The Last Jig

Our last week in Eire wrapped up last Tuesday morning in Galway. Before the vivid memories of this amazing trip begin to blur and fade, we need to recount a wonderful last few days. Here’s a synopsis:

The Untrespassable Wire

A week before departure, we drove to West Meath after the boys finished school and scoured the countryside near Moydrum to find the ruin of a 500 year old fortified castle. Moydrum castle was used by Paul’s musical heroes, U2, on the cover of their 1984 album The Unforgettable Fire. The mission was to have our picture taken in front of it in the same positions as the Dublin lads did so many years ago. Ridiculously cheesy, we know. We found it and took a load of photos. Unfortunately, the pasture in which the place lies is barricaded with razor wire. Apparently we were not the first U2 fans to embark on this quest. Being the rule followers that we are, we tracked down the farmer/owner to ask for permission. After an hour of looking and following dry leads, we finally met up with Mr. A. Collins and three horses in his muddy barnyard. He was not pleased to see us, and summarily dismissed our request with all the tact of a land mine. Sue was proud of her husband for holding back his venom and realizing that the guy has likely dealt with thousands of trespassers in his day.

On Tuesday, we pulled the boys out of school and drove up north to Castlebar in north Mayo. We’d promised Theo a night in a castle before we left, and fulfilled it by staying in the seventeenth century Breaffy House for a night. The place had a nice mix of late medieval fortifications and modern conveniences. On the way up, we cut through the Connemara and visited Patrick Pearse’s turn of the (twentieth) century cottage. It was a nice stop. Paul, via his wife-maddening tendency to start conversations with anyone of Irish persuasion, made a great contact in Brian the Thatcher. Pearse’s cottage is owned by the OPW, and a roof of one building was being restored. The Irish government only uses ‘period’ techniques and materials with such restorations, so Paul asked about thatching. Brian was happy to consult and within a few minutes, Paul was up on the ladder getting lessons. As they spoke about materials - one of which is the giant reed grass Phragmites australis - it became apparent to Brian the Thatcher that Paul the Apprentice Thatcher was a biologist. As it turns out, so was Brian, and he was very interested in Paul’s Phragmites work. After a half hour of chatter, they parted ways, Brian with Paul’s contact info, and Paul with a tentative invitation to come to the 2009 OPW conference in Dublin in the Autumn to discuss the appropriate use of Phragmites and other alternatives in thatch restoration projects.

The morning after our Castle stay, we headed to Turlough and the National Country Life Museum. Fantastic! Loads of Irish folks were there reminiscing about ‘the old ways’. These included one Kieran Gaffney from Offaly who was a retired teacher at the regional technical college in Athlone. He’s spending his retirement writing books about local county history and a memoir of life in the Midlands. Sound like anyone you know? He’s the Tom Melchior of Baile Átha Luain. Expect some books in the mail, pops.

After that, we drove up to the north Mayo coast to see Ceide Fields, the oldest agricultural ruin site on earth. A group of 5,000 year old farm fields and rock walls uncovered from beneath a bog. While the soils were likely marginal, the Neolithic farmers sure knew how to pick a place with ocean frontage.

Sunday last, we buzzed down to Lahinch in Clare to have lunch with Patsy and Val Goodwin. The Goodwin’s wrote to us in Galway at the behest of Paul’s great (and fabulously beautiful, charming, and witty) Aunt Evelyn. The Goodwins and the Moores have been friends for nearly thirty years, but the former had never met this part of the great Irish-American Moore Diaspora. The deciding factor, though, was our need to meet the purveyor of our dearly departed uncle Merlin’s favorite joke, that of the Three-Legged Chicken of East Clare. We had a wonderful time with them on a great afternoon. Val bought some steamed periwinkles on the beach, and Patsy showed Theo the proper way to extract and consume these disgusting gastropods.

Final Friday, Bealtaine 22

Due to our unique circumstances, we decided to bend protocol and invite Paul’s hardest working and most engaged students over for an end of the term dinner after final exams were completed. On Friday evening, Aideen, Laurence, Daniel, and Kate – who range from nineteen to thirty - showed up at our door in Renmore for a supper of Mussels in Guinness and Butter and spaghetti and meatballs. They were kind enough to bring a massive volume of beer and wine. We had a great time and chatted about every conceivable topic until the party broke up in the wee hours. We’ll miss this crew – they are a fine bunch to be sure, and will find success in their post-GMIT careers.

