress as yoga teachers!

Kilkenny Castle, the most famous castle in Ireland

Cat

 A German WWOOFer convinced Sinead to purchase this superb mouser, so in a spurt of generosity, Sinead gave the WWOOFer naming rights. The WWOOFer (Juliana) named the cat Julia (so that Sinead wouldn't forget her). This did not sit well with Sinead, so the cat is now called Cat. Cat has an annoying habit of sleeping in the egg basket, so she's always quite anxious for me to hurry up and clean them so that she can resume her favorite napping position. 

Entrance to the Dunmore Caves

Dunmore Caves. Sinead took me to see these caves my second weekend here. There was a mass murder by the Vikings in these caves, wherein 900 women and children were asphyxiated.  They have the bones on display upstairs to prove it. Walking through these caves was a fairly chilling experience, especially since the guide had such a dark sense of humor about the whole event. 

 Kim and I have been admirable in our attempts to go out walking. However, Ireland has thwarted us at nearly every attempt. It is a country for the car, the tractor, and the cow, which leaves little room for the adventurous pedestrian. The roads are too narrow, the cars whiz by way too fast, and the fields are either taken up by cereal crops or cows. So Kim and I hitched into Kilkenny yesterday, and enjoyed an afternoon walking about the city, drinking coffee, wandering around the many bookshops, and browsing the second-hand stores. 

A misfit carrot. Kim and I were forced to keep him, because no one will buy a carrot with a face. 

In other news, I've had to rearrange my next WWOOFing placement. The farm I was originally set to stay with never renewed their subscription to WWOOF Ireland, and my insurance doesn't cover me unless I'm staying with a recognized volunteer organization. So I was hard-pressed to find a new place and find it fast. I was also a little nervous, thinking that I might end up at another Moyleabbey since I couldn't give potential farms much notice. I got very lucky, though. Sinead set me up with the pate woman across from her at the Kilkenny Farmer's Market. The pate woman (Maria) is also a horse trainer, so I'll get to spend four to five hours a day riding horses in Tipperary. I will be living in a spare room of the house, and I'll be able to enjoy plenty of meat and dairy. 

I am very excited. 

A couple of things I've learned:

• How to make some stellar essential oil moisturizer
• How to take part in Druid moon ceremonies
• How to understand Irish time. Factor in a one-two hour tea break for every scheduling commitment. 
• How to outsmart runaway chickens
• How to hitchhike
• How to fill out a SAD form (find someone else to do it)
• How to manage a farm for an entire week while the owner is taking a vacation in Portugal
• How to operate a stall at an Irish Farmer's Market
• How to carve a cat pumpkin and a carrot mouse 

Now that I have my laptop, I'll be posting more regularly and including more pictures. Thanks for reading, everyone. 

Sinead's Place

I'm writing this post from the sun room/tv room at Sinead's place. I have a cat and a kitten curled up at my feet, a carrot cake in the oven, a slightly more than comfortably full stomach, and the comforting knowledge that I will be warm and well fed for the duration of my stay with Sinead. The work hours here are even longer than at Moyleabbey -- about forty a week -- but I'm treated so well that this full-time volunteer job is thoroughly enjoyable. When I was at Moyleabbey, the most I could look forward to after a tedious day of weeding in the rain (besides talking to Alex) was a bland, unsatisfying meal, and an ice-cold trailer in which to retire. I'd spend the hours between 20:00 and 23:00 hoping to get tired enough to fall asleep. Because my bed, while not exactly warm or comfortable (it was a thin mattress on the floor), was warmer than anywhere else I had access to at Moyleabbey. I got to a point where I'd be weeding the arugula and thinking, "Jesus, why am I here? What am I doing? Do I want to spend my life thanklessly weeding the arugula?" And then I thought, "But this is different. This here is Irish arugula."

This argument helped keep me positive and cheerful at the time, but seems utterly absurd now that I'm out of that situation. If I'm not being treated well, I'm not being treated well - regardless of whether or not I'm on the Emerald Island or in Grand Junction, CO. I told my current host and a few other WWOOFers about my placement at Moyleabbey, and they were horrified. They told me that it was a complete abuse of the WWOOFing system, and they were shocked that I didn't just pack up and leave. I told them that my massive guilt complex and loathe to quit nature kept me rooted to that farm for an entire month. Next time I'm in a situation like that, I'm going to have a little more self-respect and a little less pride, and leave them to weed their own damn arugula. Because that's really all we were there for.

