Fiddle a Dingle

Dingle is a small fishing town on the Dingle Peninsula in southwestern Ireland.  It is most everything a small fishing Irish town should be:  small, quiet, relaxed, beautiful, and blessed with good beer:

While the scenery is enough to quiet my soul all on its own, hearty Irish food eaten alongside some of that good beer is icing on the cake.   As we came out of a pub after enjoying another such meal, we came across a family of fiddlers playing in one of the town squares:

While the younger kids played at large:

The young ladies played with no sheet music and no break into the approaching sunset while one brave young boy danced in front of all the ladies:

I admit to knowing almost nothing about music, my training in that area being on par with my training on art (close to zero).   But, the rhythm of an Irish jig naturally gets the feet and hands moving, tapping along to one or another infectious beat.   I naturally assumed that such fast and upbeat music must surely be accompanied by equally upbeat lyrics.  But, with the assistance of Google and Wikipedia, I found instead, verses splattered with blood, heartbreak, and tragedy, like the following from The Maid Behind the Bar:

"She did not know he was around
  Until the fate of death had struck her
  And now she sleeps beneath the ground"

Or, equally morose, from the Wind that Shakes the Barley:

"But blood for blood without remorse,
  I've ta'en at Oulart Hollow
  And placed my true love's clay-cold corpse
  Where I will full soon will follow"

Typical Irish.   contradictions
Lush, Fruitful Farm Land.   dire famine
Warm, Accepting People.   violent, strife-filled troubles
Even the fiddle is a contradiction.  It is identical to the violin but played in a way that it sounds nothing like it.   No doubt, I have a lot to learn about music, but for this afternoon in Dingle, I am more than content to be reeled into the rhythm of the jig, while ignoring the dark history lying behind it.

False Advertising

This beach along the west coast of Ireland was advertised, by multiple signs, as Inch Beach:

I wondered how I would get a suntan, while perched on an inch of sandy coastline, amidst a hundred other tourists.   I wondered if it were a square inch or a cubic inch of sand that we would fight over with other visitors.  Wonder no more when on Saturday morning, we were relieved to find a much larger expanse of sand and beach on which to stroll, especially at low tide:

I counted at least 200,000 inches of beach (not including the width of course) as we walked and walked and walked, turning back reluctantly before we reached the end of this sprawling sandopolis:

Inch Beach was an excellent case of false advertising.   I still have no idea where the name of this village originates.  Perhaps, a more diligent tourist would have sought out the answer. Was Inch Beach just an abbreviation for 200,000 Inches beach?  Or did the name have a deeper historical meaning?   These worthwhile questions strayed far from my mind while walking barefoot along this vast sandy expanse.   I was more than content to dwell in la-la land than in reality for the moment, at least.  

I expected the Northern Atlantic to be a little wilder, a little bit more insistent about pounding the few rocks on this beach into soft, silty sand.   But, I guess she waits for winter to show her wilder side.   For now, she is quiet, relaxing, soothing.... everything that she should be for all her eager tourists.  

Facing the Wrong Way

I am so spoiled and blessed to live where I do; for nine months of the year, I am in the West and can watch the sun set over the waters of Puget Sound.   For the other three months, I am in the West of the East (along the Gulf Coast of Florida) and can watch the sun set over the water in the Gulf of Mexico.

We've been in Ireland almost a week now and almost without fail, we have been pointing the wrong way at sunset; a mountain or hill has been standing between us and the sunset, rather rudely blocking the colors and light that spruce up the sky with delight at the end of the day.   It may be easy to ask the question: "Why would I not just watch the sunrise instead?".  And my answer would readily be that in my world, sunrises are not an option.  I think it should be illegal to be awake so early in the morning.

Seeking a sunset over the Atlantic, we finished driving the Ring of Kerry, barely surviving another day of Irish roads and wrong-side-driving, to end at Inch Beach on the Dingle peninsula in the southwest of Ireland.   Over three miles of sandy beach were enough to send me temporarily to heaven, but we also had the added bonus of viewing the sun set into the western sky while casting its color over both the hills and the waters of the Atlantic Ocean:

In my world, this is close enough to the perfect sunset.  I don't blame the suite of rather large hills for interrupting the view just a wee bit.  In fact, they could win a gold medal for adding beauty to the whole scene.

Death Defying Tourism

The roads here in Ireland are a wee narrow for the modern car:

While many risk their lives to defend the freedom of their country or pursue a comparable noble cause,  Barry and I risk our lives to see an abundance of stunning scenery, such as this vista along the Atlantic, taken along the Ring of Kerry (peninsula) in southwestern Ireland:

Narrow lanes are complicated by a number of other factors.   We take shoulders for granted on American roadways, but they seem to be as rare a luxury as cloudless days in Ireland.  Other barriers that prevent one from driving the car into oblivion (guard rails, bollards, etc.) are also notably absent from Irish roads, leading to signs like these, which in my mind, basically say "Good luck fella... hope you don't fly home in a wooden box":