An Domhnacht, Bealtaine 24

Our final weekend day in Ireland was a joy, and certainly in our top ten. Hughie and Nora O’Donnell, our fabulous neighbors, had us over for a big Sunday lunch of Galway lamb shanks, Irish venison, and duck. It was like Thanksgiving in May, and left us all feeling like pythons must after they’ve devoured a wild boar. Sam wanted to find a sun warmed rock on which to lie. No rest for the wicked, however. After lunch we convoyed both families up to Maam Cross in the lower Connemara. Hughie is a hunter of fish, you see, and knew well of Theo’s interest in the angling arts. The rain held off long enough to hike into a couple small lakes so the master could introduce his young padawan to a new rival – the Connemara Brown Trout. It was a wonderful sight. The grey fox, Big Hughie O’Donnell and little Theo Melchior standing on the rocks, fly fishing in the rugged west of Ireland. Soon enough, the young apprentice had hooked the first of several Brownies, which left him beaming the rest of the day.

Paul and Sue topped off the day by meeting Seamus and Fiona Lennon for a late dinner in Galway. Seamus, who is the head of the Life Sciences Departments at GMIT, was the key person in making this great Irish opportunity happen for us. We seem to get along well with the Lennons, and can only hope to return the favor in the Twin Cities some day when they come to visit.

An Luan, Bealtaine 25

Monday was spent turning in grades, making last minute stops in Galway, and saying farewell to new friends. Theo’s class gave him a surprise party complete with hand-made cards, while the marine biology faculty and staff at GMIT sent off their American colleague with the gift of two wonderful books about some of his favorite Irish places. We spent the evening packing, and Sam and Theo hung out with the neighbor kids.


An Mhairt, Bealtaine 26

And then all too suddenly, after a year of planning and five months of doing, Tuesday May 26 was upon us. And we were gone.

Seven Days

“That American Professor” gave his final exams today! The school year for the Irish ends with a bang this week, culminating with the annual migration of twenty-thousand out of co-eds Galway. Paul shall refrain from writing a dissertation on higher education in Ireland at this point, but his impressions wouldn’t be a surprise to or much different from those of any of his Irish colleagues. The Dean and Department Heads in the School of Life Science at GMIT have been very interested in his impressions of the place, and asked that he be straight and blunt with them about it. Sue cautioned Paul to be ‘Irish blunt’, not ‘American blunt,’ forgetting that he is a consummate a professional.

In local news, we had a great time at a small dinner party that Rick and Deirbhile (don’t even attempt to pronounce her name, folks) threw for us in their Oranmore home. Rick and Paul taught together this spring. He’s an Aussie who married into Ireland, and shares Paul’s dismay at this wonderful country’s higher education system. Deirbhile is a red-headed native of Wicklow and looks every bit Maureen O’Hara. She’d have taken John Wayne to the cleaners, however, had he tried any of that Quiet Man crap on her! The duo have been wonderful friends of ours here, and their children get along well with ours.

We’ll be blogging a bit more over next few days, but we’ve only a week left in Ireland. It’s hard to believe we’ve been here for nearly five months. This is a bittersweet week for all of us, wishing we could stay for the warm months and the blossoming relationships, while longing for the baseball fields, warmth, and circle of friends and family in Minnesota.

Tomorrow morning we’re off to the wilds of the Connemara for one last time. We’ll end up in north County Mayo tomorrow night, fulfilling a promise we made to Theo a year ago. Sleep in an Irish castle.

What's in Name?

Place names in Ireland are famous for their lyrical nature. Names like Skibbereen, Oranmore, and Mullingar roll off the tongue. Truth be told, however, most names are the anglicized versions used by the invading hoards who took over the place during the previous millennium. These were phonetic misinterpretations of Irish-Gaelic place names. Tiobraid Árann (pronounced “Choh-Broad-Awe-run”), for example, is the Irish for ‘Well of Arra’, and today is Tipperary. Skull in County Cork is the anglo version of Scoil, meaning school. There are, of course, many names that were foisted on the Irish by past invaders. Many of these are typically English in their profound creativity and expressiveness. Newtown, for example. There are twenty-one Newtowns in Ireland.

