There and Back, Again

So summer travel is mostly done. I can sit in one place for a couple of weeks at least. And get bored. I'm getting stir crazy already. The good thing about travel is that you learn stuff. Often stuff you didn't know. Or didn't even know you didn't know.

Like I'd been to Christ Church oodles of times (well three at least) and had not taken note of the heart relic. See that picture, there's a mummified heart, a human heart, in there. Some saint or other. Religious people are strange.

Or say you find yourself in Scotland only to learn it is the only country (let's not quibble over whether or not it is actually a country--viva la devolution!) where another soda outsells Coke. That soda is neon orange, stains your clothes if you spill it, and tastes...wait for it...like bubblegum, like Dubble Bubble bubblegum. That atrocious sounding concoction is called Irn Bru and I loved it.

While there I also learned that not all whisky comes from Tennessee and has to be drunk with Coke Zero. I was introduced to and fell madly in love with single malt whisky (what we'd call Scotch).

Those are only some of my learnings. I probably gained a greater appreciation of the world and its diversity. But I thought it more important to dwell on the drinking and disembodied heart.

Volcano Blues

Here's a picture from the plane on our way to Ireland of the volcano spewing ash that made us have to fly to Iceland around the spewing volcano to finally get to Ireland. But we did. Get there. And hopefully it will allow us to leave one day.

My Favorite Place in the Whole Wide World

Okay, maybe not THE favorite, but certainly ONE of the places I could just spend eternity. The other day, we visited Trinity College Library where the main attraction is the Book of Kells, but I feel like the Long Room always trumps it. And this time they had an excellent exhibit on the origins of the detective story called "The Body in the Library." Book heaven.

Oh Feck

What Are You Looking At?

The Aran Islands Were Beautiful But...

There was a guy with a giant, stuffed red giraffe in the pub. Sad how that is the detail that comes to mind when I'm writing this brief post, while this girl loudly tries to pick up the hostel desk guy because she gave up her job, flew to Ireland for an Irishman, and he, the Irishman, today, the day she arrived, told her that he's decided to get back with his ex-girlfriend. Lessons from travel: 1. Bring an stuffed animal to a pub and you'll be the life of the party. 2. Don't leave your job for an Irishman.

Shall We Sligo?

So, I'm in Sligo. Land of Yeats. His epitaph: Cast a cold Eye/ On Life, on Death/ Horseman, pass by. Horseman, you should probably also pass by our hotel about which you should know:

1. Has no hot water.
2. Which makes sense since most of the rooms don't have heat.
3. Each room key opens all rooms.
4. The owners operate an illegal all-hours pub downstairs, where they have hen parties or at least a gaggle of girls singing Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" at 4:15 in the morning.
   
5. They serve a nice breakfast while still cleaning up the broken glass from the bar fight from previous night.
6. Traditional Irish music sessions include the "Johnny Cash" song "Hurt."
7. When we tell locals where we stay, they just laugh in an odd way.
   

My dear, horseman, pass by.

Celtic Cuisine

So I am done with the semester and now preparing for the Ireland trek, much like Star Trek, but in Ireland, not the stars, and with no aliens or pointy ears, except for the faeries. Though some of the students going on the study tour are weird.

In the prep class, we teach them about the Celts. In Dora Jane Hamblin's "Once Maligned, Celts Are Now Touted as the First Europeans," we learn that they were "Wild and woolly...from their notable head and body hair." As you will no doubt remember from my bloging about it over a year ago, my family lore is that we are that genetic stew Scotch-Irish. But clearly from Hamblin's definition I must be some part Celt and if that weren't enough: "They [the woolly Celts] never went in for what the Romans called 'city eating,' that is, elaborate sauces and spices." We all know how I feel about condiments! I have found my people. And they are dead.

Ring of Dingle

No jokes--it's just too easy. So I'm going to bore you again with my travels. Though I can barely drive in the U.S., I decided to rent a car and drive in Ireland. But I had GPS. Going to Dingle, I read about the great views of Conor's Pass but how "treacherous" it can be in bad weather. I bravely decided to avoid it, thinking the GPS would take me by way of the main highway. Where did it take me, you certainly would feel inclined to ask if just out of courtesy. Here, that's where:



I survived. The next day I went around the ring of Dingle. My first big site was the Celtic and Prehistory Museum where I meet this odd musician who has collected and now opened to the public a strange collection of things, including the giant skull of a Woolly Mammoth--complete with tusks as big as me. And then I was off to the Great Blasket Island. And it was great. The place is empty:



The few remaining inhabitants left the island years ago. The ferryman said that they went to American and never came back. No cafes, no convenience stores, no bathrooms (ouch). Only the abandoned houses even newer ones with stuff just left or litter piled in. As this eerie, i.e. poorly shot, photo will attest:



I hiked the island for three hours and was alone most of the time. Which is disconcerting when you find piles of bones around the place:



But the view was worth it:

Here's a Limerick for You

So I'm in Limerick. Which, of course, must remind you of that time that I wrote that post about a dirty limerick for no reason whatsoever. I thought so. You may not know that the city of Limerick is known to the Irish as "Stab City." It's not what you think. It's because lots and lots of people here have been stabbed. Unless that's what you thought, in which case you should try to not be so cynical.

Here, however, is a lovely picture of Limerick, which is not so lovely because I took it:



Here is a picture from Limerick's darker underbelly:

Going Green

Not environmental (why bother when we all know the environment is going to be destroyed by grey goo...or zombies), but Irish. That's right, I'm in Ireland. Possible home of some of my corrupt genetic material.

And here's a picture of The Hairy Lemon to prove it. Probably you can't read it, but that sign...the small and blurry one...that says, "The Hairy Lemon." Trust me, it does.