Then, we have the tour buses, which only pass by at a rate of one per minute, and, by law, have the right of way.  No matter how much of their lane (and your lane) they are occupying, these tour buses may do as they wish, and the ordinary passenger car driver is left to accommodate a wide range of bus driver behaviors.   While facing these tour buses, head-on, often through one or slightly wider than one lane passages, we are supposed to relax and enjoying the vistas below:

Right.  We learned early on that enjoying the scenery meant pulling the car over, removing the key, and exiting our rented death trap:

With a keen interest in continued living, Barry and I have strict job descriptions on this trip.  Barry has been the driver and I the navigator.  Navigator responsibilities are substantially greater than on American roads, because they must include instructions for winding one's way through a plethora of roundabouts, all the while thinking left rather than right (drive left, look right!). But, the navigator's job description is nothing compared to the driver's job description which often involves choosing between potential wrecks.   How often have I heard Barry say: "Well, I would rather run into a stone wall (on the left side of the road) than a car head-on toward the center of the road!"  You have to wonder ... why are we driving on roads that mandate such a choice?

Death-defying tourism.   Roads more adrenaline-provoking than skydiving.  A curb-clipping, brush-swiping, gravel-spitting experience.

Isn't it amazing that the Irish have a traffic fatality rate less than one third of the United States.   190 killed on roads last year in the entire country (including Northern Ireland).

But, how many of those 190 were tourists?

Green Green Dreams

Ever since we arrived in Ireland, I've been a snob about the color green.   Because Ireland is considered the Emerald Isle, I naturally assumed the grass (and mountains and trees and other flora) would be greener on the other side of the Atlantic (and continent) than my own Emerald city of Seattle  Before I left, many folks I knew reinforced how GREEN Ireland would be.

All that hype inflated my great green expectations of Ireland to the point that they were impossible to meet.  Looking back at my photographs of Kilarney National Park, which we visited on Thursday,  I realized that I was being fooled by my own expectations:

Fortunately, a camera lens is not so easily fooled.   I could look back on the scenery and realize I was smoking something to have missed the vast expanses of green that unfolded before me:

I still take issue with the fact that the hill tops are missing a few trees.  The great oak woods were long ago cleared from these hills, leaving virgin stands in only a very few isolated places in Ireland.

But, that's another blog for another day.  For now, I take back what I said about you Ireland.  You may continue calling yourself the Emerald Isle.  It's a nickname well deserved.

James and the Giant Orange

James and the Giant Peach was a fantasy movie filmed in the twentieth century.
James and the Giant Orange, in contrast, was a reality TV show, popular in the seventeenth century.

The story goes like this.   James was an important guy who decided to be Catholic.   William, who came from a giant Orange as a duke, was not as an important a guy but he fixed that problem by marrying Mary, James half sister.   Mary, who was not particularly thrilled by being a political pawn or being married off to a rather ugly guy (William), cried through the entire wedding.   Thereafter, she composed herself and stayed married to William, but never had any children (put two and two together there).  

Even married, the protestants William and Mary weren't as powerful as James, so they crafted a plan to kick James off his throne.   They had a few battles over the whole affair, committed a few murders, and did a few underhanded things... all in the name of religion.   The fact that both Catholics and Protestants are Christian and fundamentally believe the same thing (that around two thousand years ago,  Jesus Christ came aboard on planet Earth to be savior of the world) had escaped almost everyone's attention at the time.  So the Catholics and the Protestants fought with each other and a Glorious Revolution ensued.  

Meanwhile, back in Ireland, the poor Irish once again backed the wrong guy... James, the Catholic.   When William and Mary's political and military ploys trumped those of James, James ran to France to avoid the prospect of his head becoming a separate entity from his body.  At the time, France was a rather Catholic-friendly nation (just ask Louis XIV), so this worked out all right for James. Unfortunately, the Irish could not just pick up their Ireland and move to France so they continued to take the hit for William and Mary's ongoing campaign, revolution, and "victory".   One of the many ugly battles to "subdue" the Irish (which most have figured out by now is an impossible feat) happened at Charles Fort, which we visited today:

Charles Fort is a star shaped fort, in line with Advanced Fortress Engineering of the 17th and 18th century that had to contend with the fact that massive artillery bombarding a fortress wall was a totally different animal than weapons and strategies of the previous centuries.   Even redesigned, however, the many hills around the fort created a problem, and the British and their buddy William overcame the defenses of the opposing armies, causing Ireland once again to fall under a rule that didn't suit anything about who the Irish truly were as a people.  

The moral of today's story.
History repeats itself... again, and again, and again.

And, watch out for oranges and marrying unattractive men.  You never know where they may lead.

The Rock

There once was a rock in the middle of the water with a wee bit of furze (looks like scotch broom, but it's not) and heather covering her.   The rock was unimpressive, nondescript, and hostile to all other forms of plant life.  Hostile happens when there is no soil on which any plant in its right mind can place roots. Alas, I realize I have implied that furze and heather are not in their right mind, but I've also implied that plants have a mind, so perhaps I am the one who is not in her right mind.

I digress.   This rock, located squarely in the middle of Bantry Bay in southwestern Ireland, went unnoticed for a very long time.   Until, one day, the British decided to build a fat round tower on top. They had little interest in the rock, but great interest in the defensive capability of the tower.  