Regardless of their origin, most sound beautiful to us, some run-O-the-mill, and still others have struck us as comical, a bit bawdy (e.g. St. Bridgid’s Upper Place, Galway City), and even down-right odd. Take no offense, Irish friends, for this comes from a man born and raised in a town called Shakopee. In no particular order, here is a partial list of our favorite town and village names encountered on our many, many miles on the road:

Knockananna (Wicklow)
Kill (Galway)
Kilreekill (Galway) – A few miles down the road from Kill
Ballylickey (Cork)*
Castleisland (Kerry) - No castle; no island
Sandholes (Tyrone)
Cool (Waterford)
Dripsey (Cork)
The Butts (Carlow)
Emo (Laois)
Dingle (Kerry)
Horse and Jockey (Tipperary)
Gweedore (Donegal)
Hackball’s Cross (Louth)
Clash (Tipperary)
Ballinmuck (Longford)*
Killinaboy (Clare)
Twomileborris (Tipperary)
Bastardstown (Wexford)
Clones (Cavan)
Leperstown (Waterford)
Money More (Donegal)
Knockalunkard (Clare)
Oola (Limerick)
Ballymartin (Down) – A baseball joke for me da.
Termonfeckin (Louth) – Suffixed by Ireland’s favorite expletive
Torque (West Meath)
Rascalstreet (Cork) – We’ve considered leaving Theo here.

Here's a happy tune of the day by the recently departed Ronnie Drew.

*Sue takes no responsibility for the placement of these names in the list.

Where are ye, Bruce?

The weather has been impressively horrid of late. When it broke on Sunday morning, we headed up the N17 toward Westport and beyond. It was a beautiful, sun drenched day. We spent an hour or so visiting the Megalithic cemetery outside of Sligo, which also allowed the two hairless apes in the back seat to burn off some excess energy. We spent the night in Dungloe at the edge of the Rosses of Donegal. A beautiful town in its own right, Dungloe is situated in a small cove with great cliffs surrounding it. To top it off, it’s got a top notch Szechuan restaurant in which we took our sup. After finishing off our Sino-Hibernian repast, we headed to the strand and watched the sun set over castle ruins along the Atlantic.

Saturday was spent along County Donegal’s famed coasts from the Rosses, Gweedore, the Bloody Foreland, and Inishowen. Unfortunately, the unrestricted development in this county over the past decade has these places dotted with so many McMansions that it no longer has much appeal to anyone looking for open spaces or good views of the coast. An enormous disappointment, really, especially considering the fact that so many houses are unoccupied. Built on speculation, now abandoned before being lived in, and with little hope for sale in the crushing economic situation Ireland finds itself in today. People here complain about this constantly and refer to the ‘new ruins’, but nobody did much to protect Ireland’s greatest natural resource – its views and landscapes – when they had the chance. It is sad to think that Inishowen – once so famous for its seascapes – now looks like the worst parts of the New Jersey shore. In fact, if you replaced Springsteen and John Bon Jovi with Enya and Clannad, you’d have nearly a perfect replica.

To curb our angst over not finding Nirvana, we opted to drive on through Derry and spent the night in a beachfront hotel in Port Rush. If the Donegal coast is the Jersey shore, then Port Rush is Northern Ireland’s answer to Atlantic City, complete with hundreds of B&B’s, mini-casinos, and hotels. Many of these are run down or boarded up. Had it been raining and gloomy out, we’d have been too spooked to stay! However, we did find a nice hotel in the town and ended up having a great family night.

We bought picnic supplies at the local Spar and hit the fantastic beach. Theo and Sue looked for shells, while Sam and Paul had their nightly baseball practice. The former was working on spotting his cut fastball, and the battery proved an eye-catching oddity for the local passersby who often stopped and stared. Afterwards, we all lounged around and watch another great sunset.

On Sunday we spent a glorious morning at Giant’s Causeway, which all four travelers agreed was the most fantastic single place we’ve visited in Ireland. Part of this high review no doubt reflects the spectacular, blue sky, warm air, and amazing ocean life we saw. Theo, Sam and Paul found some fascinating tidal pools perched up on the rocks. Anemones, shrimp, crabs, and small fish all going about their business among the dozen species of seaweeds – and all in spaces the size of a Jacuzzi. Meanwhile, Sue scoured the interpretive center and gift shop.

We drove for the rest of the day, making one long stop at the seat of both Protestant and Catholic ecclesiastical power in Ireland. Armagh. St. Patrick’s original stone church was replaced in the 1840’s by the current Church of Ireland St. Patrick’s Cathedral (No symbolism there, I’m sure! ‘Let’s crush that little ol’ Catholic church and replace it with ours!’).

Not to be outdone, the Papists quickly began their own St. Patrick’s Catholic Cathedral at the same time. This amazing edifice towers above the town and is by far the most impressive Cathedral in Ireland and Northern Ireland. Although only 170 years old, the interior of the building is finished in intricate mosaic work. There are images in hidden places of the nave’s ceiling that are not visible without binoculars, and yet were made with the same care as the images on the floors and walls. We had the place to ourselves (if you don’t count the bum taking a whiz on the outside wall), and the bright afternoon sun lit the stained glass brilliantly.