Things I get to look forward to at Sinead's:

Good conversation

A warm bed

Movie nights

Dinner parties

Druid moon ceremonies

Shaman medicines

Foraging lessons

Homemade hippie tea

Three large warm meals a day

Appreciation

Varied work

Wine with dinner

Chocolate

Being completely welcome in Sinead's home

I haven't been in a home for more than two days at a time since I left Grand Junction, and I hadn't realized just how much I missed the home environment until now. I spent the greater portion of my weekend cooking marmalades, chutneys, breads, and cakes, and it is SO wonderful to be able to walk from the living room into the kitchen. It is a wondrous thing to smell whatever it is I've got on the stove or in the oven wafting through the rest of the farmhouse. I love hearing the dishwasher and the washing machine. I love not having to go into a different house to shower or use the restroom. I don't think I ever appreciated the wholeness of home before.

I will be staying in homes for the rest of my time in Ireland, and I am VERY happy about it.

A tincture to help stave off the flu:

One part onion

One part horseradish

One part hot red pepper

One part ginger

One part garlic

Cover ingredients with apple cider vinegar and bury a couple inches under ground on a new moon. Let sit for three weeks. Remove from hole in the ground, discard the spicy solids, and pour the infused vinegar into a medieval looking bottle. Voila. You have Dragon Cider.

Sinead with the Dragon Cider

Never wash your dirty eggs! Eggs have a protective covering on them that water washes right off. Use a dry sponge to remove whatever poo you can, and then proceed to touch up the shell with a slightly damp towel.

Sinead actually gets fifty eggs a day -- so if you fall behind on the egg "washing", you really fall behind.

Parsnips are hellishly difficult to pull out of the ground. Their taproot extends over a foot past where the edible, carrot-like root ends, so extracting the edible part without breaking it in half takes a good deal of finesse, upper-body strength, and concentration. So before you raise a stink about the price of parsnip at your local grocery store, take a moment to examine the unblemished root, and reward the hard-working hands that brought it hither accordingly.

There is an Arthur Guinness day in Ireland, and I believe nearly the whole island goes out to enjoy a pint of this legendary brew. I am no longer the least bit surprised by the things the Irish choose to remember and/or celebrate. The three day plowing competition, for instance. Or street bowling. Or building a massive memorial on a well-trafficked bridge for a priest who never existed, and then rioting when the government took it down.

But I decided that I wouldn't mind joining the rest of Ireland and its innumerable American tourists in celebrating the day of the ingenious fellow who gifted us with Guinness. Sinead's other WWOOFer, a sparkling hippie named Hannah (who is unfortunate enough to be from Montana. I swear I didn't tease her about the unavoidable correlation this brings to mind.) and I met up with four other American WWOOFers at a traditional, dirty Irish pub. The music was good and my whiskey was splendid, but I was too tired to really enjoy myself. When the bar closed at midnight, I was nearly falling off of my stool, and not because I was excessively inebriated.

At a Kilkenny pub with some American WWOOFers

Sinead is taking full advantage of the fact that she now has a yoga teacher living in her spacious downstairs room. She's woken up early the last two days and allowed me to lead her through an hour long yoga practice. It's great for me as a VERY beginning teacher to have someone as supportive and friendly as Sinead to practice on. She invited five of her triathalete friends to a group yoga class tomorrow. The men promised to wear Lycra.

Sinead is also taking full advantage of my natural affinity for the kitchen. After presenting her with some badass red onion marmalade and sweet beetroot chutney, she decided to get her kitchen inspected so that she could start selling preserves at the market. We figure that she can make two euros profit per jar of vinegary goodness. And I will have a wonderful time chopping onions and smelling like balsamic vinegar.

I love kitchens. Sinead has a very nice kitchen. I could spend months in there, preserving all of her extra produce.

Burdock root helps cure cancer. The yellow, tangled root is a pain in the arse to get out of the ground, but once dried and properly stored, has excellent medicinal properties. It is also good for liver detoxing. Sinead is planning on concocting an herbal detox elixir to sell at the Christmas market. To help with the legendary Irish holiday hangovers.