Eventually, the British tired of beating up the Irish, and left (well, kind of).  The rock and its tower sat alone and unnoticed once again.   But then, in the early twentieth century, a man named Bryce bought it and hired a man named Peto to plant a garden on the rock. Peto did an admirable job of hauling soil, rocks, and other fundamentals to plant life over to the island, employing one hundred men, several years, and lots of money to do so.   Then, he put delicate plants from all over the world on this fresh new soil and renovated rock.   And, after taking one look at the brutal Atlantic winds blowing in from the South.... they died.

Bryce was not pleased with the situation, threw Peto into the wind, and hired a master gardener from Scotland (Murdo Mackenzie).   Mackenzie had the brilliant idea that perhaps all the fragile and delicate plant life transported from all over the world didn't particularly appreciate the brutal Atlantic winds.  So, he planted all manner of Scot and Monterrey pine in belts that sheltered the wee little delicate plants from those mean nasty winds.   And, sheltered as they were,... they didn't die.

In fact, they thrived and multiplied and managed to get along with hundreds of green friends from all over the world, until the island was nothing at all like its former sterile self:

Mackenzie spent the rest of his life making sure that Garnish Island remained a stellar example of gardening gone right.   The gardens were embellished with many an art form, including the traditional Italian garden layout:

Mackenzie could be an inspiration to us.  Someone told him you couldn't turn a sterile rock in a wet, cold climate into a slice of lush garden paradise.   But, he spent his life proving SOMEONE wrong.

Single mindedness does have its advantages.   Garnish Island in southwestern island can attest to that.

Same Old, Same Old... or Not?

Oddly, Cork is the second largest natural harbor in the world, next to the harbor in Sydney, Australia.   And, the Irish will be the first to tell you that Sydney gets a wee bit more sunshine and warm weather than the City Cork.  Regardless, on a sunny day, with the temperatures in the mid 60's, it's hard to find fault with this quaint city of 120,000.   Yet, today, while strolling along the River Lee, my husband, often known to be a fountain of creative and uplifting remarks manages the following:

"Looks like a dozen other cities that have a river running through ...
 Paris, Prague, London..."

I could only roll my eyes at such a comment because with that single thought, the costs, jet lag, ridiculously narrow economy-class seats, and any other number of hassles associated with traveling almost halfway around the world became pointless.

I am certain my husband did not mean this remark in the way it ended up coming out of his mouth, but it made me stop and think about what was different here.  The first thing that came to mind, of course, was that in other cities with rivers traveling through, I did not have a pint of irish lager and rich meat and potatoes lunch in my belly.   This surely slowed my pace if not changed my perspective on the scene before me:

In Cork, most of the walkways and thruways near the river that carry pedestrians, passenger vehicles, and an odd assortment of trucks were built directly on top of old waterways.  In modern day Cork, there is no need for these waterways to cater to ships, shipping, and water-based transport, so the River Lee has been architecturally free to host a delightful variety of low-hanging, romantic bridges and walkways:

Unlike the likes of Prague, London, Paris, and whatever other city has a river running through it, many of the houses along the River Lee are painted in all manner of colors, as if San Francisco had been transplanted to a river bank:

And, finally, the people in the City of Cork seem so much more laid back than this city's gigantic cousins to the east and south.   This may have as much to do with what they ate and drank for lunch as their general outlook on life, but the result is the same.  We ambled through the city today among others who were ambling.  We relaxed as others seemed to be.

And, simply enjoyed life in another place at a better pace.

Justice in the World

... comes in many forms.  Today, in Cork, Ireland, I saw one particularly gratifying form of justice.   In one of many (many, many) pubs in Cork city, I came across a beer menu (this is not a surprise). But, then more surprisingly, what to my wondering eyes did appear upon said menu but one shining reindeer:

No, no... that's not how the story goes.  Rather, while gazing at the menu in a cumbersome haze of jet lag brought on by flying halfway around the world from Seattle to Shannon, I saw a form of equality never before encountered in the United States of America:

It's true.  This photograph has not been manipulated in any way, shape, or form.  It is indeed possible to purchase a pint of Guinness at less cost per volume than Budweiser.   While the more rational and analytical of readers might say this is a natural consequence of lower transport costs and taxes (on Guinness) and the opposite for Budweiser in this beer-happy country, I prefer to think of it as a brief moment of sweet justice.   I know I should apologize to any Budweiser fans who may stumble across this blog, but I can't seem to get the words out of my mouth and onto my keyboard.   So, I will refrain.

Budweiser may be the King of Beers, but Guinness actually has the kind of deep, intense flavor that doesn't require intense advertising to market and sell.

My only question today is this:  given this rather attractive and endearing price advantage for Guinness and its many Irish cousins, does Budweiser hold a prayer for selling in Ireland?   Compared to the alternatives, it's hard to believe Bud has a meaningful and appreciable market.  Would you choose a Budweiser over a Fursty Ferret?

... or over a beer that might give you an STD?

The choices for beer and ale here in Ireland are seemingly endless.   I almost feel like a heretic when I choose a glass of wine over a pint of beer.

Oh well.  At least, I'm not choosing a Budweiser!