After spending some mind-numbing hours passing through small towns in the N.I. midlands, we made it back to the Republic, and to Galway in time for another sunset. A great little trip.

Our song du Jour is a set of three reels from the Kilfenora Ceilidh Band (Co. Clare) who are celebrating their 100th birthday.

Achill

On Saturday we woke up to sun and warmth, so we headed northwest. It takes a few hours to get to Achill, the largest “Island of this Island.” While a few tourists make it to Achill, it’s way off the beaten path and mostly a hidden gem. We crossed the narrow bridge over Achill Sound and made our way down the shore. The south west coastline boasts a blue ribbon beach and some of the heaviest surf in Ireland. The result of this combination is surfers. Lots of Irish Surfers . Yes, there is such an animal. Although the water is Lake Superior cold, it is essentially shark-free and rollers of ten to twenty feet are typical since the wind is unobstructed between Nova Scotia and the beach. We thought of Steve Saupe and whether or not he’d have the fortitude to tackle these icy azure tubes.

Further along the coast are magnificent cliffs and their inhabitants. Gulls, Gannets, Puffins, Razorbills and the like reside in crags and crevices, and soar lazily above the breakers below .

The isle is only about seven miles long and four across, but has several small villages. Sheep abound and can be seen wandering the streets with their lambs - no doubt stopping in to visit the various shops.

During our walk in the hills we met Tom Fadden and his two border collies, who were bringing in the sheep for market sorting. Tom’s eyes are sapphire blue and full of fire. The man’s face shows all the character and wear of his seven decades facing the salty Atlantic wind. Tom is a Seanachaí; a story teller in the old tradition. Everything – even his directions to the local pub – turns into an intricate yarn. His sentences were punctuated by sudden whistle commands to his associates – unintelligible to humans, but crystal clear to the dogs. Two collies and a whistling old islander moving two hundred sheep as if they’d been choreographed. Bah Ram Ewe. Amazing. As he talked about his technique for training dogs, he told us that he employed the same on his five children. “You see, with both dogs and children ye must never, ever, strike them. But they shouldn’t know that you won’t!”

One of the most moving parts of the day was the hike along the southern shoulder of Slievemore – the big mountain. Tucked away in the saddle between two peaks lie the ruins of a town. The dry-stone walls and gables of about two dozen old cottages, as well as their outbuildings, line the lone road along the hill’s contour. We spent hours there, compelled to visit each house, look at their hearths, and imagine the generations of life stories that each home held. By the late 1840’s, famine and evictions had shattered the community, and the remaining families dispersed, leaving nothing but empty shells as reminders of a once thriving village.

Area

Sue's friend Rondi showed up this week, and the two of them are up raiding the small villages of the Connemara for a couple nights. This leaves the Melchior men high and dry and left to their vices. Sam chose to go to a movie with a friend tonight, and Theo and Paul spent their time doing math. Tonight's lessons were about perimeters and area.

Once we'd finished the easy stuff, we moved on to area comparisons. The natural evolution of the discussion became "How many Irelands could you fit into one Minnesota, Dad?" The answer? Exactly 2.76.

He thought you'd like to know.

Irish Time Warps

The N6 is the main thoroughfare that runs across Ireland from Galway to Dublin. We’ve put plenty of rubber on that strip of pavement, including a business trip this week. Between Dublin and Athlone in the sheep-laced midlands, the road is one of the few stretches of four-lane divided freeway in the country. Once west of Athlone, though, the road becomes two lanes again and passes through every little burgh along the way. The last leg of the trip is from Loughrea to Galway town.

The road sign on the east side of Loughrea (right) says “Galway 39" kilometers, and always gives the sense that the long journey’s end is near. The road slows for the three kilometers through Loughrea before it opens up again west of town. Strikingly, though, the next road sign informs the driver that although he’s continued westward, Galway is now suddenly 41 kilometers away (left).

A few months back, we reported this bizarre phenomenon to several of Paul’s academic colleagues at GMIT. We were scoffed at, and they thought us a bit mad . . . . . until this week, that is, when several of them took note of the situation themselves. Now, two physics professors at the college believe that the American family has stumbled across one of the most interesting cosmological anomalies seen in recent years, and have dubbed it the Melchiorian Space-Time Ripple of Loughrea. The group has engaged Oxford professor Stephen Hawking to collaborate on a paper regarding the discovery. The Irish Journal of Confounding Stuff plans to publish it in July. The 'Melchior STRip', as it will likely be known, may well be the next Knock, complete with grotto.