I expect it will sell very well.

All in all, I'd say that Sinead's Place is everything I hoped WWOOFing would be. I'm actually learning a lot about what goes into operating an organic farm, as opposed to being a human weeding machine. I am getting a much better understanding of Irish culture, as Sinead is happy to take me out to meet her friends. I work hard, learn lots, and really feel as if I'm part of a home again.

At last. Something turns out just the way I'd imagined during the dreaming/planning process of this grand adventure -- and just as soon as I'd decided to let go and stop expecting anything.

Rants, Raves, and Limericks -- Moyleabbey Organic Farm

I'm starting this post from my tiny nook of a bedroom in the Moyleabbey WWOOFers quarters. I have added a hot water bottle to supplement my Smartwool ensemble, and am quite satisfied with the results. I just finished my acupuncture session with Yuki, so am in a state of almost sublime relaxation. I would probably be passed out right now, enjoying blissful dreams of a world sans chickweed, had I not indulged in a glass of Irish coffee before submitting myself to acupuncture. I did indulge, however, so I am going to make good use of this relaxed body and over-alert mind and write another blog for my dear family, chronicling yet another week of ho hum WWOOFing adventuring with this atypical Irish family.

Amy and David are considerate, clean, good-humored roommates, and GOD, it's nice to have people to talk to again. I Skype Alex every day (nearly), but I can't really vent to him regarding my Moyleabbey frustrations, as the whole family would hear every heated word I'd say (for how bloody cold this country is, they sure make the walls mighty thin.). But I vented to Amy in our trailer today, and it felt so very nice. It was reassuring to know that it wasn't just me being ultra-sensitive, unreasonable, and lazy for thinking that this farm makes WWOOFing a bit too impersonal, time consuming, and physically demanding. As an experienced WWOOFer herself, she agreed that our treatment here is less than ideal. She and David are actually thinking of skipping out early, they find the arrangement here so unsavory. Amy said that it's her "Irish guilt" keeping her at the farm, but David is from Miami, so he lacks the overactive Irish guilt complex. I anticipate they might follow through with their premature volunteer resignation, as they are already decidedly exasperated, and this was by FAR the easiest week out of the four I've spent here.

We harvested broad beans, French beans, plums, celery, cabbage, brussel sprouts, carrots, beets, onions, turnips, basil, cucumbers, zucchini, kale, and lettuce. We washed, boxed, and bagged everything. We shelled 30 kilos of broad beans. We composted. We cooked. We cleaned the kitchen. We looked after Mimi and answered the millionth "why?"

But we did not weed. If I pulled a single weed this week, it was by accident. Thus, for me, the work week nearly flew by as four days of unending harvesting bliss. I was also able to cook dinner for the family three out of the four day, so my culinary cravings were somewhat sated. It's very difficult to cook in a household where an egg substitute paste is the norm, the imposter "carob" is used instead of chocolate, fermented wheat protein has the audacity to parade itself as meat, oat/rice/soymilk as dairy milk, and sunflower oil as butter. Since I've been here, the family has been purchasing meat, eggs, butter, and milk; but the quantities are so small that they only serve to whet my carnivorous appetite. I don't fully understand how Liam expects six eggs to last seven people a full week, or how one unassuming 8 oz steak can be divided seven ways and still be substantial. I continue to bike to the butcher shop every weekend to buy myself eggs and meat for the week, as even my modestly sized stomach requires more than 6/7ths of an egg and a slice of beef the size of my nettle swollen pinky.

Needless to say, there is usually little to none of the eggs, butter, or meat remaining with which to cook a dinner for seven. I made my spicy brownies with carob and egg substitute. Part of me died a little.

Pauline in the French beans

Mimi stealing my hat. And not holding still for a picture.

The slugs are prolific and enormous

Mimi napping in the broad beans

It finally stopped raining long enough to make a rainbow

Aimee's Tips for WWOOFers

Find a farm that's small. A big vegetable or fruit farm means a colossal amount of weeding. At these farms, WWOOF ought to stand for Willing Weeders On Organic Farms. If you don't fancy pulling up chickweed for five hours every day, try to stay at the five acre mark.

