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.