Pick a farm where the garden is a hobby that the owners need a little extra help with, and not the main source of income. If it is the main source of income, the reason you're there is most likely because they couldn't afford to hire anyone -- not because they need a few hours of help and appreciate the cultural exchange.

Make sure to ask about your schedule. If someone says, "We work 9-6, Tuesday - Friday, with a 10 minute break at 11:00 and an hour and a half break for lunch," beware. The strict schedule will make you feel much more like an unpaid employee than a part of the family. A much more palatable answer would be, "We feed the animals at about nine every morning, and then see what needs to be done around the farm." At these places, workdays can be long or short, but it is a much more relaxed, family-like atmosphere.

Ask about the living situation. Many farms post information on their profiles that is no longer accurate. Moyleabbey's profile said that a cabin and a trailer were available for WWOOFers. This led all of us to assume that we would enjoy the privacy of one or the other. However, Liam and Yuki recently converted the heated cabin into an acupuncture studio, so they threw all the WWOOFers together into the unheated trailer. I didn't expect to be staying with the French couple. On the drive to the farm my first day, Liam offhandedly said, "Oh, by the way, you'll be sharing the trailer with a French couple." Amy and David didn't know they'd be sharing the trailer with me. On the drive to the farm their first day, Liam offhandedly said, "Oh, by the way, you'll be sharing the trailer with another Aimee. Isn't that funny?" They were unamused, however, as one of the reasons they'd chosen this place was for the privacy of their own trailer in which to reevaluate their career plans. I knew they wouldn't be expecting me, so I was very awkward about being here the first few days of their placement. But after we got it out in the open that neither party expected or particularly wanted the other party in the trailer, we've been getting along swimmingly.

If you're not vegetarian, try to steer clear of vegetarian farms. Even if they say they'll accommodate your carnivorous habits, it probably means they'll just buy you an 8 oz steak for the week. And then be surprised that you ate the whole thing.

In Ireland, bring long-underwear, hats, rain gear, slippers, and a hot water bottle. Expect to grow addicted to a hot cup of coffee or tea in the morning.

As these recommendations and observations are based solely on two starkly contrasting farms, I reserve the right to edit this list as I continue to WWOOF about the Irish countryside.

I am going to interview Liam and John before I leave tomorrow. That'll make 13 interviews in Europe.

I was presented with the Moleabbey Book of WWOOFers yesterday. It is a book in which previous volunteers thank the family for how much they learned here, and go into raptures about the wonderful time they've had. I told Amy and David about the book, and they said, "Of course. They have to be polite. You'll probably be polite too."

However, I am not well known for my tact, politeness, or reserve. I decided to write the family a very bad limerick, thanking them for a few things, and blessing their future endeavors.

It goes something like this...

Thanks to Liam for not sending me hence

When I crashed your tractor into the fence.

May your sweetcorn grow tall,

Stinging nettles stay small,

And your brussel sprout harvest be immense.

Thanks to Yuki for magnificent meals;

Complying to this carnivore's appeals.

May your needles stay sharp,

Your table never warp,

As you continue your practice that heals.

Thanks to Kai for always making me think;

For driving "why" to its absolute brink.

May your questions not fail

To get answers that sail,

But have patience when a brain's got a kink.

Thanks to Mimi for your contagious laugh;

Greatly amusing us WWOOFer riffraff.

May your belly stay full,

God grant you hair to pull,

And a bib that lasts a meal and a half.

I start my next placement in Kilkenny tomorrow. Wish me luck!

A few more pictures of the farm:

Some of Liam's accidental red carrots 

The acupuncture studio

Amy and Mimi

Mimi

An overladen plum tree

The crabapples here are enormous

The pear and apple orchard

Last night at Moyleabbey

Coffee with Strangers -- Moyleabbey Organic Farm

I am once again writing this post from the frigid, drafty trailer that's been my home for the last three weeks. I am growing accustomed to the cold, though. Yesterday, I wore a mere three shirts instead of my usual four, and there was even a part of the day wherein I took off my woolen hat. My ears rejoiced at the sensation of the slightest breeze, having spent so long under wraps. Their rejoicing was short-lived however, as a hurricane has decided to blow through Ireland this week. I was rocked to sleep in the trailer last night, as the wind continued to buffet it ferociously after the sun went down.

This last week was terribly uneventful. I hesitate to even post a blog today, given my dearth of things to write about.

Monday night was a new experience for me, and definitely the highlight of my week. Pauline, Thomas, and I helped with dinner, and then Liam drove us to the nearby town of Athy, for their Monday night "session". He treated Pauline and Thomas to some guinness, and bought me some Bulmers (an Irish cider). Then we sat and waited in the fairly deserted bar for the "session" to commence. There was some horse-racing being shown on the television, so I disinterestedly kept an eye on that as I quaffed my cider. A middle-aged, dolled up woman approached Liam and started up a friendly conversation. I thought, "Oh good, someone he knows is here."

Then the outgoing brunette asked for his name, and introduced herself as "Bernie."

And I thought, "'Oh yes, I'm in Ireland. A country where everyone approaches everyone as a first-rate friend until they prove they're not."

The music started about an hour later. It was a quiet night, I'm told, but I still enjoyed myself immensely. This particular Monday night session was populated by about twenty retired Irish folk, who were just getting together to sing some ballads, tell some stories, read some poetry, and enjoy some Irish brew. We all sat around one big table and took our turns singing. The French didn't sing, but I belted out Somewhere Over the Rainbow, The Sound of Music, and Couple of Swells. My repertoire might be shameful, but the Irish seemed to think it was good craic.

Then the work week started again... and a windy, rainy, frigid week it was.

I pruned the gooseberries. Gooseberries have unprecedentedly menacing thorns. I shall never plant them in my own garden, unless it is as a hedge to keep away the deer and the overzealous evangelicals.

I harvested carrots, onions, beets, and plums.

I planted some perennial lettuce.

I made the family a dinner of lemon fish, lemon potatoes, and lemon bars. They seemed to enjoy the hiatus from vegetable soup, but I might have gone overboard on the citrus.

Pauline and Thomas left on Friday morning. That means I had the trailer to myself all weekend, but it also means I didn't even have their murmuring to keep me company. Things got very lonely during these last few days, especially since the weather has worsened, and I nearly get knocked over by the bellowing wind just opening the door. I've done a lot of reading. Tom Robbins, Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde, and Toby Hemenway keep me company during these isolated weekends.

The wind let up for a couple of hours yesterday in the late afternoon. I decided to go for a walk and take some pictures, as I haven't really had the time or desire to wander about the icy countryside. Hedges line the narrow roads very thickly in Ireland, but whenever I was able to peep through a hole in the green wall, I took a picture of the idyllic cow/sheep scene on the other side. On my way back to Moyleabbey, I passed a middle-aged man taking care of a chestnut pony. I smiled, but kept walking. The man immediately said hello and asked how I was. We had the typical, pleasant conversation that one has when one meets a friendly stranger on the side of the road. I was about to tell this stranger how nice it was to meet him and get my shivering ass back to my ice-box, when the roadside pony man asked me if I'd like a cup of coffee.

Given that I had just run out of coffee that morning and that always saying yes to coffee with strangers is a rule for myself on this trip, I happily consented to this stranger's offer.

John (as he later introduced himself) poured me a cup of coffee, poured himself some tea, sat down with a packet of cigarettes, lit one up, and began to talk.

And talk.

And talk.

And smoke (he smoked eight in two hours, I believe).

And minus the haze of cigarette smoke, I loved it. He was a natural born Irish storyteller of top degree, and he he had inumerable tales to tell about his travel experiences (all punctuated by outbursts of genuine laughter and an impressive smoker's cough). He had a black but light-hearted sense of humor that consistently took me by surprise, and his outlook on life made me want to stay and hear more even though my bladder and the cigarette smoke were both doing an admirable job persuading me to leave John in his well kempt bachelor den and go get some fresh air and a toilet.

I may drink coffee with perfect strangers, but I hesitate to ask for use of their facilities.

John drove me back to Moyleabbey, gave me a chocolate bar, and told me I could interview him next week. After stripping off my layers of cigarette smoke saturated clothing and leaving them outside to air out, I curled up with some Robbins and went to bed.

I also interviewed Kai this weekend. It was my first interview with a child. The simplicity, honesty, and depth of his answers caught me off guard more than I thought they would.

One of my favorite was in response to:

Me: What does the word "family" mean to you?

Kai: The people at home.

Speaking of family, I sure do miss all of you. I miss the people at home right now more than I had imagined possible.

Another couple moved into the trailer today. An hour or so ago, actually. Amy is Irish and David is American. They recruit english teachers for a language program in Korea. They're going to be excellent roommates, but living with a couple does seem to exacerbate my lonliness. They cook together and eat together and laugh together and cuddle together. Goodness. They're even crosswording together. I certainly don't resent their presence or obvious attachment -- I'm just desperate for a travel buddy of my own.

I think the next farm will be better. I'll be living in the house with the owner and learning about bees. I hope. With WWOOFing, you never can tell. That's something I had to learn quickly.

I took almost all of my spending money and bought a laptop. After three months of iPhone frustration, I decided that I really do need one in order to continue pursuing my passion as a playwright, my interview project, and my soon to be career as a yoga teacher. This means I can post pictures in my blog, start a YouTube channel to market myself as a yoga teacher, and work on editing my interview project. It also means that I'll be able to submit my plays to various competitions and maybe make some money off of my writing.

It also means that I'll be heading back to the US a bit earlier than I'd planned. But I am more than okay with that.

There are so many pastures absolutely identical to this one. Cows appear to be very happy and healthy in Ireland.

houses fly their county flag on rugby/hurling/Irish football days

Semi trucks go down these roads -- both ways. Which makes being a pedestrian a precarious predicament.

Unbearable Silence -- Moyleabbey Organic Farm

I'm writing this post whilst sitting in an old-fashioned wicker chair in the glass room extension of Moyleabbey farmhouse. It is cold, but that is nothing new. It is always cold. The wall behind me is thick and plastered and possesses the false appearance of sturdiness. I presume solidity is deceitful pretense because I can hear every single decible of the conversation taking place over dinner in the dining room on the other side. Yuki, Kai, and Liam are discussing today's epic hurling match, and Mimi is occasionally putting in her two cents of "baabaah! Bye!" and an abundance of contagious giggles. Kai is unimpressed with his food, but as a general rule, Kai is seldom impressed by anything. Impressed people will stop asking "why" after a reasonable amount of time and simply allow a thing to be in appreciative silence. Kai is too busy dissecting the flaws of his meal to his poor, tired mother to appreciate anything about it. Liam is a bit downtrodden, as he paid over a hundred euros to watch his home team of Tipperary get thrashed by a dominating Kilkenny. It was the biggest game of the season, and I assume that the whole island shut down for the afternoon to turn on their televisions. Sports are a big deal here. Rugby, hurling, Irish football, Guiness, and leggings are the passions of these pale people. Most children start playing one of the three sports quite early, and continue playing well into their school years. Kai is already on a rugby team. He practicing pinning other rambunctious eight year olds after he finishes his weaving, knitting, and spinning classes. He is a very well-rounded young man.

The work has been the same. The weeds are as relentless as Kai's "why?" While this week saw no respite from the former, the latter situation has improved significantly since school started. I have my mornings free to contemplate how greatly I loathe chickweed without having to answer for it.

I loathe chickweed. Because it is loathsome. Finito.

However, as soon as fifteen o'clock rolls around, I am beset by all the questions the teachers must have admirably supressed at school. Kai gallops out of the house in his Irish regalia of green wellingtons and orange sweater, and Mimi flails happily behind, face and fingers an artful display of what she played with for lunch. The ensuing questions often are punctuated by:

"Oooowwww! MIMI! Let go of my hair! MIIIIMIIII! That's not very nice. How would you like it if I pulled your hair? Daddy, Mimi won't let go of my hair!"

To which dire cries "Daddy" comes running to the rescue of his incapacitated son. Mimi continues to sit, serenely holding a tuft of Kai's auburn hair in her fat, dirty little hands, and smiling broadly as her father wrests her prize away from her. As Kai angrily rubs his sore scalp and Liam gently berates his baby girl, Mimi continues to smile at me. It is the knowing, self-satisfied smile of someone who knows they have just done you a great favor.

As much as I've grown to dislike chickweed, I believe I may dislike lunchtime even more. At the Agritourismo, lunch was a busy, bustling, talkative affair. I'm sure that the wine helped get things going, but as a general rule, there was always someone with SOMETHING to say, and there was always someone agreeable enough to disagree with him out loud and not only in his head. That is not the case here. Pauline, Thomas, and I set the table with bread and spreads, and then we sit. We wait for the rest of the family to show up. Then we sit quietly and eat, staring at our plates. As I cannot eat bread and spreads, I only sit quietly and stare at my plate. I even begin to long for a "why?" to break the unbearable silence. Mimi is our only relief. She entertains us all by smashing her food into unidentifiable pieces, smearing it on the table, and then crawling out of her chair and trying to eat the food off our plates. As a rule, she never eats anything that has made contact with her own plate. I don't know why they bother giving her one.

I've grown to enjoy the French couple's company a good deal. I've beaten them soundly at hearts three times, dishing out the incredibly satisfactory 26 points every evening we played. Thomas starts the game by saying, "I will win this time." Pauline ends the game by saying, "I hate you."

I think we will be playing poker tonight. Even the French can only handle a certain amount of resounding defeats.

I interviewed Yuki this weekend. My first in Ireland, and it was with the only Japanese woman in the county. I love how things like that work out. It was a wonderful interview though, and helped me to remember why I'm here. Besides to lend a couple of volunteer hands with the cabbage harvest, that is. It also helped sate my theatrical cravings that have been getting more and more intense over the past couple of months. I miss performing. I miss memorizing lines and rehearsing scenes. I miss the agony of not quite understanding a character, and I miss dissecting scripts into the tiniest action units possible to find all the clues the playwright left for me. Alex suggested that I put on a play with Kai and Mimi. However, I do not have enough faith in my ability as a director to take on Kai as an actor. I could get great things out of Mimi -- she is a budding comedian and merely needs a gentle nudge in the right direction. I do not have the mental fortitude for Kai.

I think I may have been too hard on this family in my previous post. They're very good, hardworking, genuine people, and they do treat us well. I think I may have felt the "employee" vibe because people in Ireland need a lot more space than people in Italy. Things are quieter here. People seem more distant. I had always thought that the Irish would be a loud and invasive type of people, but the Irish countryside is almost unsettlingly quiet. The quiet is making me more homesick than ever before, and I spend a good deal of time thinking about how nice it would be to pack up and fly home in time for Thursday night dinner. I miss controversial conversation over turducken, and I miss the loud, vibrant, sunny cultures of Italy and Spain. But I am in Ireland, and I shall make the best of it. I am learning a good deal about the black humor, grey weather, and the hardworking attitude of Ireland and its nearly four and a half million citizens.

To Saint Fiacre, patron saint of gardeners and Paris cab drivers:

Why is it so much more difficult to uproot weeds than vegetables?

Why is it that if you leave a fraction of a chickweed root in the soil, the whole plant will return with double the foliage the next day, but if you uproot a carrot, no amount of gently stuffing it back into the dirt will revitalize its ruined root? I know this because I have tried, on several occasions, to replant displaced produce. I have tried with corn, asparagus, onions, and beets. I simply cannot get them to re-grow, after accidentally unearthing them. I now recognize the utter futility of my endeavors and leave the wilting, underripe produce between the rows to rot, contenting myself with blaming Mimi. She doesn't seem to mind.

Why is it that harvesting is so much more fun than weeding? The action is the same, is it not? Pulling up or cutting out something that no longer belongs and moving it elsewhere. Yet I am always more willing to harvest the carrots than weed the carrots.

Why is it that when you want to uproot a weed, you uproot a vegetable, but when you want to harvest the same vegetable, it is nigh impossible to remove from its earthy bed?

What is the correlation between gardens and cabs?

I enjoyed a marvelous Irish breakfast this morning. Liam bought us some bacon, sausage, black pudding, and eggs so that we'd have the opportunity to taste an authentic Irish breakfast at least once before departing this macrobiotic farm. My French roommates bought some beans, and we happily devoured a warm, hearty breakfast in our frigid mobile home.

Irish Breakfast Foods

Thomas assembling breakfast

Pauline assembling breakfast 

Breakfast!

I have two weeks left at this farm. I anticipate a lot of rain and a lot of weeding. Yuki has also offered to give me a free acupuncture session. I plan to take her up on that sometime this week.